Not long after I've settled in at my station, the gossip begins. A server, taking a heaping pan of hash browns to the dining hall, stops by and provides me with the first morsel of the day.
"You know, the Prince was in the med wing this morning. Have you heard?"
I lick my lips. "No, I didn't know."
"The Prince was in the med wing?" A kitchen aid says as she places a stack of dirty plates near my sink.
I feel an echo of the sharp pain from this morning.
"What happened?" I ask her, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
"Who knows?" She replies eagerly, like this mystery is far better than if the cause of his visit had been known.
"I heard he was stabbed!" One of the guys that clean dishes at the other sink exclaims.
"I thought that there was a training accident?"
"In the middle of the night?"
"No, no, the Prince's runaway mate was attacked and died! It was just his mate's pain, like last time -"
"No, there was blood! And of course his alpha healing fixed it up in 10 minutes, the med visit was just a precaution -"
It takes Blackwell a few more minutes before she disbands the horde of gossipers. By this time, the theories have become pretty absurd, but it dissolved into background noise. I try to look appropriately shocked and encouraging - it's not their fault that every suggestion makes me feel more like death incarnate - but I tune it out to hide the cause of my shaky hands.
All that matters is that the Prince is alive. The pain must have gone away when he healed himself - quickly, like any alpha. My shoulders tense at the thought of my still scabbing burns. I wish I healed like a normal werewolf.
"Clark!" Blackwell barks out from the industrial mixer, "stop daydreaming, the lunch load is starting to come in!"
I break out of my reverie to find that a mountain of dishes is already waiting for me. I wish my hands would stop shaking. There are too many anxieties for me to keep track of them. Leaving Lucy at home alone after such a fall was terrible. She would be hurting for weeks. And, though I know he's perfectly fine, I'm still struggling to swallow the instinct to find and protect my Prince.
I mean, the Prince. Prince Orion. Not mine, really, at all.
I shake my head and continue washing. Maybe, just maybe, I could leave early so that Lucy wouldn't have to do her chores.
"An announcement. With the house staff and everything? I can't go, of course, that's right after dinner and there's too much to do. I'll keep Clark with me, the rest of them can go and be sure to come back when the announcement is done or I'll scare their wolves back to the first life!" Blackwell announces this to the room, though she's talking to a small messenger girl that obviously brought news.
With how loud the entire palace staff is, it doesn't take very long for the invitation to spread. The royal family is making an important announcement to all employees at 7 in the main hall.
For a moment, I imagine seeing the Prince, up on the stage. Our eyes would meet again, and he wouldn't be able to stop himself from running towards me, even with all of the people. We would be together.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. It's definitely better that I will be here, washing dishes. I'm relieved, really, that Blackwell picked me to stay.
"Ooo, I wonder what the announcement will be about, and right after dinner? Maybe the Prince has finally chased down his mate," A maid chatters to his partner.
"Maybe he's going to announce that he was injured in a knife fight?" The other replies.
A few hours later, everyone rushes towards the main hall, leaving Blackwell and I alone in the kitchen. I rush through the dishes silently and swiftly. I just have to get through these plates and the glasses and then I could run home to Lucy.
I've made a sizeable dent in my workload by the time everybody comes back from the announcement.
"An upper alpha killed!" Someone proclaims as they enter the kitchen, shock painting their expression.
"Who is Cordelia Dixon?!" One of the smaller kids, who either couldn't hear the announcement or couldn't go, says while tugging on the pant leg of a cleaning maid.
"You know, it's that daughter of the upper alpha! Her body was found in her house four days ago, but they've just now released the news! Isn't that dreadful?" He replies joyfully.
A plate shatters in my hands. The pieces fall into the soapy water. I quickly take my hands away from the glass and examine them hurriedly for cuts. I can't hurt my hands, my perfect hands.
I am frozen, staring at my palms. My brain whirs with the force of my shock. Did they say . . . ?
"Cordelia Dixon, yeah, looks like it was done by a werewolf, ripped her into shreds - "
"It's," I begin, but my mouth feels like it's filled with sand, "it's Cord-Eh-lia. Not Cordeelia."
My voice is too quiet. It gets lost in the rising hum as more and more people arrive to herald the news. I haven't seen Elia in a month, at least.
And she's dead.
My knees turn into jelly. I nearly fall to the ground, my legs no longer able to support me. My knuckles are white at the edge of the countertop, keeping me upright.
"Elia, Cordelia Dixon is dead?" I reiterate slowly, waiting for someone to stop me. It couldn't be my Cordelia, my Elia that has been with me my whole life.
