Work Text:
"The day you crossed my path, I had a premonition of something fatal..."
- Herneval? - Frankelda calls in a low voice, without taking her eyes off the notebook in which she is writing.
- Humm? - answers a voice a few meters above her; leaning on a tree branch, his wings swaying gently, the prince of spooks dozes.
- If you've been spying on me since we were children, why did it take you so long to talk to me? - Continues the writer, putting the pen aside and blowing kindly on the paper, the blue ink on the notebook begins to dry; she can hear him awaken with a snort. Frankelda lifts her face with a smirk, noticing how, after losing his balance, Herneval manages to stabilize himself with the help of his wings; his limbs spread out, marveling the young woman, with the scarlet color of his feathers.
- What's with this sudden curiosity? - asks the prince looking down at her from above with a slight frown; Frankelda shrugs her shoulders with feigned innocence and Herneval's golden eyes sparkle with amusement.
After a few days of their arrival in his kingdom, both youngsters share a certain complicity that, most spooks, fail to understand; it is a recurring fact, to find them spending time inside the throne room, as if it were their playroom and not, the precious place it should represent.
-Mmmmmm. - Herneval thinks, settling his legs on the edge of the branch and bringing a hand to his chin. – Well, if you remember, I did talk to you.
-Yes, and then you made me believe it was all a dream. - Says the young woman, rolling her eyes, unsurprised by his answer; a gesture that provokes a smile in him.
-But that doesn't change the fact that I DID talk to you. - Herneval laughs, swinging his legs and causing the tree to move slightly, Frankelda lets out an irritated snort. The writer slides her fingers gently over the sheet of paper and the pad of her thumb smudges slightly with ink; with a start, she moves her hand away in an attempt to not soil her recent writing with the fresh paint.
A rush of air surrounds her, looking up she finds Herneval, standing a few feet away; several scarlet feathers have been released from his wings by the force of the landing and, held in the air by a false sense of frozen time, cause the writer a déjavu-like shudder. Without wiping the smug smile from his face, the prince approaches her and, after taking a white handkerchief from inside his vest, takes her hand to politely wipe the ink on her fingers. Both of them, in a bizarre tranquility, remain silent while he does so; however, Frankelda is unable to ignore the evasive response of the man.
-A part of me has always been waiting for you to come closer. - The young woman whispers with a disinterested tone, calling the attention of the prince who stops in his soft care and raises, confused, his gaze towards her.
- How...? - Herneval begins to ask and Frankelda is the one who, now, throws him a smug smile.
- Did you really think I didn't know? - exclaims the writer, sincerely surprised; the embarrassed face of the prince, confirms her answer. - You're not the most discreet spook, especially when we were kids.
- I can't do much to hide my dashing appearance. - With a flourish, Herneval tucks his handkerchief under his red vest and shrugs in an attempt to regain his carefree image; the writer raises an eyebrow, amused by his attitude.
- You're quite handsome. - Frankelda accepts, interrupting any other words the spook tries to add, and a satisfied smile escapes her at Herneval's visible puzzlement.
- At first, I thought I was daydreaming. - The writer whispers, closing the notebook and placing it on her lap; she can feel the prince's penetrating gaze upon her. - I mean, that's not unusual for me: it was the main reason for all my grandmother's scolding.
Herneval sits gently on the root in front of her, crossing his arms against his chest and listening to her attentively. The light inside the half-dead tree, dimly illuminates the throne room; and Frankelda's blue hair glows ghostly, in a vision that takes his breath away.
-But in Christmas a few years ago, it was you, wasn't it? - The grateful look the young woman throws him, is returned with kindness and a shrug of the shoulders. - After that, at times, I was aware of your presence and waited for you to come closer, but as you were still a shadow behind me, I gave up believing you WERE really there.
- But I WAS THERE, Francisca. - Answers with a smile Herneval, turning his body towards and looking at her, Frankelda hugs the leather notebook tightly against her chest. - Since we were little, I was there with you.
- Why? - asks the writer softly, losing herself in the golden eyes of her interlocutor. - Why me?
With the atmosphere around them suddenly oppressive, both observe each other intensely; Frankelda had not planned for the conversation to become so deep but now, as the beating of her heart deafens her, she cannot help but feel a certain impatience for the silence of the spook.
-That is, because...- Herneval begins, wings slightly unfurled by his agitated breathing. - because I …
A sudden anguish floods the prince's face before he averts his gaze, causing the previously formed intimacy to burst like a bubble. Frankelda knows it, she feels it deep in her heart: Herneval is hiding something from her and, despite the obvious appreciation he shows her, the secrets weigh on both of them in a painful way. Still, the writer wishes to continue along the thorny path that the spook has shown her; for the sake of her dream and her pride.
-I wrote a new story. - Frankelda says with such a carefree voice that it hurts. The human world has nothing to offer her and the writer refuses to look back. - Would you like to read it?
Herneval watches her out of the corner of his eye, before nodding and smiling sadly; in a flamboyant gesture he holds out his hand and Frankelda offers him the notebook.
As the prince of spooks reads, avidly, the new nightmare; Frankelda closes her eyes enjoying the deep silence between them. Secrets can wait, they think; It's not worth disturbing their closeness yet.
They remain there for an indefinite time, ignorant of the arachnid creature that watches them, from the shadows, with an almost cruel smile.