#solkyn

𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝  𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜  𝚊𝚗  𝚎𝚡-𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏  𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠  𝚘𝚏  𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎  ?     admittedly,   not very much.   he knows he’s outmatched,   near-constantly,    and carrying a warmth in his chest that has never wavered since that first day in the tower,   and he knows that he feels lighter now than he has in so long,     in  forever.     eugene,   he knows of love,   yes,   but,   of parental love?   the kind that’s he’s only ever    𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍  𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝,    the kind that’s supposed to be full of old,   worn-in lullabies,   the warmest hugs,   kisses atop foreheads,   of a kindness that is gentle and stubborn and unconditional,   from the very start?   from the first moment of beginning?    eugene     [    .  .  .    ]      eugene knows nothing about that kind of love.

the world has been a cold place from the beginning of remembering,    and for     𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛  𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚗  𝚎𝚞𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎  𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚣𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚝,   there was no time for grieving.   there was no time to mourn for the things he was not given freely,  as others were.   this  was  his  life,   whether he chose for it or not,   that he now has to go and  win  that kind of love,   has to claw for it,   beg for it,   bat his eyelashes and stand perfect and still and silent,  tall and brash,   just to be seen,   to be even considered for a love like that.   but it was never enough.    𝚑𝚎  𝚠𝚊𝚜  𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛  𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.    he thinks rapunzel may know something,   of a feeling like that.  

one day i’ll weep for this,   a young boy thinks to himself as he looks out at a city far from corona’s walls,   candle-lit windows of families shining like beacons in the darkened distance,  signaling homes,   kids tucked away warm and safe into their beds inside them.   one day i’ll cry,    he swears.   𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢.

now,   older and with  significantly  more aches and memories to remember,   that same boy runs a soft-gentle thumb beneath rapunzel’s eyes,   wiping away her tears.    he thinks of all of that time between them,   of all of their shared young dreaming,   but then he thinks of her years in that false-warmth,   of honey’d lies and warm exploitation,   and finds himself wishing he’d gone for the crown months,   years earlier,   as if he could only have known sooner.      ❝     i’m sorry,   rapunzel.    ❞

𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗,    𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝,    𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝.    that was the short of tonight’s game plan,   and eugene had gone over it more times than he could  keep  track  of  before arriving at the castle,  except that it was less that  simple  and a little more:   hope the faked papers granted him access into the party,   somehow  manage to stay under the radar for the hours until it ended,   find a good place to hide out while everyone finally vamooses,   and when it’s clear,   𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕  𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚝,   slip out of town unnoticed,   find a nice and cozy underground market in the next kingdom over to sell it,   and finally,    rather,     deservedly,     𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚝.

the  good  news  ?   the papers cleared!  thanking every lucky coin he’d ever stolen,  eugene gratefully strikes off   step  one   of his mental to - do list for the evening as he tugs on the too - tight collar of his suit,  sauntering into the castle’s ballroom.    𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚋𝚊𝚍  𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜  ?    there were  twice  as many guards as he’d been informed of.   sliding quick to sweep into the crowds of mingling guests,  he starts re - evaluating,   like,   sure,    he’d spotted a few wanted posters of himself among the hotspots around town,   but not enough to be recognized on sight,  right?   he hadn’t done  that  much in corona,   a few misdemeanors here,   a few stolen priceless artifacts there,      [   .  .  .   ]      oh boy.   where were those lucky coins again?

he’s watching the guards’ paths for repeated patrol routes to then very actively avoid,   when his line of sight catches,  and the whole room melts to a standstill,  band fading away into something soft,  serene.   eugene prides himself a sensible man,   but this woman      [   .  .  .   ]     was  blinding.    watching her undoes him,   a little.   she laughs at something someone near says to her,    and he’s sure he stops breathing,   watching the way she catches the light like sunshine,  folded gold on gold,   𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗  𝚊𝚗𝚢  𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎,   any sunset.

the thief swallows hard,  very aware that he’s just spent the last   however  long   staring at a woman like he’s supposed to stare at something sensible,   like  an  island  full  of  stolen  treasure,   but something soft has unfurled in his chest now,   restless and itchy,   and suddenly all he wants to do is know her name,    to  say  it,   to know the weight of it on his tongue.   decision  made,    he begins to work his way through the room towards her,   looking to not cause a scene by stepping on some foreign dignitary’s toes,   but he finds himself glancing back to her,   her eyes,   like now that he knows she’s there,    𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚜  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛  𝚘𝚏  𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐,   and everything else is just privy,    orbiting around her.

𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎,    he writes,    in a soft messy scrawl on worn folded paper,     it has been just over a month now,    since our party has left corona and i don’t think i have  ever  wanted to return to a singular place so badly than before right this moment.     life on the road is      [   .  .  .   ]     different,    now,    than before,    when i was on the run.     knowing you are there,    and i am all the way out here,    unreachable,     makes the distance feel so far.     i wish i was with you.

i think of you,    often.      i  think  of  us,    often.     i find myself turning to see you,    next to me,    only to find you not there.     𝚒   𝚜𝚎𝚎   𝚢𝚘𝚞   𝚒𝚗   𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.     i think of what you would say to the different things we come upon in our travels    –    the changing colors on the trees,     the dew collecting on the morning fields,     the warm wind coming off of the sea in the late evenings,    and not to mention,    the many    drunken    verses of an old barmaid’s many songs. 

(who,    in fact,    when i told her how much you like to sing,    said     she’d  really  love  to  meet  you,      and blondie you have just  got  to try her sweet pies,    they’re nearly as good as atilla’s!    i saved one for you,    but i don’t think it’ll last the night,   𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚒𝚗  𝚖𝚢  𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎,   i don’t think it would have fit in the envelope anyway.     the recipe will,   though!      let me know what you think.)

when i think of the world of how you might see it,    it’s almost like you’re here,    next to me.     i find myself thinking about you as i try to fall asleep,    to spend time with you,    in my dreams.     𝚝𝚘  𝚜𝚎𝚎  𝚢𝚘𝚞.    the other night we were under the lanterns again,    do you remember?     of course you do,   i know.     but it was nice to see you,    there,    again.     with that signature golden glow of the world so   startling  bright   in your eyes.   i  miss  you  more  than  anything.

funnily enough,    though,    it’s not as lonely as i thought it would be?     these letters were a good idea,   on your part      [   .  .  .   ]     for a moment i can pretend you are here,     talking with me.    like the only thing different is that it just takes your words a little longer to reach me.      and   i’d   wait,      you know,    however long it took.     𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝  𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎  𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝  𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 

but right now,    at this very moment,   i think of all the time this letter will take to reach you.    i think of how many hands will hold it,    on it’s journey,    retracing our steps,    and where you will be when you receive it,    how you will be feeling,    what your day might have been like.     if it is late in the evening,    or early in the morning.     whichever it is,    𝚒  𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎  𝚢𝚘𝚞  𝚊𝚛𝚎  𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕.     i hope you are not hungry,    and that nothing worries you.    i hope the day ahead will be kind to you,    and if you have a spare few minutes here and there,     i hope you are thinking of me.  

i miss you,  sunshine.     i can’t wait to hear your voice again.

❝       scream   ?      ❞        𝚑𝚎  𝚒𝚜  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎,    suddenly,    like he has been caught in the act of stealing    ––    an old fear that worms it’s way into his exhausted brain until there is just  adrenaline  alone,    just the pounding of his heart echoed in his hands,    in his chest,    in his ears,    that has been going on for far longer than rapunzel has been standing in his doorway.

❝      ha,    no   !     no screaming here,    absolutely  no  loud  sounds  have been called out from this  lovely  chamber,    because as much as  cassandra  loves to spread that kind of reputational slander,    i do  not  snore      [   .  .  .   ]       ❞      the sentence softly trails off,    because he’s looked up now,    and met her eyes,    and looks at her,    really looks,    like he’s seeing through her,    like she’s seeing through him,    like she always does,    somehow,    different than anything.     and he breaks,    ever so gently,    performance falling away,    just like that.

𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢,    𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜,    𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑,    these are not the long-trusted skills of a con-man,   of a thief.    neither,    for that matter,    is the act of dozing in the grass,   bright spring sun laying itself near and sentimental.    but this is the new life of one eugene prince consort,    now,    and it is not one he would ever wish to trade away.

rapunzel,    a second sun of her own accord,    lays next to him,    stretching lazily to rest her head upon his chest.    the weight of her presence is calming,    and with an arm reaching to bracket the back of his head,    there start the just beginnings of a sly remark upon the tip of his tongue,    something about what makes a good pillow,    and how it is definitely,    absolutely goose-feathers,   when   –––

               “        𝘪  𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭  𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳  𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵  .       ”   

false bravado struggles in attempt to overlay the brash light of vulnerability,    building beneath skin,    stuck upon trembling fingertips.     the world slows to just weight and warmth,    the motions of his heart quickening under the attention,    her attention,     the weight her words,    of the soft thing half-spoken between them.

