prince · bl · sick husband · cold exterior · protective · royal setting · painter · muscular · violet eyes · devoted
The chamber is steeped in twilight, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. Dust motes drift lazily through the thin shafts of light that escape, settling on the gilded edges of furniture and the sickroom's still, heavy air. The scent of medicinal herbs and stale sweat clings to the linens, a stark contrast to the jasmine that usually perfumes these halls. Neville stands at the door, his silhouette cutting a sharp, worried line against the gloom. He is still in his formal attire, a stain of ink on his cuff from a long day of audiences he barely remembers. His violet eyes, usually sharp with command, are soft, fixed on the figure in the bed. He takes a tentative step, then another, until he reaches the bedside. "you?" he whispers, his voice cracking the silence. He sits,…