After I finish eating, Prince Malo gets up to leave, but I hold his hand, not wanting to be alone in the dark anymore. I'm slowly losing my mind here; I can't even think straight. He slowly sits back on the bed and looks at me. He glances back at the guard. "I will stay for a while longer," he says. The guard retreats to his usual corner, guarding the door but keeping his gaze in our direction. I can't talk, so I have no relief except through actions, but I didn't pass any sign language classes. We both sit there in silence. The silence with someone is better than being alone. Slowly, I give in to sleep.
The next time I wake up, I don't know if it's morning or night. Hands wrapped around me and look down to see Prince Malo sleeping peacefully by my side. I glance at the stool and see the meal is already here.
I carefully shift, trying not to wake Prince Malo. His presence, though initially intimidating, has become a strange source of comfort. As I sit up, I glance at the stool where the meal awaits. It's the same food—fruit, bread, and a chicken curry this time. My stomach rumbles, reminding me of my hunger. I reach for the bread and take a small bite, the simple act of eating grounding me momentarily.
Prince Malo stirs beside me, slowly waking up. His eyes open, and he looks at me with a mixture of concern and weariness. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice husky from sleep.
I gesture to the food, trying to convey that I'm grateful for the different meal but still feeling the weight of our situation. He nods, understanding my unspoken words.
I reach out and gently touch his hand, trying to communicate my mixed feelings. Part of me understands the burdens he carries, but another part still resents being trapped in this nightmare. He squeezes my hand softly, a silent apology and a plea for understanding.
As the day—or night—progresses, we remain close and the guard remains vigilant, but for now, the darkness doesn't feel as oppressive.
The atmosphere is thick with unspoken words and shared burdens. Despite the collar around my neck and the pain in my leg, the warmth of Prince Malo's presence soothes my troubled mind.
He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle and reassuring. "I wish things were different," he murmurs, his voice filled with regret. "I never wanted this for you."
I lean into his touch, finding solace in his sincerity. Our circumstances have forced us into a bond neither of us chose, but in this moment, I see the humanity in him—the man behind the prince. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around me, holding me close. The silence between us is no longer filled with fear and tension but with a fragile understanding and a shared sense of vulnerability.
Without my voice, I could only be entertained by his stories. He keeps me close the whole time he's there with me, his voice a soothing balm to my weary soul. He talks about his childhood, his dreams, and the weight of the crown he's destined to wear. His stories paint vivid pictures in my mind, filling the silence with colour and life.
As he speaks, I study his face, noticing the lines of worry and the softness in his eyes when he looks at me. Despite the collar around my neck and the ache in my leg, his presence brings a strange sense of peace. I lean against him, finding comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.
He tells me about the times he would sneak away from his royal duties to explore the forests and mountains surrounding the palace. His eyes light up with a boyish excitement as he recounts these adventures, and for a moment, I forget the chains that bind me. His stories become my escape, each word a step away from the dark reality of our situation.
"I remember one summer," he begins, his voice warm and nostalgic, "I found this hidden waterfall deep in the forest. It was like something out of a dream, with crystal-clear water and flowers blooming all around. I used to go there whenever I needed to clear my head."
I close my eyes, imagining the scene he describes. His voice is my anchor, keeping me grounded in this moment of shared intimacy. The pain and fear recede, replaced by the simple joy of listening to his tales.
He shifts slightly, adjusting his position to make me more comfortable. His arm remains wrapped around me, a protective barrier against the world outside. "I wish I could take you there," he says softly, his breath warm against my ear. "You'd love it."
I squeeze his hand, trying to convey my gratitude and the flicker of hope his words inspire. Despite the collar's suppression of my voice, I feel a connection growing between us, a bond forged in the quiet moments of understanding and shared dreams.
Hours blend into each other, marked only by the changing light filtering through the small window and the rhythm of his voice. He continues to talk, his stories a lifeline in the darkness. Each tale he tells, each memory he shares, strengthens the fragile bond between us, creating a space where we can find solace and hope.
As the night deepens, I drift off again, lulled by the sound of his voice and the warmth of his embrace. In this small, dimly lit room, surrounded by shadows and uncertainty, we find a fleeting moment of peace. And in that moment, I hold onto the hope that together, we can find a way to break free and reclaim our lives.