Title: But Not Forgotten
Rating: K I suppose.
A/N: Written for a challenge, almost a year ago, at the balthierashe comm. 500 word drabble.

xxx

You do not cry—Queen Ashelia Dalmasca does not cry, you correct yourself.

‘You’ is a relative term. It is one you reject for to have a conscious ‘you’ would mean to acknowledge your existence: not Queen Dalmasca, but Ashe. Ashelia. Amalia. Whichever moniker more suits your emotions. The person behind the crown. The one who is not invulnerable.

And the one who—it pains you to admit—does indeed cry.

You know you do because you feel it. The beginnings of heartache and the possibility of tears pricking your eyes.

And you hate—what do you hate? Yourself? Him? The world for its propensity for cruelty and unfairness?

You do not know what self-loathing even means. You are not that self-aware.

His gaze is heavy upon you, his remorse and guilt and desiring forgiveness, it is burning you. You are not a basin for him to wash his feelings in, but you feel yourself slowly relenting.

The sting is still there and it does not mean less.

What does, then? Your feelings? Have his become more important?

You know one thing, and it is you do not wish to do battle—either verbally or emotionally.

“Please, let us just delay this until morning?” you request. You think he agreed, even though you had willed yourself to reject his words, for he completed removing his shirt and shoes and took up his side of the bed.

You wait for the inevitable shivers from the sight of the lithe muscles of his back and the curve of his neck. Nothing comes.

You act almost mechanically, shedding your dress into a silken puddle by your feet and adopting your favourite dressing gown. You follow him and climb into the bed from the opposite side, not unaware of his drifting gaze.

He tells you good night and kisses you on the forehead.

As you press up against him, seeking warmth you cannot get from the slim space between the mattress and the silk comforters, you feel his smile even though he isn’t facing you. You seek to return the gesture but you find it’s watery and a weak imitation of real emotion and you decide even he doesn’t deserve that.

You listen then. The patter of angry raindrops against the window, the room settling as the house set to slumber as you intended to, the faint sound of his breath coming out evenly as he succumbed to fatigue and slipped easily into sleep.

You remember he often refused to sleep if you lay awake.

‘And deprive myself of your company?’ he’d jest, whenever you inquired about it. Eventually, you stopped asking and just took it for granted all days would end in his arms.

You decide you don’t want to be warm anymore, and pull away from him to occupy your own sanctioned side of the bed. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling as if you expected it to provide whatever answers it was you needed this time.

You feel cold.

You find you prefer it that way.