"That's what they were announcing! The Prince was there and everything, looking perfectly fine, by the way, and they announced that she had been killed! Alpha Dixon was crying and everything, it was terrible. They're changing up the guard rotation to keep it from happening again, but I don't see how a murderer could've gotten through the defenses as they were, unless it was an inside job?"
"I - I guess," I reply dumbly.
"Clark, you look pale as a ghost," Blackwell admonishes me loudly, like it's incredibly rude of me to look like that, "I won't have fainting in my kitchen, so you can scurry on home and I'll have Matthew finish your work."
"No. I just," I have to swallow down my rush of emotion before I can continue, "I - I just have a few dishes left, and then I'll go, if. If that's okay."
Cordelia Dixon is dead.
I put the final plate in its designated pile in the pantry. The stacks rise around me like Grecian pillars.
It's late. It's very late. It was such a busy day. The moon is already kissing the horizon. I'm going to be late if I don't get moving soon.
Elia was killed. Ripped apart. Left in a mess of torn sinew and muscle. She must have looked so pale, when they found her, with all of her blush drained from her cheeks.
She's been dead for four days. Dad is her father's beta. He must have known. Dad has known for days and I hear about it from kitchen gossip.
Cordelia Dixon is dead.
I fall into autopilot. My limbs move without my permission, but they don't take me outside to begin the walk back home through the snow. Instead, I find myself going up the staircase that leads to the rest of the massive palace.
Elia is dead. I repeat these words in my mind, waiting for them to find meaning.
I find myself in a familiar hallway and I walk down it like muscle memory, tracing the wall lightly with my fingertips. My hand is already raised to knock at the mahogany door before I realize where I am.
I'm standing in front of the Prince's room.
I numbly knock on the door. Without hearing a "come in," I push it open, not even feeling its weight. My limbs have gone senseless.
From the moment the door swings open and I step onto the plush carpet, it's like my mind leaves my body; I'm merely observing the scene as an objective third party. I acknowledge that the Prince's back is to me, standing on the platform and looking out the large patio doors. I acknowledge that his shoulders tense up when I walk in, and that, immediately after, they fall in exhaustion.
"You're here," the Prince says, his melodic voice flowing perfectly with the silence rather than puncturing it.
I watch from my consciousness, wondering what my body will do next.
"Yes. I'm here."
My legs take me forward with stumbling, uneven steps. They stop less than a foot away from him. Even in the almost darkness, I can see his breath move his shoulders. I don't feel a change, mentally. It's all the same. My thoughts are now entirely distinct from my body, living in a vacuum of nothing. Somewhere, I register that my body is tipping itself forward.
I fall into his back and wrap my arms around his waist. Flurries of fire flash upward from my fingertips. I am suddenly so tired; too tired to move. Being away from the Prince is an Olympic sport, and it has exhausted me. I'm so tired of being tired. I press the side of my face between his shoulder blades. His scent is intoxicating, and it makes my thoughts feel drunk and sloppy.
"- a dream, a dream," the Prince mumbles. His breath quivers in his chest.
"I hate running away," I whisper into the still air.
"Just a dream," the Prince repeats.
This is so stupid, this is so stupid, this is jeopardizing everything just because you feel like it -
"A good dream," he murmurs, exhaustion clear in his tone. His shoulders slump forward.
I feel tears bite at my eyes but I hold them back. Tears are weak. Tears are weak and I am strong.
Tears are weak and I am -
Weak.
Tired.
So tired.
"You were hurt," I choke out.
An almost laugh shakes his lips. "There won't even be a scar." He shifts, about to turn around and face me, see me.
"Wait, don't look, please," I plead, attempting to cover my watery voice. "I can't - you can't see me, not yet, please."
Realizing how stupid this sounds even through the cloud of thoughtlessness hanging around my ears, I press my face into his back and squeeze my eyes shut, like I can ignore the parts of this that are a bad idea.
It doesn't feel like a bad idea. I want him to see me. To see all of me.
"I - I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't've come. I'm -"
I step back on shaky feet. This was such a stupid mistake, what was I even thinking -
"No, please!" The Prince spins around and reaches out towards me. Instinctually, my body stiffens, my leg halfway into a retreating step. The Prince faces me in the darkness and I can see the longing in his expression.
But his eyes are clamped shut.
"I don't - I won't look. Please, don't run away. Just for another moment."
The little that remains of my resolve crumbles. Prince Orion looks worried and sullen and young and I terribly want to sleep.
"Okay."
Elia is dead. The grief makes my eyelids heavy.
Weak.
Tired.
My eyes droop closed. In my dream, I am in a sea of darkness, but this time I am holding someone's hand. They are drowning with me.