Night in a fairy tale was not a time for living souls. Whether your bones were woven of flesh and blood or ink and paper, that knowledge was a threadbare patch in marrow, sending shivers along the spine. Even within the grand palace, once the sun was down, the vast windows let in as much darkness as they had light, and the torches flaring against the marble could only twist in a parody of daylight. Siegfried himself became a ghostly figure in the throne room, his pale skin seeming cold compared to the firelight it caught, and the rich purple of his shirt beset by flickering shadows where that light was absent. He stood before one of those windows, hands clasped behind his back, his face drawn with unease that was as much from the sight of his own reflection as the thin etching of the world he could trace out of the darkness. Though that wasn't right. It wasn't right to say “as much as,” when his own countenance was more worrying.

He could have been a wraith, indeed. While he stared at himself, he felt soft tremors trace up his back distantly, as though his heart was reluctant to accept the sensation and sought to hold it at bay like he might ignore a wound if he needed to fight.

Well, perhaps he did need to fight. Perhaps, for that battle, fear would be more dangerous than any injury to his flesh.

He brought a hand to eye level, watching his fingertips waver in the glass as they hovered before the copy of his eyes. It was not truly him that he saw, but he thought he could more easily best a reflection than the false him that prowled the chambers of his heart. A premonition twisted sickeningly in his chest, that if he brushed his hand forward another half-inch and touched the window, it would shatter, and there would be nothing to stop the darkness from overtaking him. Leaving him helpless, claiming him as if he belonged to it. He had the sense of being just as weak and watery as his image, and he knew that he <i>was</i> just as shamefully wide-eyed. Each muscle twinged with tension, as he longed to leap back from the dark.

Instead, he glared at his open palm, fixing it tightly into a fist to match the hand at his side and lowering it with the utmost deliberation. He would not run, especially when there was not anything to run from. He would merely turn his taut form away and return quietly to his room, and to his princess.

He was a prince, no wraith of his kingdom's blackest night, no shadow of its darkest age. He was its savior, shining and bright, and nothing more. There might be something else inside of him, but it was not him, and it would not best him. His steps might have been stiff, yet he held himself proudly, and his stride was smooth enough to set his short cape fluttering as he took his leave. He looked every inch his resolution, though there remained a soft struggle as to whether he felt as much. Even when the door's opening brought him to an abrupt halt, however, his form did not suffer for it. Only when he saw who joined him did his spirit truly fail, as he was unable to find the correct words before Rue spoke.

“What has kept you, my prince?” Her voice was carried across to him on echoes, at first, soft and too rich to be sweet. There was concern in it, gentle, but bitter for the prince who knew he had caused it. He smiled at her nonetheless, and it was entirely genuine in both its happiness and its hesitance.

“I'm sorry... I was going to join you shortly, you didn't need to trouble yourself so,” he told her. Smooth words that did not answer her question, spoken as much because he himself was not entirely sure what had kept him so long. Her eyes narrowed, as if she sought to sharpen her gaze and pry free whatever he wasn't saying, but she gave no other sign of how well she understood his evasion. He, in turn, did not offer any further explanation. He had the uncomfortable feeling that she did not need it.

Instead, he made his own way to the door, swishing past her with a pause just short enough to take her hand. “We should not tarry any longer...”

He wanted to be gone. Rue was beautiful in any light, but watching shadows toy with her was unsettling. She belonged in the light now, as much as he did.

Her hand fit neatly into his, so well that he found himself stopped short and so realized she had decided not to follow. He stared back at her as he fell curiously still, caught by his efforts to determine what she was doing. Yet these were yielded nothing; she merely gave a tiny nod, but it was not at him, more a confirmation of some suspicion. She stepped cleanly around him, and closed the door with a quiet <i>thump</i>. His mouth tightened, and he returned her searching gaze with one of a plainer curiosity. He saw no particular reason to disguise it, and he wasn't sure if he could have, with his heart speeding so. At the very least, he would not run from it.

“What is troubling you, my princess?”

She inclined her head, giving it the slightest shake as she peered up at him through half-lidded eyes.“You misunderstand, my prince. I've come to ask that of you.”

“I am fine,” he answered, and perhaps too quickly, but not for a desire to hide anything. The response was automatic, what he was used to speaking and believing. His shock at the inquiry was apparent, but that was more innocent surprise than anything harsh.

“I would not call jumping at shadows in your own palace fine...” she said, only to cast her gaze off at the darkened window when she realized how bitter she had sounded. Still, she could not abandon this, not with her prince in such an uncertain state. She could not leave him be. He did need her after all, and if not for this, then what? What else was a princess for? “Tell me, my prince.”

She was the only one who would ever dare to issue him a command, and he received it graciously, though his compliance was not soon in coming. He contemplated it, his vision drifting as he tried to determine how much to share with her, or if any of what he could say was worth sharing. There wasn't anything that should be beyond his ability to conquer, and in this world, everything was once again as it should be. But when his gaze, aimless- or having but one aim: to avoid Rue- drifted to the windows and the thick night that they barely held back, he started.

Everything was as it should be in the fairytale, but day and night differed even in their correctness. Should he be wrong about his own place, then all would fail. Or be lost. Or leave him.