In the wing far from Laurent's, Damen did not sleep. His reasons far different from the Prince's, yet at their heart was the same cause: the horrific Beast who had overshadowed the pampered existence of a Prince.
He watched the Veretian ride out with his head of gold, the coronet gleaming in the morning sunlight through his hair; he watched him throughout the day, his usual visions in the mirror forgotten. There was no possibility of focusing on languages today. His only concern was Laurent's progress here.
It was ironic, Damen thought to himself with a grim satisfaction, that the only thing that would dare hurt Laurent on these grounds was he himself. And here he was, unable to rip himself away from the scrying glass, as if something might happen to the Prince that he had not personally had a hand in. Nothing did, of course. Laurent was as safe as he had promised him, the magic of this place at work around him wherever he went.
He waited almost breathlessly to see if Laurent would try the long winding path out of the gate. He did not attempt it.
And Damen did not try to invite him to dinner that night, or several nights hence. But when the moon was up and his body was his own, he tore down to the gardens to tend to his poor roses; his Beast's claws would only wreck them further, and they needed his human touch to keep from dying any more than they already were.
At first, Damen worked almost furiously, trying to finish each task before any chance of discovery; that would only hurry the curse and block him from any chance of breaking it, his mother had promised. But the thorns tore at his arms until they bled - he had enough of gloves in the form of his accursed paws - and he was forced to move more cautiously, more tenderly with the little shoots, the delicate decisions of where to prune and where to let flourish.
no subject
He watched the Veretian ride out with his head of gold, the coronet gleaming in the morning sunlight through his hair; he watched him throughout the day, his usual visions in the mirror forgotten. There was no possibility of focusing on languages today. His only concern was Laurent's progress here.
It was ironic, Damen thought to himself with a grim satisfaction, that the only thing that would dare hurt Laurent on these grounds was he himself. And here he was, unable to rip himself away from the scrying glass, as if something might happen to the Prince that he had not personally had a hand in. Nothing did, of course. Laurent was as safe as he had promised him, the magic of this place at work around him wherever he went.
He waited almost breathlessly to see if Laurent would try the long winding path out of the gate. He did not attempt it.
And Damen did not try to invite him to dinner that night, or several nights hence. But when the moon was up and his body was his own, he tore down to the gardens to tend to his poor roses; his Beast's claws would only wreck them further, and they needed his human touch to keep from dying any more than they already were.
At first, Damen worked almost furiously, trying to finish each task before any chance of discovery; that would only hurry the curse and block him from any chance of breaking it, his mother had promised. But the thorns tore at his arms until they bled - he had enough of gloves in the form of his accursed paws - and he was forced to move more cautiously, more tenderly with the little shoots, the delicate decisions of where to prune and where to let flourish.