There is love in our bodies and it holds us together;
Characters: Schneizel el Britannia, Cornelia li Britannia, Valeria
Location: The town hall
Time: 3rd of August, early morning
Brief Summary: After Cornelia's survival has been ensured by Myhrta, her brother remains reluctant to leave her side. Valeria tags along. But it so happens that the white prince has a lot to answer for.
Rating: PG-13
They were fond of candles, in Britannia. Chandeliers, towering holders, ponds full of floating flames - they liked the dramatic, after all, the theatrical. In the imperial palaces, they liked floor to ceiling windows, and dozens upon dozens of tall candles, and glittering lamps, and mirrored panels to reflect, to send the light back hundredfold until it dazzled, until it caught in the eyes and skin and hair of those within it and made them dazzle, too, so that all might be struck with their brilliance, the brilliance of the empire.
It was a nostalgic thought, but one Schneizel kept returning to, in this draughty hall lit only with a few flames and the low embers in the fire. He was not a man to linger on the past, and yet, in the dim and the quiet and the sound of Cornelia's soft breathing, he found himself in the halls where he'd spent his youth, on the staircase he'd descended at his debut, the council rooms where he'd spent his years following.
They had not been inseperable. Cornelia had doted on Euphie, not him, and he'd had his own duties, duties that piled up, the older he grew. But she was a figment of these memories, all of them, the ones he kept close.
The pallet bed she slept on was close to the fire, the better to keep her warm. The sheets were thin, after all, and Myhrta was a more than capable healer - she was alive thanks to Myhrta - she remained thorough in all such aspects. It was the nearest light source, and the illumination was not necessarily a flattering one, showing tiredness, showing the lines of pain on the princess' face, all in shades of fading orange. But her chest rose and fell evenly, and that was reassurement enough for the man who needed none.
He had never intended for her to die, and so she would not.
The thought that he had caused this - that he had done this, a finger-click recognition, snap - was not lost to him, but it seemed out of reach, intangible. Her hand was not, and, now bared, was held between his, gently, but surely. White gloves, now irrevocably red, had been left elsewhere, discarded.
She was warm to the touch, and that was warming, warming amidst the soft and quiet cold that rippled through his nerves. A feeling that came and went, in truth, but seldom settled in the pit of his stomach as it did tonight.
His expression was still, unreadable. He looked to be deep in thought, solemn and sombre and perhaps more majestic than his usual well turned smiles for it. His eyes were set somewhere between woman and hearth, but the fingers that brushed stray strands of purple hair from her face moved with surety, as if it was choreographed, well-practised.
The prince had not changed from the clothes he'd been wearing when he found her. The lower half of his white trousers were scuffed with dirt and dry blood, and what had been scarlet over shirt and vest was now approaching brown. But his hands were clean of it, as were hers - such irony was not lost on him, but not cause enough to make him smile.
Valeria's presence had not been forgotten, however, inobtrusive though it was. He was grateful for her aid, had told her so, and it was she he addressed when he spoke, his voice low and soft, to be a murmur if not for the clarity.
"She is my sister," he said, without looking up, though his thumb moved to trace little circles on the back of her hand. "The second princess of the realm, and of an age with me."
Location: The town hall
Time: 3rd of August, early morning
Brief Summary: After Cornelia's survival has been ensured by Myhrta, her brother remains reluctant to leave her side. Valeria tags along. But it so happens that the white prince has a lot to answer for.
Rating: PG-13
They were fond of candles, in Britannia. Chandeliers, towering holders, ponds full of floating flames - they liked the dramatic, after all, the theatrical. In the imperial palaces, they liked floor to ceiling windows, and dozens upon dozens of tall candles, and glittering lamps, and mirrored panels to reflect, to send the light back hundredfold until it dazzled, until it caught in the eyes and skin and hair of those within it and made them dazzle, too, so that all might be struck with their brilliance, the brilliance of the empire.
It was a nostalgic thought, but one Schneizel kept returning to, in this draughty hall lit only with a few flames and the low embers in the fire. He was not a man to linger on the past, and yet, in the dim and the quiet and the sound of Cornelia's soft breathing, he found himself in the halls where he'd spent his youth, on the staircase he'd descended at his debut, the council rooms where he'd spent his years following.
They had not been inseperable. Cornelia had doted on Euphie, not him, and he'd had his own duties, duties that piled up, the older he grew. But she was a figment of these memories, all of them, the ones he kept close.
The pallet bed she slept on was close to the fire, the better to keep her warm. The sheets were thin, after all, and Myhrta was a more than capable healer - she was alive thanks to Myhrta - she remained thorough in all such aspects. It was the nearest light source, and the illumination was not necessarily a flattering one, showing tiredness, showing the lines of pain on the princess' face, all in shades of fading orange. But her chest rose and fell evenly, and that was reassurement enough for the man who needed none.
He had never intended for her to die, and so she would not.
The thought that he had caused this - that he had done this, a finger-click recognition, snap - was not lost to him, but it seemed out of reach, intangible. Her hand was not, and, now bared, was held between his, gently, but surely. White gloves, now irrevocably red, had been left elsewhere, discarded.
She was warm to the touch, and that was warming, warming amidst the soft and quiet cold that rippled through his nerves. A feeling that came and went, in truth, but seldom settled in the pit of his stomach as it did tonight.
His expression was still, unreadable. He looked to be deep in thought, solemn and sombre and perhaps more majestic than his usual well turned smiles for it. His eyes were set somewhere between woman and hearth, but the fingers that brushed stray strands of purple hair from her face moved with surety, as if it was choreographed, well-practised.
The prince had not changed from the clothes he'd been wearing when he found her. The lower half of his white trousers were scuffed with dirt and dry blood, and what had been scarlet over shirt and vest was now approaching brown. But his hands were clean of it, as were hers - such irony was not lost on him, but not cause enough to make him smile.
Valeria's presence had not been forgotten, however, inobtrusive though it was. He was grateful for her aid, had told her so, and it was she he addressed when he spoke, his voice low and soft, to be a murmur if not for the clarity.
"She is my sister," he said, without looking up, though his thumb moved to trace little circles on the back of her hand. "The second princess of the realm, and of an age with me."