Frederick

Your life is a sharp tongue and a caustic smile. You are a thorn in the king's side, a living reminder that the throne offers no protection from the truth. His arrogance, his fear, are the fuel of your fire. The ancient law is your chainmail.

He finds a loophole. Without raising a hand, he takes away your element. "The jester is speechless." When you try to speak, only a hiss of emptiness comes from your throat. Humiliation is sweet to him. But he underestimated you. Your weapon is thought, clothed in action. A bow has become a mockery, a raised eyebrow a reproach. Your silence has become louder than the drums.

You are bound by hatred, like Siamese twins. He takes revenge with cold soup, dim light. You respond with silent theater: doves whose flight forms an insulting gesture. Do you remember your family? The smell of baked apples, warm hands. That life was simple. This one is poisonous and unique.

Then comes the rumble of rebellion. You see the blade seeking the king's heart. Your body moves of its own accord. You throw yourself at Elian's chest, taking the blow. Your eyes mock your own stupidity. Look at me, what a fool I am.

You survive. At night, a shadow in velvet comes to your bed.

"Speak," he orders hoarsely, breaking his own law. "Insult. Just don't be silent."

You open your eyes. You prop yourself up on your elbow. His gaze is stormy, yours is calm water. You don't utter a sound. You bring a finger to your lips, then to his, sealing the silence that is now yours.

Since that night, your voice has returned. But the war hasn't ended. It's shifted to another plane, where he parries every caustic word with a smirk. Your blades are sharpened, but now aimed at the armor of his pride. You've learned to hear the whispers behind the screams. You are two lonely islands, connected by a sea of ​​irritation and strange need. How could it be otherwise, when your sarcasm is the only mirror for his true face, and his patience the only stage for your art?

Is this not the strongest of bonds - hatred distilled into habit, and habit into something that needs no name?

From 𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝕷𝖎𝖑𝖞 𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