@solkyn​   asked    :     ❝   grab ahold of my hand .   ❞    :pleading face:

here there is a door that you will knock on,   that will only open as soon as you’ve turned away,   and   isn’t  that  something  ?     here,   even in this life,   even here,   in the face of winter   :    do we starve?      do  we  leave  the  light  behind ?      even at the beginning,  where things begin to come whistling into the bright curl of cooling days,    will  you  admit  to  sharpness ?    to fear?   to stand and attest to their memory,   of how much of this you still cannot say aloud,   how much you still attempt,   weighted and strung?   all your life,   the  same  story    –––     here,   where you are holding out your hands,   here,   tired and cold,   your hands closing empty    –––    to hope and  hope  for light,   and to remain,   in the still and quiet dark,  over and again.    to want to change    :     isn’t  that  something  ?

back in a time when you are young,   you climb out of your window into the darkest part of night to watch light leak out from the citadel,   a witness to you,   to your whole life,   a tall thing on the horizon.   its steady - warm glow is so far from your home that you can douse its light out with just the flat shape of your hand,   and watch the way it brightens and outlines the edges of your palm,   your fingers,   how that light    becomes  a  piece  of  you    that you can almost still feel when you leave the window ajar,   when you climb back into bed and turn over,   hear the crickets,   hear your father breathing slow,   as you fall back asleep.

the  tragedy    :    it won’t last.   and i know,   i know,   you want it to last,   but it will be gone when you wake in the morning.   it won’t come with you,   into the days ahead,   but you will remember it,   that it was like nothing else,   that  feeling,     as if the whole world had come to a standstill,   like the whole world was coming to,   was  wide  awake,     was  listening,    for just a moment,   in the early dawn.

there is only one day a year when the entire kingdom goes dark.   it is a day so quiet,   so still,   as if even the land itself holds its breath in sympathy.   it is a day where your father takes your hand just before dusk,   and brings you down to the riverbank outside the kingdom’s center,   watching as it’s people gather tightly together,   holding close every ray of all of their light,    and then    ––––    giving  it  away,    just like that,   hands releasing their homemade stars into the night,   or something just close enough to it.    it is a strange thing,    to  feel  so  young,    in a light like that.   like a dawn you could just touch the edges of,   if you reached out your hand far enough.   like if you tried,   you could find the weakest point of the sky and pass through it,     to  the  softest  home  of  summer.

but  summer  ends,     summer closes itself away,    and fear is a harsh thing that descends in its place,   slowly sweeping into empty fields,   ringing in your ears,   settling into this world so delicately    –––    like a first snowfall,   like the first chill that reaches into you,   shelters you a  new home,   already  abandoned     –––    how it folds itself so neatly into your bones.    you  are  so  afraid,   and so cold,   how this fear hugs so close to your heart you feel as if you might become it     /     to become all but burning in this aftermath of light,   alone in this place where warmth is supposed to grow,    used to grow,    but the sun has gone.

but you want to believe.    you want to hold onto something,   to belong to something,   to not leave any more miracles behind,   and so     :     you  reach  out.   you reach and you take her hand and find it warm,   find it open and waiting for your own,   and suddenly you are reminded      :      nothing  is  lost  forever.  

how clear memory holds those old warm days,   how it stretches them out across seasons,   and you remember    ––    the day you heard the news,   how it had trickled slowly out to the edges of the kingdom,   how  the lost princess had been found.   how it was a story so gentle and good that it     /    kept  out  loneliness,   for a little while.   you remember the development of summer - fall days,   how the kingdom shifted and rearranged itself to come up to meet her,   and in turn,   how she did not just bring a flickering candle to the streets of people so long used to the mourning - dim dark.   no,    instead  she  lit  up  the  entire  kingdom,    bringing with her a new dawn,   and even out here,   so far from those cobblestone streets,    even here    ––    you could see how her compassion soaked the sky a new color every night,   how there was not a single  inch  of emptiness left to the dark.  

you look at her,   now,   with her strength,   and her kindness,   and you think that    maybe  love  is  bigger  than  grief.    you look at her,   here,   even in all of your winter - dark,   and there is a moment where think you can see that same light leaking around the edges of her,   even brighter than you remember,   from so long ago.