it is always easier to hate a child when you have never met them, he thinks, and to make them a character in your journal that is filled with the same qualities of the most hated man in france. there is natural sympathy, too much feeling. camille kneels. “except it was only a dream.”
broken silence makes his young throat croak and groan like the heavy door to his chamber. he hasn’t spoken in weeks, the only sounds past his lips those he cannot control - whimpers, screams, groans. he is tired and thirsty, yet he will not eat or drink, too eager to die to slow the process by maintaining good health like a dog being walked on a leash, obediently scarfing down burnt food and even more burning alcohol until his mind spins and he cannot remember anything but brief flashes of women and men he does not recognize.
❝ it was not a dream. ❞ the little king considers camille, the only hint of emotion on his face a glint of fear. too close, not close enough. he should lift charles up and drag him off to the same guillotine that had executed his father, he should go away, he should drown him in brandy. ❝ blood on your mouth, ❞ he utters quietly before turning back to his table.