Silly thing

He submerged with a bitter grimace; the water was thinly weak, but almost hot enough to scald, and it seared his rawly glistening skin mercilessly. His gossamer pallor was worn threadbare, leaving nothing to guard him from anything that might burn. The heat was red, red as blood, the only shade of red that seemed to exist anymore, and the water was curdling, sealing itself to his flesh, making cleanliness as distant impossibility as he was caked in memories. He was so filthy as to dirty the water; even after he had scoured most of the skin from his body, he was acutely aware of the sensation of dried grime on him. Blood on snow, blood on swan feathers. The cruelty of red burned all the more strongly against white, he knew, and it wasn't long before his people were repulsed by it. He could only pray that it would be soon, just as he could only call it sickening that he lingered among his people despite the inevitable harm he would bring them, and yet...

One other current of red held him fast. Tenderly strong, flowing coolly around his heart against the acidic swells that so often caught it, and all he had to do was look into Rue's eyes...

He drew himself slowly above the surface, and held a once-pale arm out as water slid uselessly off it, rippling to match the spread of cold determination in his melted eyes. He couldn't accept it; as a strong prince whose power was entirely in the care of his people and princess, as a man who lived and breathed and danced in the daylit world, as a helpless boy who had been frozen in time and thought for countless years, this warm thickness dripping along his skin sent true shivers through him. His other hand skated along the side of the tub to close on a rough sponge, and he straightened, regarding the other arm before him with solemn contempt. He pushed the sponge over it heavily, as though delivering a prisoner's sentence, a softly pained hiss unavoidable as it grated on the already abraded flesh.

The water in the bath had cooled by the time he was done with himself, though it wasn't anywhere near enough. The dank liquid had ribbons of red in some places, and all he could do was sigh at his blood as he rested his back limply against the tub. This wasn't right... This was /wrong/, he was /wrong/, but he was supposed to have been a prince. Nothing had happened, yet, but he was deceiving all of his people by pretending that he was unchanged, and no matter how he ground away at his limbs, he could not fix himself for them. He stared at the water, at his reflection turning himself paler. He gently splashed through the diluted trace of deeply burning hatred in gold, a gesture of noble disdain. It wasn't until a polite knock burst through the room that he stirred, followed by a voice that rocked his heart.

“My prince...? You've been in there for so long, are you alright?” He can hear the worry flowering in her, another poison that he taints her with, and somehow, he must relieve it.

“Yes... I'll be out in a moment, but you needn't wait there for me...”  He called back smoothly, smiling audibly as usual. Of course, it was false; a mask of sound over the anxiety staining his features. He shivered soddenly as he rose from the water, gritting his teeth determinedly as the towel dragged roughly over him. The open air, too, sent twinges along his surface, just as paper cuts flare without aggravation, but he slid into his clothes without the merest noise of complaint, dashed a comb through his hair, and stepped into the rush of cold that came with leaving a humid room.

Despite his apparently courteous permission to carry on without him, Rue was waiting only a few steps back from the door, and he emerged to meet her gaze abruptly. A sharp breath jolted in his throat, and he saw her delicate frown gain strength, so he was swift to arrange a warmly kind smile. Such expressions were utterly natural, though there hung an uneasy question of whether they could be fitting adornment for him anymore. He didn't move toward her as he would have done before, coming on light steps to an embrace, or to simply to sweep his fingers through her hair and greet her as his princess.

How could someone as bloody as him be a fitting prince for this splendid noblewoman, such a gloriously kind princess?

However, when she drew close beside him, winding her arm through his so that he might escort her, he offered no resistance. If it was her will to have him by her side, then he owed her at least an attempt, despite the thorns of guilt on the vine that strangled his heart. She had stood loyally by him, always prepared to make some sacrifice, and so, though he winced and stiffened when she rubbed his tender skin, he would have her close for a short while. As long as he was cautious, as long as he didn't linger, she would be spared the pain that he brought her ever more frequently. She tilted her head up to him, treating him to nothing more than a passively demure glance as she felt him tense against her touch, and whispered into his ear, “Shall we go for a walk?”

He tried to force relaxation, but that was rather counterproductive. Nonetheless, he maintained his angelic bearing as he stepped out grandly, and replied, “Of course, if that is your wish.”

Her half-veiled gaze never strayed from him as he led her forward, quiet and precise, an unrelenting intensity that sought to pick apart his recent stillness, his very nature that was shifting to withdraw more often from her. Nothing about his surface seemed bothered, he was all silk, the glow of gold, the majestic flow of white wings. Most people's hearts would have been set aflutter at the sight of such a beautiful prince, and hers inevitably was, but something about him set her pulse's melody out of tune. The tension was ragged along his bones, and his eyes drifted distantly, rendering the care in them fragile. Habit from their dancing keeping their steps in a perfect rhythm to the door, but she didn't believe they were walking together. When he reached for the knob, her hand darted faster, locking around his wrist. He couldn't stop a frail gasp as her other hand came away from the worn skin on his arm and hooked in his sleeve, crumpling the silky fabric down to his elbow. “Don't-”

She gasped, too, at the brilliant red of his scraped arm, but her eyes narrowed around her horror, and she forced her voice to be aloof, lest it waver. “What is this, my prince?”

All she could for a long moment was stare at him, her poor prince, her tormented prince, who let no one else see his pain, her rich eyes brimming tearlessly with fierce sadness. She caught his other arm, her mouth pressed tight, and tugged that sleeve back, as well, to reveal the matching injury. “Did you... you did this to yourself, didn't you?”

“Ah...” He bit his lip, turning his face aside shutting his eyes beneath a cracked brow. “It is... nothing, I merely...”

“Let me see the rest, Siegfried,” she commanded, and her gentle urgency caressed his heart, though it nearly broke at loving promise in her voice, her kindness even before his unforgivable deception. One that was a danger to her, his beloved princess...  His own voice still shied away from him, unwilling to provide for his scattered thoughts, and so he pulled his shirt over his head without a word. The scabs in the center of his chest, where he had viciously scratched at his heart in vain efforts to halt its defiance, were as a dark pit on the inflamed skin.

“It's not...” He levered his eyelids partway to reveal a frantically quivering gaze as he tore apart his mind for an answer, an excuse, anything to take that pained concern from her, but his wrists were trapped in her grip, raw proof of his vile self, his shameful failing. “Do you... do you love me, Rue?”

She nodded heavily, her mouth ripped open, but she had no words strong enough to answer, and she couldn't find any to reprimand him for even questioning her about the only thing she had ever been certain of. He claimed a deep breath, shakily at first.

“Don't.”