Snow

She started to shake then, convulsive moments that shook the bed. "It hurts," she said, and her voice had faded again, become the one he knew. He went over to the bed and knelt by her side.

He was careful to keep his hands off the bed, away from her.

"I was young," she said when the shaking stopped. "Young and scared. Your mother, dying like that--all the blood, those pieces of mirror everywhere so all you could see was her lying on the floor. I was there when the witch woman told your mother about you, you know. I was there, waiting for you to be born, and when she told your mother what she knew I wanted to go home so badly. But I wasn't allowed to and then you were born. You were such a strange baby, so silent, too beautiful. And all that snow, that started the day you were born, got worse every time you cried---we all knew what you could do. What you were doing. They had to tie me to a chair to feed you the first few weeks. It was the only way I would..." She started to shake again. It was a long time until she stopped. He stayed kneeling by her side, feeling the floor slick and cold under his knees, the stones cracking as layers of ice bloomed across them.

"I'm tired," she said when she'd stilled again. Her voice was a faint whisper he could barely hear.

"Take my hand, please."

He did. "I'm sorry," he said. Her skin was warm, so warm, but it chilled as he held it, a blue tinge creeping across it. "I don't mean to do it. I would make it stop if I could."

"Oh love," she said. "I know you would." Her eyes closed. He knew they would never open again.

The snow fell fierce and thick after she died and the day of her funeral it was bitter cold, the snow falling so fast it was almost impossible to see. The only other person present, the priest who was there to say one last mass for a departed soul, stood shivering, feeling snow soak through his fur-lined boots. He had not wanted to perform this mass, but when David had asked him, found him in the church and stared at him with anxious beautiful eyes and asked for a death mass in a pleading voice, he'd found himself saying "Yes, of course," right away. Anything to get the strange, quiet, disturbingly beautiful young man away from him. He'd heard the stories of the King's lost son--everyone had--but he'd never believed they were true. Not until that day. And now, standing, watching snow fall hard and fast, he prayed only that this moment would be over soon.

David got the pyre lit. As the priest watched he pressed a flame to the wood and blew gently on it. The flame sputtered and shifted, its color fading from red-yellow to white. The priest watched as the fire burned, consuming everything by ice, the body on the pyre swirling into a cloud too fine and too cold to be smoke.

"Dear God," the priest said, and it wasn't a prayer. He crossed himself and walked away. David didn't notice. He stood watching the fire, shaking not from cold but from grief. He stood watching the fire and snow fall from the sky like tears.

Across the courtyard David's brother and sister stood watching him. They were wrapped in furs, shielded from the falling snow by attendants standing, shivering and holding a canopy over their heads. They were supposed to be on their way to a party, but they'd stopped when they saw the brother they'd forgotten they had, when they saw the way the snow fell harder and faster with every shuddering breath he took. They watched the fire burn, saw its white flame, watched it consume by cold. They looked at each other for a moment and then the Princess lifted one hand up, held it towards the sky. Snow covered the dark rich fabric of her glove in a moment.

"The rumors--"

"Yes," the Prince said. "We'll have to do something. Let me send someone to get you another glove."

"You're too kind," the Princess said, and turned toward him, arm still outstretched. He peeled the ruined glove away from her skin, captured her wrist with his fingers. They left the glove lying on the ground when they went inside. It was covered with snow by the time the doors closed behind them.

***

"Do you love me?" the Princess asked. It wasn't really a question. She was lying naked on her bed, golden skin draped by soft dyed sheets, staring, smiling at the man standing, watching her.

"Of course I do," Joseph said. His voice was kind but strained, wrecked by want. It was written all over him. He wanted nothing more than to be hers forever.

"How much do you love me?"

"I'd do anything for you," he said, and knelt down, placed one hand on her thigh. His hand didn't shake at all. "Anything."

"Good," the Princess said, and spread her legs. "Come here."

"Do you love me?" the Prince asked later. It wasn't really a question. He was lying naked on his bed, golden skin draped by soft dyed sheets, staring, smiling at the man standing, watching him.

"Of course I do," Joseph said. His voice was kind but strained, wrecked by want. It was written all over him. He wanted nothing more than to be his forever.

"How much do you love me?"