wrongs. [dreambur]

Chapter 2 - A Letter

Isolating himself wasn't helping. He knew it. He brought his head up, fixing his posture where he sat. He let himself gaze out to his balcony, sheer curtains tied off to either side, blowing gently in the breeze. The weather was nice; the sun was pleasantly warm, the breeze wasn't overly harsh, even the time of day was perfect. Late afternoon. Rather than moping around inside, he should cease the day. He should be out, smiling, sitting in nature. The castle had a magnificent garden, he used to love going out in it, never wanting to come back inside. They'd have to send his brothers to come and retrieve him. He was so much happier, only months ago. He'd give anything to go back. It wasn't fair. This wasn't fair.

He'd keep telling himself that. Even knowing it's true doesn't make anything better. He knows he's colorblind and yet he still can't see the colors.

Something picked him up, almost subconsciously he stood from where he'd been planted. He wandered over to his balcony, out the open glass doors and to the railing. He stopped, simply staring. The view was unlike any other. An overlook of the garden, the tree he used to sit under. It reminded him of how he used to sneak out of his room at night to go sit under it and watch the stars. It was always one of his parents to catch him. Usually his mom, those were some of his fondest memories. He found himself leaning against the rail, those ever bitter tears brimming his waterlines at the thought of her. His mom. His mom. He could only miss her now, pray she was somewhere better than this hell left to consume him.

A knock on his door pulled him from his vulnerable state. Standing straight, he wiped the tears threatening to fall. Blinking a few times to clear his sight. "Enter." He managed, his voice coming out quieter and raspier than it would normally. Hoarse from underuse, throat dry from lack of water. Turning around, he saw his assistant. Jack bowed briefly after he'd faced him, before opening his mouth to speak. "Your highness, you've received a... letter from the Somniabunt Kingdom." He explained, extending a silver tray to Wilbur, an envelope with his name written so carefully it almost made him sick. He took the letter, eyeing it as he spoke, "Thank you, Jack. You're excused." He dismissed, walking towards his desk with the letter still in interest. "Of course, your highness." He bowed a final time, before showing himself out. Wilbur listened to the soft click of the door shutting as he closed it.

He exhaled, sitting back in the chair he'd just pulled himself from. Now with a new task, one he couldn't possibly muck up. He stared at it for what felt like ages, eyeing the way the ink was so thoughtfully put, the curve of each letter. Neat, perfect. His name. The thought of that bastard writing it made his throat tighten. He ended up tearing the envelope when he opened it, due to the wax stamp sealing it shut. He didn't feel all too bad about it. He'd rip it to shreds if he could, if he wasn't positive it was something important. Even then, he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear anything from him. He hadn't thought Dream wanted that either: not that he cared about what he wanted. He was the last person he was concerned about.

Pulling the delicately folded paper from where it rested, stained particularly with black ink. Unfolding it, he let his eyes drift over the paper. Once he had, he'd thought he'd read it wrong, or that there was some sort of mix up. Frantically, he read over it again, then three times, even four. The words never changed, no matter how many times he read them.  No matter how many thoughts rushed his head, how many worries begged them to change. It stayed the same, the ink was permanent, unmoving.

His staring didn't make it any easier. Nothing was going to make this easier. He feared this was as easy as it was going to get for a long time after this.

Once it settled in, he stood abruptly, the paper folding and bending in his fist. Clenched tightly in anxiety, much like his jaw as he made his way quickly to the door. From there, he made his brisk venture down the hall, eyeing the door from afar. He did his best to conceal his panic, his dread, his anger. Putting all those feelings into his fist as he knocked quickly on the oak wood.