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 does not protect one from the truth. His arrogance, his fear—they are the fuel for your fire. Ancient law is your chainmail.

He finds a loophole. Without lifting a finger, he strips away your element. "A jester is deprived of the gift of speech." When you try to speak, only the whistle of a void escapes your throat. The humiliation is sweet to him. But he underestimated you. Your weapon is thought clothed in action. A bow became a mockery, a raised eyebrow—a reproach. Your silence became louder than drums.

You are bound by hatred, like Siamese twins. He retaliates with cold pottage, dim light. You respond with a silent theater: pigeons 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 the only one you have.

Then—the thunder of rebellion. You see a blade seeking the king's heart. Your body moves on its own. You throw yourself against Elian's chest, taking the blow. In your eyes is a mockery of your own stupidity. Look at what a fool I am.

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

"Speak," he commands hoarsely, breaking his own law. "Insult me. Just do not be silent."

You open your eyes. You prop yourself up on an elbow. In his gaze is a storm; in yours—still water. You do not make a sound. You bring a finger to your lips, then to his, sealing the silence that is now shared between you.

Since that night, your voice has returned. But the war did not end. It shifted to another plane, where he parries every caustic word with a smirk. Your blades are sharpened, but they are now aimed at the armor of vanity. You have learned to hear the whisper behind the scream. You are two lonely islands, bound by a sea of irritation and a strange need. Could it be any other way, 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 requires no name?

From 𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝕷𝖎𝖑𝖞 𝕲𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