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Do you want me, or do you not? Will you return, or will you not?
A harsh shudder breaks from Cardans throat like a soft sob, rips wickedly from his hollow chest. Far too like, if you were to ask him. Yet, he ponders, who ever would? None in all of faerie care deeply enough to witness any of his repeated moments of weakness, of self-induced sickness, hunched cross-legged in a state he refuses to name. Perhaps he should've stopped at 'cares'.
No one cares. Simple, inelegant, and true. That should not be a revelation, given his short miserable life. Nicasia discarded him easily enough, his mother even more so— his father bid him entirely from his sight to Hollow Hall and Balekin would've traded him eagerly for a golden emblem. Entirely undesired, abandoned and always alone. Wretchedly alone. It was almost comforting in its consistency... until.
No one cares. Yet, for some reason the words still sting sharp and deep enough to tear at his heart through the alcoholic haze of numbness. For all that he may desire desperately otherwise...She does not care.
Jude Duarte cares not. Jude Duarte thinks not of him. Jude Duarte is probably knocking some mortal right now into a ditch for pleasure. Halt— no, no she must be sleeping. Where is sleeping? Is she alone, too? Jude Duarte is...not home, not here, not with him. She is gone. Wretchedly gone.
Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude.
A sardonic giggle slips from his lips, unbidden and utterly mortifying. Body wracked with the headiness of one too many a sip of wine, his wrist rolls an empty bottle absentmindedly as his slow-blinking eyes stare at the silvery slip of moon through the swaying spidersilk curtains of his desolate chambers, wind whispering in through the open panes. It shimmers in the faint light alike the glint of her blade, pressed firmly to his throat as her lips meet his, angry and rough.
Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude.
He should be attending some important revel that's ensuing now beneath him in the extravagantly decorated burgh, surely with many fiddles and imps and wine where much merriment and devilry is to be had; he knows this, he understands this. He is the High King. He should be there. Revels used to delight him; there was once a feverish and intoxicating rapture found in such affairs for such a scheming, troublemaking princeling— where everything else was utterly boring and entirely below his notice, where he may be important for but a few precious hours in the eyes of court. Of course, he wasn't, he sees this now, but who was to tell him that? None would dare, and those who could, simply didn't care enough to discipline the cruel, unruly prince. No one ever cared. There was only one exception, one who saw him for what he was, and boldly shouted it to his face. Told him how inadequate and foolish he truly was, how cruel.
Perhaps he should make a brief appearance...
A flash of auburn is his periphery. His breathing stutters and stills, fingers trembling as his neck snaps painfully to the side the steal a glance with wide, awed eyes; drowning in a sudden agonising revere. There is Jude— for but a split second, glaring down at him with an all-too-familiar scowl, eyes burning dangerously below stern brows pulled so tightly he's now unsure how she never suffered disastrous migraines at the strain put on her poor angry mortal features. The fear is heady and innate, his adoration strangely more so. He can feel the resentment and hate in her gaze like heat from a raging fire, yet, he also notices the endearing little v between those same enchanting hazel eyes, the soft fullness of her frowning lips, and those little freckles adorning her ivory, dewy skin that flow across to her rounded pretty ears. Her alarming, excruciating beauty.
Then, she is gone. The night draws darker. His breathing starts unsteadily anew, a heavy aching constricting his chest as a familiar melancholy settles thick in his marrow, warmth bleeding away. He fights the trembling of his lips, grasps his throat desperately as drunken nausea rises like a tide at the shock of emotion...and fails, fails miserably as he pathetically empties his stomach on the fine umber floorboards.
Lazily, he wipes his shining lips with a billowy silk sleeve before slumping down, defeated. These are his fathers floorboards he just so impolitely desecrated, really, his fathers lavish quarters. None of this truly belongs to undeserving, deceiving he; he is an imposter in his own home, a pretender on someone else's throne. Judes throne.
Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude.
Her face shimmers like a flickering flame before his eyes, disappears like mist. Unconsciously, he slowly draws his arm up and with all his remaining strength to strike his temple, driving his head to the ground with a resounding crack. It echoes through the silence, pierces his skull to grant a moments distraction; a moments peace. Uninvited, a nervous mocking smile creeps up his wine-flushed cheeks. The peace is short-lived.
He's grown used to seeing her like this, to not truly seeing her. Nonetheless, it's always just as painful as the first time, perhaps more so, as their separation draws longer. When she was drowning in the undersea, her likeness still stood beside him in his mind, her hold unbreakable, influencing his decisions without look or word. He's stopped trying to reach for her now, to lay his fingers around her soft cheek, to press a gentle kiss atop her head; the pain of the fiction far too much to bear.
He wishes for more than anything that she be truly be here, that she may be real.
Then, he remembers the disapproval and censure written heavy in the lines of her face. Oh— the revel, of course. What would Jude have him do? He sighs quietly at the unwanted answer. Instead, he pretends to think very seriously about attending for a few heartbeats, and once he has satisfied himself for being such a terribly responsible monarch as Jude expects, he stumbles to reach for a new bottle of wine. A difficult task, considering he is crosslegged and must lean over a splatter half-digested honeycakes.
With the neck at his trembling lips he closes his eyes and allows himself to think of her. All those little promises that didn't mean much. The flush that reaches her curved ears when she is in a fury. The power-hungry burning in her eyes when she schemes. The divine notion she might've found something charming in him. Her pride he is desperately regretful of hurting. The hope that revenge might bring her home. Even if it should break his heart, she is welcome to scatter the pieces.
Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude. Jude.