The moon echoed the sunlight, turning sharp patterns into faded whispers of form that could only just be traced against the night. Rue dipped a hand into the solid stream of moonbeams that puddled in front of the window, but however much the silvery light might have sought to catch the sun's essence, warmth was beyond it. Then a hand reclaimed hers from the glow, pale fingers that lashed around her own like bright steel wire. The color should have been sickly, even deathly, but it was more unreal than anything, like gossamer fabric laid over a frame of fragile bone and winding veins. She allowed herself to limply fall back into him when an arm clenched around her waist, but it was almost overwhelming to be so close to the rush of his breath, tainted with a desperation he could not name.

She knew it well, it was the phantom sensation of a wound that had never truly marred flesh, but left jagged gashes trickling, even if it what they spilled was not blood. She sorely pitied him for a moment, for the wound was raw despite its genuine absence. But there was no sadness that could resonate over her purest joy, a delight that should have been innocent. He might not heal, never, but he did not need to be whole; all he needed was for her to be by his frail side, with a loving touch that would empty his mind of pain and everything else.

“What is it you wish, my prince?” Her voice had the pitch of a child as she leaned her head back against his shoulder. He was delicately warm, her prince, and that was how she knew it was him. She had drawn him back into the shade, and he was still so perfectly warm, and a more brilliant creature than the moon could ever hope to be. He was a celestial body himself, so there was nothing he could need from the light, wasn't that true?

“Kraehe... Do you want to go for a walk, perhaps? The night air is... sweet...” His words were lost, distant from thoughts that were swirled away in darkness. His chipped heart beat into her back, scratching her spine on its keen edges as the rough rhythm tumbled through his chest. She wondered if it should be gentler, if it was hurting him too much, but the rudely intruding thought was gnawed away with the pang of her teeth on her lower lip.
A heart that was too gentle could never love a crow, and that was what he must do. That was what his princess wished.

“Of course,” and now she spoke with an imperious flavor, but still softened by youth, “I would very much like to walk with you, my prince.”