story - part 5 - Collapse - 1386 words

A slow panic settled into my bones during the night, leaving me chilled and flat. I took a hair too much of my sleeping draught when I finally returned to my room, shaking in reaction, and as I slowly drag myself up to the surface I feel hollow, the world blurs and swirls around me. Temples throb, my mouth tastes like cotton. It takes me far longer than usual to pull on clothing, to drag the cloak up over my shoulders. Hair falls wild and knotted to my shoulders, but I when I try to pull it back the world explodes into sharp lines and bright colors, everything too loud and too harsh.

I look like hell. I know because even Tumaire looks me over uncertainly as I slip into his rooms. Here, again, the colors are too bright. Blue shines from the bed, from cloths draped on the walls, from an assortment of small figurines that are settled on his elaborate gesture. The room is dim [the room is always dim], but the light is still piercing, painful. I can feel my eyes slip closed as I settle sideways in against a wall, listen to the idle sound of paper being shifted by the ever-present winds, of curtains whipping sideways against his wall.

When I blink myself aware again, the word settling in buzzily about me again, he is hovering in front of me, an expression of disapproval on his face. He is only half dressed. His shirt hangs limp against his back, a strap twisted about the base of one of those golden wings. His pants are twisted. His hair is uncombed. Some small part of me wants to smile and ruffle pale locks around his face. I take it as evidence that I should still be in bed, that I have lost all sense, and quickly twist him around so that I do not have to meet accusing eyes.

"...Raven, are you unwell?" As he peers back over his shoulder, watching my fingers smooth the cloth up around his wings, to do up the complicated set of buttons across his shoulder. There is something haughty and superior in his voice, something smug or satisfied. For once he has caught me in a less than perfect state, he is the healthy one and I am the invalid. For once he believes he has won.

If I open my mouth, I am sure the words will come out harsh, snapping. My answer instead comes as a slow shake of my head. While I would like nothing more than to crawl away, back to bed, and sleep until the world settles back into its normal place, I know that I do not have that luxury. I have responsibilities.

Unsatisfied, he spins in place to face me. His head is tilted up and back, chin jerked upward into the air, so he can peer down his nose at me - a difficult task, since he is a head shorter than me. Since he is still thin and pale. Since he is so fragile. Since I know him so well.

One of his eyebrows inches slowly upward. I recognize that gesture; it is one of my own. Disbelieving and annoyed, I use it to hold an edge of a threat. I can feel something coiling inside of me, that familiar spark, that anger and frustration. My hand drops to my side, fingers curling into my palm and tightening into a fist, fingernails sharp points of pain against the inside of my palm. Control is slipping out of my grasp, I no longer control the world around me. She has pulled out the keystone.

"You're lying. How dare you?" With an edge of a dare, cocky. He is certain that he is safe, he either trusts me beyond all sense or is too dim-witted to know he should question me.

He pays for his lack of thought. There is something cold and distant about the way my hand moves. Not as if it is being pulled along by a string, but as if it was immersed in water and is abruptly free. I do not hit him very hard, it is just one solid blow upside the head, but from the look of shock on his face, I might as well have broken bones. No one has ever laid a finger on him before.

The room rings with silence for a moment. My hand is shaking, lifts to swipe across the front of my shirt, as if I can wipe the deed away. I want to turn time around, slip back a few days and twist events around. I want to go back a decade, to my rebellion. I want to go back three, to my conception. I want to go back to the beginning of time and tell whoever started this world that it is pointless, useless, that all it will lead to is hurt and fear and hatred. Love always tinged with an edge of bitterness. Life fleeting and nothing ever changing.

I can watch his face crumble. He tries to stave of tears, but he has not had as much practice as I. As his fingers walk up the side of his face and a ragged noise - a cut off sob - escapes between his teeth, I lose my distance and my indifferences, and reluctantly gather him in against my chest. And he does not fight. Arms fold in against his chest and his head tilts in against my shoulder. He still tries to fight his emotions, but he is fragile, I know this...

"You need to grow up." Inwardly flinching at how sharp my voice still sounds. It should be edged with something understanding and something soothing, but I have never learned how to be anything but direct. I do not know how to be subtle and caring.

"I know." Muffled against my shoulder. He is still curled inward, I can feel his face wet through the cloth of my shirt. The sobs have died out, though, settled into a slow shudder.

With some effort, I inch us across the room, to a chair, and push him down into it. Slowly sinking to crouch before him, one hand settled against his knee, my head tilted up to peer as his face. He attempts to hide it behind an arm, but I can catch glimpses of red-rimmed eyes despite his efforts. I wonder, in passing, if I will still feel guilty tomorrow, or later to day. Will I get over this moment of warmth toward him? Will he shift toward anger, will he tell someone what I have done?

"I was wrong to hit you, and I am sorry." Soft and hushed. This is not the right battle to fight, I know when I have made a mistake.

His reply comes in a faint nod, the tiniest of sniffles as he swipes an arm across his face again. Tears drip down his fingertips, tumble, leave large, dark spots where they hit his legs. He will have to change, before he leaves his chambers. Before his lessons, before another tedious session in the court, before another lecture. I almost pity him for this moment. It strikes me that, perhaps, he does not want to be King. Perhaps he would hand over the position to me, if I merely gave him the option.

"I...you were right, I am not well. Do you want me to leave? Can you handle today alone?" Weary again, the idea of returning to bed and disappearing into the relative comfort of thick covers is appealing. But he shakes his head violently, a terrified glance cast toward the door - he is vulnerable, now. He could be twelve, and the idea of facing the world alone is horrible.

My head tilts town to settle against his knee, the cloak shifting and twisting around the mess against my spine. I settle slumped for a moment, waiting for the stomach wrenching feeling of helplessness to pass, before reluctantly dragging myself up to stand and holding out a hand to help him up. My mask is settled into place again. I am the picture of calm.

"We need to find you a new set of clothing. And you do not want to be late to lessons."