story - part 1 - midnight - 978 words

She had very nimble hands, and every shift of her fingers, everything she did, was filled with a gentle care. They were a healer's hands, the hands of a doctor. They knew every inch of the body; they knew how to mend what was broken. But more importantly, they knew how to break.

In the nights, in my dreams, I feel her long fingers entwining with mine, and I hear her quiet voice in my mind. The memories are twisted and mad, I remember how good and how right it feels when my fingers pop and crack under her careful ministrations. There is an echo of her voice in my mind, telling me that I deserved it and that I still deserve it - but that is not what bothers me. What bothers me is the echo in my body; the certainty in the pit of my stomach that what she says is true. I would follow her until the end, if she asked, for just one brush of a kiss...

**

I wake, my fingers aching from the cold in the palace. Even with a fire popping and cracking in the fireplace, my room is cold and damp. Wind cuts through the hall and whips my curtains away from the windows. The moonlight shivers into my room for a moment, lighting the quiet figure in the doorway. They do not come into my room anymore. They know better now.

A messenger from him; the winter may cut at my twisted fingers, pain lancing through my shoulders, but I have felt it before and I can work through it. The young prince needs help, and he calls to me. Neither of us seems to get much sleep when the winds whip through the palace. I think he takes pleasure in my aches and pains, and is grateful for someone who will suffer with him. And I will - the messenger nods in satisfaction, slipping away as I stand and wrap my black coat around my bedclothes. I never bother to get fully dressed at this hour, and he no longer bothers to order it of me.

I see familiar figures in the hall, their soft whispers echoing down to me. The words are unintelligible, but their tones are those of lovers. Their postures are those of people with secrets. They see me, but they do not bother to hide from me; I am as much a servant in this place as the messenger who calls on me. I must do as I am ordered. I doubt, at this point, I could even leave to seek employment elsewhere if I so desired. Who would believe the word of a servant over that of a queen?

His door is locked, but I have the key. They put so much faith in me it is disarming, and any plans I might have had before I came here have been lost in past few months. I feel more guilt than hate now, and the loss that used to tear my soul to shreds has dimmed to a breeze, quiet and hollow. I do not think I could kill him, not anymore.

Haughty voice is laced with pain; his orders hold an edge of desperation. Spoiled brat though he might be, he has been hurt in his time as badly, and as lovingly, as I have. A part of me holds a smoldering anger at the careless way he treats other people. Another part, the healer in me, argues that he does not know any better, that it is my job to teach him. Still, all of me stiffens at the clipped conversation, and my jaw sets:

"Ah. There you are. It took you long enough." Him still curled on his bed, watching me with washed-out eyes.

"Forgiveness, my prince." Daring to meet his eyes for a lingering moment. He looks away first, and I move to fetch salves and pills from where I have stored them while he speaks.

"I understand it is difficult for you." That is as close as he gets to an apology, and my nod enough to show that I hear and understand. I settle on the bed beside him, gently pulling back the blankets to reveal the splendor of his wings. They catch lamplight and the flickering of candles to glow golden against the dark sheets; they make my heart ache, make it difficult to breathe, pulling at wounds that I think will never be healed. They were designed to make people long for flight. It strikes me harder than most.

I carefully undo the line of buttons down his back [her hands are nimble] to reveal bruised and knotted flesh. He tries to relax, head rested on folded arms, as I spread the sharp-smelling salve over his shoulders [filled with a gentle care] but I can hear him hissing against his arm, trying to smother quiet whimpers. He does not want to seem weak in front of me. I wonder why he bothers.

There is not much more I can do. A pill and a glass of water set on his bedside table, orders to take them if the pain gets worse. He will not take it unless pain overwhelms him, he hates the way it dulls his mind, he hates being put to sleep against his will. I would rather sleep than ache - I take my own pill without pause, moving away toward the door. I never wait for his dismissal.

A word stops me, frozen, twisted right hand against the doorknob. Stormy grey eyes turning back toward him, watching him agonizingly shift to stare at me. He fights with himself, on the verge of a thank you. But, he is a prince. He does not need to thank me. Again, he looks away, words muffled into his arm, tone sullen:

"Good night, Raven."