Chapter Text
♚⚔︎♚
Such have I loved you
that I remain nothing of myself.
All that I am is you.
And in my greed,
I wish all that is you
is myself.
♚⚔︎♚
A hundred years ago
Anakinn is twelve years old when his mother dies. He loses the one person who loves him.
Anakinn is fourteen years old when a gaunt, lanky boy is brought to the palace from the neighbouring kingdom his father decimated.
Anakinn is fifteen years old when the boy befriends him. Porsche, he said his name is.
Anakinn is seventeen years old when he can finally put a name to the ache in his chest whenever he sees Porsche.
♚⚔︎♚
“There you are.”
Porsche startles at the voice. “Young Master.”
“Enchanter,” Anakinn breathes. It’s beguiling; the glow of the moon against the skin of the man he longs for.
When he moves closer, Porsche steps back.
Anakinn pauses, sighing. “I’m taunted by the moon.”
The urge to run dissipates in Porsche and curiosity takes over. “How so?”
“It whispers to me, ‘look how freely my light caresses the one you are dying to embrace. You’d be fortunate to have been born as moonlight.’”
Porsche’s breath hitches. “You mustn't speak of such things.” It is already difficult not letting Anakinn know that his affection is returned. It is returned a thousand times over. It becomes infinitely harder when Anakinn is like this; when he weakens Porsche with his tender words and soft, longing gaze.
“You tell me I mustn't say and do many things,” Anakinn bitterly says.
Porsche closes his eyes, hiding again. He cannot admit that he, too, burns in these flames of love that sparked without permission from either of them. The love between a servant boy and a prince. The idea would be laughable if it wasn’t so tormenting. “You know this path would lead to nothing but ruin,” he says.
“If you are my ruination, I would welcome it.”
Struck by the look in his eyes and the words, Porsche finally runs.
♚⚔︎♚
“No, no, no, please –please.” Grief and desperation are sharp twin swords piercing his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
He is on his knees, the soil and rocks digging into the skin. He cannot bring his shaking hands to touch the person in front of him. If he touches and meets solid flesh, it would make this real and not some hellish nightmare he can wake from.
His love does not accord him the mercy of maintaining his delusion and weakly lifts a pallid hand to his cheek. Feeling the touch of cold, cold skin on his, a shattered sob rips from his throat. All his life he pined after that contact against his own skin. He never imagined that when he’d finally feel that skin, it would be drained of all warmth. That it would happen when his heart was being ripped to pieces.
Amber eyes that are devoid of their usual brightness lift to his.
***
“Weep not,” Porsche gets out, voice as soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. “I did.” Porsche tries to smile as understanding flits in those devastated eyes.
“Have you ever loved me?” was the question Porsche was asked, what feels like ages ago.
He did not answer it then. He could not.
Now it seemed like there is no more reason to hide. No more reason to be afraid. For the first time in his life, Porsche brings the truth to light.
“I’ve always loved you,” his throat strains with the effort he is making to speak. Loving him was what brought Porsche the most joy in his pitiful life. It was also what brought him the most agony. “Forget me…Hold no painful memory of me.”
He can feel himself slipping away. There is so much he wants to say but time is not on his side.
He was expecting this to happen sooner or later. It was only a matter of time before the king found out. As hard as Porsche tried, he could not hide how much he loved the man sobbing and holding him like a frightened child. Porsche is glad still, to have grown up by his side and come to feel so much for him.
And yet there are so many things Porsche wishes he could change. His cheek is so warm under Porsche’s hand. He wishes he had been brave enough to feel it much earlier, when Porsche lived with the false notion that he had the rest of his life to spend with him. How cruel that the first time Porsche touches the other half of his soul is when their time together has run out. One of his biggest regrets.
Greater still is the regret that, even with his dying breath, he could not let himself say the name of his love for the first time. The last time.
Anakinn.
As his eyes slip close, he sees trembling lips move to say something he cannot hear. He sees sheer agony painted on the face he always wanted to see smiling. He sees a blade sinking deep into Anakinn’s neck and slicing it open, the sound of ripping flesh harrowing. The wound it causes is akin to that on his wrists that have been slit long ago.
Blood separates from flesh and joins his own that has already spilled.
A weight collapses on top of him.
A single tear streaks down his temple and joins the last of his blood seeping into the earth.
♚⚔︎♚
Anakinn is nineteen years old when Porsche dies. And along with him, so does he.