Disobedience [h.s.]

Twenty-One

The birds are not singing outside Brielle's window when she awakes. Harry has spent the night on the ground, propped up against the side of the house. He's tearing the skin around his fingers: all ten are covered in ugly shades of red. Brielle spares only a moment to look him over on her way to the kitchens. His hair is parted in at least seven different directions, bruise colored crescents line the creases of his eyes, his feet are bare and covered in dirt that makes them look two shades darker, and his clothes are wrinkled in every imaginable angle. She would think him a commoner if she did not know him to be the crowned Prince.

Pity swells inside her bosom and she refuses to let it consume her anger. Prince or not, he will not earn her compassion this time. She is not a marionette to be played with and tossed aside when she is no longer of value or pleasure.

Harry has fallen into a river of molten gold and trapped himself inside the mold of power that he's scuffled with for the moment his importance was made known. The first taste of potent puissance provoked the internal transformation that is manifesting incrementally and reconstructing the constellation she's marveled at her entire life. Brielle is afraid one day she will no longer be able to look at the sky she adores.

Muted footsteps trail behind her until she makes it to the kitchens. Gasps resound around the small room before transforming to whispers that are not light in sound. Harry is silent, following Brielle around and handing her things she doesn't need. He's trying to help, but he is so out of place that each breath pains her.

Brielle bites her cheek and turns on her heel. He hasn't bothered to fix his appearance or adopt his crown. The words on her tongue simmer upon meeting his despondent gaze. She sighs and folds her arms over her chest to resist the temptation to scatter kisses upon his cheeks. "What are you doing, Harry?"

Grimy fingers run through his hair and shed small clouds of dirt, "To be frank, I'm not entirely sure. I...I want to help."

He is only making matters worse. "You're not supposed to be down here."

Sunlight creeps to his lips, tugging them upward. "When has that stopped me?"

Brielle stifles a scream as her sight is eclipsed. Harry's familiar voice is at her ear, "Shh love, it's just me."

He removes his hands and places them on her hips as he spins her around. "I missed you, today. Is this where you've been hiding?"

The color in his irises reminds her of the strange shade of celadon the sea takes up when the sun is embraced by the clouds and saving her heat for summer. She can live every day trapped in the gentle pigment of Harry's eyes and never tire of seeing the sky.

Brielle is having trouble looking away from his lips, bitten over so much their color could match up to the roses. He hasn't shaved and as strange as it makes his face look when it's growing, now that it's grown in he looks like he came straight from Greece. And his crown...she's always felt it looked pompous but today...today it looks like he makes the oceans follow the movement of his hand. She bites her lip and draws her eyes to the silver necklace that disappears beneath his shirt. "It is impossible to hide from you."

Harry leans his forehead against hers, "How is it...that you can look so beautiful, even with flour coating your cheeks?"

She is too slow to answer and her teeth clash against his as she smiles. He is a cloud in trousers and she is the wind that shapes the fields of light, summer snow. Harry's crown slips forward and taps her forehead. His hands leave her waist. Brielle watches as he removes his crown, turning the cool metal in his hands and contemplating something that even she cannot extract. A field of sunlight appears in his eyes and travels toward his lips.