Malachite | L. S [Completed]

8: Pretence

"I was merely asking you to honour our agreement."

"I shall honour nothing that relates to you." As Harry left, the door being swung gratingly, Louis stood there with a hand on the hilt of his sword, finger continuously feeling the sharp edges of the ruby in it as he inhaled and exhaled sporadically, calming his rage.

☽

"It is splendid to have you back, Your Royal Highness. Especially now that you've brought along our Duchess." Louis stitched a smile to his lips as he pulled Harry closer to himself, smiling at his wisest counsellor who had been left in charge of the Castle in his absence. "Allow me to introduce myself, Princess," Sir Lionel crouched slightly as his firm hand held Harry's delicate one, his lips with a thick shadow of a grey moustache kissing the back of Harry's hand. "Sir Lionel Raynfyre of Stairkland, Your Royal Highness."

"Lovely to meet you, Sir Lionel, the Prince has sung many songs of your prodigious battles and your unquestionable loyalty. 'Tis a pleasure to finally come face to face with a hero such as yourself."

The knight smiled, red cheeks half-covered with his beard. He stood stiff like a rock, saying, "You will make an immaculate Queen one day."

Harry's silence was enough of a disagreement as Louis cleared his throat to fill in the wordlessness.

"We hope to retire to our chambers now, Sir Lionel. Do excuse us." Louis waited for no further words as he glided through the crowd of his council members with Harry in his arms. Harry remained voiceless until Louis was pushing the door to his chambers, feeling every eye on him as the servants passed them.

"You can let go of my arm now, we needn't convince anyone."

"Can't you at least pretend I mean something to you?" Louis begged, turning towards Harry. The sun had begun to set near the horizon as a soft wind flowed in through the balcony, touching Harry's curls.

"You are the thespian in this marriage, dearest husband, do not expect me to step into your filthy role." Harry laughed, walking towards the table near the bed, and pouring himself some wine as Louis stood in a defeated stance.

He had failed, hadn't he? He had done everything in his power to love Harry, to win him. Heaven knows he went as low as to conspire with his sister, an epitome of a snake, and yet he failed to make Harry realise how in love he was with him, how in love he always had been.

Exhaling with a tremor, Louis looked up at his omega with wet eyes, asking, "Do you truly hate me?"

Harry leaned against the wall as wordlessness fell again, the gilded rim of the goblet being pressed against his sanguine lips. He did not look Louis in the eyes, fixing them on the floor instead, the eve growing into an early twilight as Louis watched the moon hold her breath for Harry's answer.

"You nauseate me," he said finally, voice deep. "I would have rather been on a spike than in the chapel with you."

Louis counted his breaths. He had always done this, a little trick of the past that helped him into his future. His nerves fastened as breath vanished from his lungs. He looked up again, finding those malachite eyes on him.

Louis could not do it.

"I-I shall let you be, then," he whispered, penetrating his skin with the blunt edges of his nails, turning around. "I will have your maids a-arrange the Duchess's Chambers for you."

When he left -- perhaps an illusion -- he felt as though Harry was attempting to call out for him, that longing glance of his followed Louis until he left completely, running for the library.