Snow's White | ✓

2. Skin as White as Snow

To say that the carriage ride was tense was a severe understatement. King Frederic fiddled with the ornate hem of his cloak, the tassels jumping every time the carriage lurched over a pothole or wayward stone. Every now and then, his eyes would glance over at the man sitting opposite him, his heart aching with guilt. The last time he had seen his son was seven years ago when he was merely a boy of fourteen, only starting to become a man. Now, at the age of twenty-one, he had clearly become someone totally foreign to the monarch.

What had once been shortly cropped, his son's dark black hair had grown to rest upon the curve of his broad shoulders, encased in the dark blue satin of his coat, which was unbuttoned and hanging precariously around his body. Sensual pink lips were curled down in a hard-set frown, and blue eyes peered lazily out of the small window of the carriage, dark lashes casting a light shadow on the pale flesh under his eyes. The fair skin trekked down his neck and across slopes of lean muscle, disappearing under his silk tunic which dipped in a V at his chest. The King noted that his son, who had only reached his shoulders at fourteen, was now taller than he was, the crest of his black hair nearly scraping the roof of the gold-lined carriage.

Where his daughter Rose was snow during the day, sparkling and bright, Keir was snow in the night, hidden from view but luminous when the moonlight fractures off its glassy shards. Frederic cleared his throat loudly as he smoothed the crinkled surface of his pants, his son slowly turning his head in a slightly disinterested manner, resting his head against the firm palm of his hand. A dark brow was raised as Prince Keir gave his father a questioning look, and Frederic felt his palms dampen.

"How have you found the South since you returned?" Frederic asked cautiously, twisting his lips into a tense smile. "Not too hot, I hope? I know that is is much colder in the North."

"Though much warmer than the North, I did grow up here, so my body has adjusted quite easily. Thank you for your concern," Keir replied curtly, words clipped and sharp. Frederic gulped audibly, and he swore that his son's lips twitched in an amused smile. Disinterested once again, Keir turned his head to peer out the window, his eyes flicking between the luscious greenery of the south.

It had been years since Keir had been home, and the scenery of his childhood, alongside the sweet smell of fruit trees that lined the road towards the neighbouring country brought back memories that he had locked away since he was cast out of his family and home. He had grown used to the more barren landscape of the North, with grey mountain and snow-covered ground replacing the sun-bathed grasses of his Southern land. Despite his nonchalance, Keir did find the south a little too humid, and a little too bright. He felt his silk shirt starting to cling to his body, and shrugged his thin coat off his shoulders, the blue material pooling around his waist. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbow, Keir tried to ignore his father's gaze as he leaned into the plush lining of the carriage seat and closed his eyes. 

"Prince Keir, a letter," a meek courier bowed, a sealed square of parchment in his hands. Keir, perched on a mountain of pillows in the bay window overlooking the Northern estate's frost-chilled gardens, stretched out a hand as he continued to watch his childhood friend Guinevere clip winter roses lining the hedges around the fountain. Feeling the letter pressing into his hand, Keir briskly thanked the courier, who shuffled out of the library. Keir smiled as Guinevere looked up to his window, waving a rose in her hand as the wind blew her light auburn hair across her face. After giving his friend a short wave, Keir turned to the letter in his hands, and was surprised to see his father's royal seal etched into the red wax. Tearing the letter open, Keir's eyes skimmed its contents, his mouth dropping open in shock.

"This... I... It can't be," Keir mumbled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he forced his eyes closed. Opening them again, he read the letter over and over, as if with every glance the words would change. But they did not, and there in heavy black ink, was his father's cursive that detailed the end of his exile to the North and his twin sister's engagement to the eldest prince of his father's neighbouring kingdom.