[P] golden child; lion boy

[Adonai]

A D O N A I



—

“I

suppose that doesn’t hurt, does it? Perhaps you can class me up by the time we part ways."

I know—that whatever it is we are doing—whatever it is I am doing—that it cannot last. The spell will break at midnight. (Or earlier. What is stopping him, really?) Am I the prince, or am I that pauper princess, her heart snagged in one night, one dance, one heated glance across a cold marble floor?

You could say that it is the same for the prince. Surely he is equally enamoured, his heart equally snagged, when that spell is broken.

But the difference is astronomical and it is this: for him, there will always be another one. When we grow old enough to realise that there are so many endings, we begin to understand. To see. That yes, for the prince, there will always be another pauper princess.

But for her: poor darling. Her story ends with him.

So when Vercingtorix says by the time we part ways I am filled with sudden, excruciating love for the childhood that made me marble.

Polished, princely, and pious.

My smile does not move an inch. “I assure you I cannot be hurt so easily—you must try harder next time. And you are not from common stock, are you, Vercingtorix?" My head tilts as I appraise him anew, his stance, his build, his language, his scars. “You talk too well, and you carry yourself like a man of esteem. The distance between us is but a step. We are already of a class."

My smile is a thing immortal.

You see, dear Torix, I am raised too well. I know what you are and I know what you see in me but I will pretend that I don't. I will pretend that somehow, you have not hurt me already, a needle to the knives in my back. 

And because I am raised so well, you will never know unless I tell you.

“...in my experience, curses are always man-made, not god-given." As I'd thought, he is keener than most. He is speaking not to make a point, but to confess. After my wing had skated along his neck I had not moved away; a calculated risk. I am close enough to be privy to all that he shows me in his eyes but not close enough to suggest that my flirtations, if he takes them as such, are serious.

“And what do you believe, Fair Prince?"

I turn my head and slit my eyes towards the needle-like spire; the sun shines directly behind it. We are too far away to see its sun dial shadow.

“I believe..." I say slowly, “what you do. But I do wonder—" I drag my gaze back to his before my poison-dilated pupils can smart, “—if the price to break a curse is worth the cost? I was raised religious. Very. A pious prince." I shrug, though I really itch to laugh. The irony is never lost on me. “And with that comes a degree of moral stringency to uphold. I was raised to believe that the martyr is revered because he accepts his curse and dies suffering, that there is even beauty, somehow, in suffering." My voice is light. Light incarnate.

“There isn't. I know that much but not enough to know what is proper. Should the cursed prince suffer like a martyr? Or is revenge really as sweet as it is rumoured to be? Should he pay the price," I ask, though I already know the answer, “And kill someone very dear to him?"

If there is a time to leave, to run, it is now. I have served it up to him on a golden platter. If he takes it, my debt will be paid.

If he takes it, I think I will hurt.






Holy wisdom is not clear
and thin like water,
but thick and dark
like blood.

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