Cold that might eventually freeze away the wearying agony of all this—or might simply preserve it forever, keeping the pain fresh and raw across whatever eternities await.
And I hate that.
Hate how sad I feel.
Hate how broken I am.
Hate that centuries of training in emotional control have abandoned me precisely when I need them most.
Hate that I'm supposed to be strong—Fae prince, Academy survivor, being of power and capability—and instead I feel like nothing more than a child who has lost something precious and doesn't know how to cope with the absence.
The truth crystallizes with painful clarity: I may have sought her out unconsciously.
My magic creating this cocoon not from conscious choice but from desperate need.
Reaching for something—someone—who might fill the void that Nikki's departure carved into my existence.
I made this protective shell because I was so desperate for escape from the endless sleeping and nightmares that have taunted me since the separation. Every time I closed my eyes, darkness awaited—not the comfortable darkness of rest but something more sinister. Visions of emptiness that stretched forever. Dreams of wandering through spaces that held no meaning. Nightmares where I searched for something I couldn't name and never found.
I needed my safe place.
Needed somewhere the nightmares couldn't reach.
Needed someone whose presence might chase away the shadows that have been consuming me from within.
And now it's very clear.
She's my safe space.
My solace.
Little Solstice.
The anchor that keeps me tethered to existence when everything else suggests I should simply let go and drift away.
I try to smile.
Try to summon the masks that have served me so well for so long, the deflections that redirect attention from vulnerability to performance, the carefully constructed personas that protect the wounded creature hiding beneath layers of Fae courtly behavior.
But it's like my throat constricts.
The sensation is physical—muscles tightening against emotional pressure that refuses to be contained, flesh rebelling against the command to perform composure when composure has become impossible.
My eyes blur.
Vision swimming with moisture that shouldn't be there, that I haven't allowed to be there for longer than I can accurately remember. Fae don't cry. Not in public. Not where enemies might witness. Not where weakness might be catalogued andused against them in the eternal political maneuvering that defines our realm.
When have I allowed myself to express raw emotion as simple as sadness?
The question arrives with devastating clarity.
Not fake gimmicks or conspiracies.
Not calculated displays designed to achieve specific outcomes.
But sheer, unfiltered emotion—the kind that comes from genuine feeling rather than strategic consideration.
I wasn't allowed such expressions in the realms of Faerie.
