#leifdrias

every newt who has walked through this castle assumes they are part of the king’s charm- goofy, pink, much too small for his supposedly nearsighted eyes. It’s like a show he puts on, grinning every time he takes them out, holding them to his face with the gentlest of gigantuan fingers.

-

Oh please. You don’t need them. There are no more messages.

“You don’t know that,” the king hisses, as he squints at ancient runes. It’s out of line for him. He is sure to be reprimanded shortly, or whenever he least expects it. But he doesn’t care. He moves carefully, gripping the plastic between his fingers like delicate glass as he scans the pages in tints of red.

Do you really believe she would have gone this deep? That you need to search through every page for just a tiny trace of her? Is that what you want? It is your fault, after all.

He ignores it. The candlelight flickers over the page, and for a moment, his heart leaps in his throat- just a second, scrambling to get a closer look. Sometimes, he swears she must have ghost-written some of the passages, even the visible ones- hundreds of years of newt scholars goofing off, and it was Leif the entire time, playing a trick on him just for the fun of it. But she would never be so obvious. He knows this, depends on it, clings to it with the last vestiges of his memory.

The shadow moves. The illusion is gone again, and there are no sweeping letters between the lines. Just like last time, even with Marcy, that curious prodigy of a girl, staying up late and falling asleep on her arms as he stares at too-small characters.

It’s been a thousand years Andrias.

“I know.”

With a coma after “Dearest”

*looks at a portrait of the purple frog that married Leif*