The Raven

Thirty-Seven

The witch closes the distance between herself and her withering creation, her heart thumping loudly in her chest as she realizes the severity of the situation she has caught herself in. Hovering her hands over the boy's lifeless body, she mumbles magic spells in continuous incantation, exploring every possible avenue she can think of to revive the creature in front of her.

When she had created him, she did so with no personal attachment, no feelings of fondness; giving him life had simply been a means to an end, a necessary occurrence in order to overrule the lingering impression of the newborn prince's impending homosexuality and provide an escape from having two same-sex rulers reigning over the kingdom. Perhaps she had been foolish, but she could not change her beliefs at the time that breaking tradition in such a way would wreak havoc on their society as a whole.

She had raised him in much the same way, never showing the raven any affection or even kindness, for that matter. The witch had never viewed him as her son, never looked upon him with anything other than control and slight resentment; he had always been just a magical conjuring that she intended to use as a weapon to secure the success of her plan. Looking back on that now, she might be convinced to feel some sort of sympathy for the boy. He indeed suffered a great deal in his eighteen years in this world. Perhaps she could have been a little less cruel toward him.

Unfortunately, it is too late to change that now.

Sighing loudly in a combination of frustration and hopelessness, Delilah searches her brain for another spell to cast, praying that there will be some kind of improvement in the boy's still desolate state. It has already been several hours since his passing, and the prognosis is not looking good. Yet, the witch refuses to give up; her life is literally dependent on it. Even though she is sure to be punished in some way regardless, any punishment is better than death. And... perhaps the raven deserves a chance at happiness after all she put him through.

If only there were some way to help him.

Collapsing into the bedside chair with a groan, Delilah covers her face with her hands as she ponders her next steps. She notices Prince Henry's glare gripping her relentlessly when she lifts her head. "I... I think I need my spell book," she mutters, lowering her gaze from that of the prince. "This..." she begins, pausing to clear her throat as she forces her words to be louder. "This appears to be beyond my usual capabilities," she explains, her voice wavering slightly under the pressure of Henry's gaze. "It is located in the drawer of the table at the entrance of my bedroom in the West Wing."

Prince Henry nods curtly before standing from his chair, the piece of furniture scraping obnoxiously across the wooden floor. After crossing the room in only a few long strides, he pokes his head into the corridor, alerting his father of the witch's request. As a servant is sent to fetch the book, Henry waits impatiently at the doorway. His eyes never leave Delilah as she uses the short break to acquire some much-needed rest; attempting to resuscitate the dead has taken a drastic yet entirely expected toll on her.

When the book of spells is finally placed in her hands, Delilah hurries to open it, scouring the pages for anything that could be of use that she has not yet tried. Page after page, her hope diminishes further as her search repeatedly comes up null; it looks as if she might just be giving her life today to pay for her gargantuan mistakes and her evident shortcomings.

Suddenly, an idea comes to Delilah, prompting her to delve further into the pages of the thick book. She carefully scans the texts until she finds the precise spell she had been looking for. It is dangerous, and there is no guarantee that it will actually work, but she has to try. Even if it comes at a significant personal cost. Returning to her feet and placing her hands on Caleb's arm, she closes her eyes and steadies herself. Focusing on Caleb, the witch speaks the words of her spell clearly, careful not to mispronounce or forget even a single syllable. As she continues chanting, the lights in the castle flicker dramatically as the magical power in the room builds exponentially, flowing from the witch's body into the boy's. Without fail or falter, she recites each word, repeating the spell with every breath contained within her body. By the end of her incantation, Delilah is weak, her voice faint. As she forces out the final few words, she collapses to the floor at the exact same moment that Caleb gasps for breath.

The prince stares in shock at the scene before him, his mind taking several moments to process the events that just occurred before his very eyes. It does not take long before the thought registers that his precious ruby-eyed boy has somehow been magically revived. Henry rushes to him, scooping his husband into his arms and cradling him closely. "Caleb!" he whispers, his sad tears now turning into joyous ones, relief seeping out his eyes. The blond prince feathers kisses all over his now-safe raven's face, holding his body impossibly close, wanting to never let him go again. Henry feels an overwhelming urge to protect him with his own life, just as Caleb had done for him.

"Henry," Caleb says, his voice strangled and croaky, and yet, it sounds like music to the overjoyed prince's ears. He had suspected that he would never hear the sweet and melodious sound ever again.

Slowing and then stopping the attack of his lips on the raven's face, Henry looks into Caleb's eyes. "I love you," he whispers, the few words filled with the utmost sincerity. "I love you so much."

A strained noise escapes Caleb, one that Henry cannot quite identify, yet he does not waste any time trying to decipher it once he hears his husband's following words. "I love you too, Henry," the raven replies, just as the door to the room opens to reveal the somber-looking king and queen.

"He is okay?" the king murmurs, surprise apparent in his expression. Henry simply nods in response, not wanting to divert his attention from the boy in his arms, fearing that something else may happen to him. "And Delilah?" the king asks, stepping toward the woman still on the floor.

Prince Henry shrugs a shoulder, immediately returning to cooing over Caleb as if no one else is in the room, as if no one else matters at all at this precise moment. He can hardly even hear his father's voice as he makes his next announcement, not that he particularly cares what the man has to say right now.

"She is dead."