Chapter Text
He couldn't sleep.
This wasn't due to the quantity of alcohol consumed before bed, or the presence of another in his chambers. No, he would never let anybody see him like this.
Cardan's lack of rest was caused by the fresh wounds running up his back, courtesy of his brother. If Cardan missed a single step in the dance of obedience Balekin had choreographed, there would be punishment like the one he was suffering now, and the youngest prince had never been taught the steps.
When he did sleep, there were nightmares.
In the first, he was bleeding out, and they wouldn't stop beating him. Balekin was there, on the throne, the High Crown resting on his brow above a smirk and stare of disappointment. Words were not spoken, because# his brother hadn't yet figured out that sometimes the words hurt more than the lashes, and Cardan wasn't about let him know.
The servants weren't smiling, because they never smiled. The children of clay stared as they whipped him, empty and lifeless, full of nothing but the commands of another. But what they thought did not matter, because at least they were mortal. That was some small victory; the Folk would never see him like this.
His blood was becoming a river that ran through the halls, an ocean lapping at the bottom of the throne, and Cardan hadn't thought it possible that so much blood could come from one person, even in a nightmare. It was choking him, and he couldn't help but laugh at the irony, which only made the choking worse.
Drowning himself with his own blood, red as the wine he kept hoping would kill him.
Then he woke to searing pain, blood-stained sheets and a cry that he hoped nobody could hear. But he didn't need to sleep on sheets, and nobody would notice if he burnt them.
In the second, he was watching himself under the lash, perhaps through the eyes of his brother. Or maybe it didn't matter anymore, who was watching him. They wouldn't make the pain go away, for the Folk adored pain, even if one of their own were suffering. Especially if one of their own were suffering.
Cardan had thought he kept a straight face, but now, watching himself, the pain showed. In his eyes, his gritted teeth, the clenched fist and the thought that wouldn't ever leave him: maybe this time he'll just kill me.
Not even alcohol could chase that thought away, nor any drug in the world bury it for long.
He woke again, and rewrapped the bandages soaked red with blood. Today had been a bad day. But he would be not be spared the wrath of the eldest prince, even if he was injured. Balekin delighted in kicking men when they were down.
The third dream was the worst.
He was with a lover, cloaked in silk, sin and shadow. He couldn't tell if they were boy or girl or neither, only that they were tall and strong and obedient - because you obeyed a prince when he took you to bed. Their hair was long and spread out on the pillow, though he couldn't tell the colour. Their pants and moans were in time with his racing heartbeat and he found that all his lovers blurred together, in the end.
Then their fingers spread to his back and traced the scars and wounds they found there. A thousand possible reactions; fear or pity, envy and lust. But his lover didn't even notice, because though no lie could pass their lips, the Folk were very good at lying to themselves and ignoring what they did not want to see.
Cardan didn't want to be like that, but he already was. He turned away from true cruelty, and pretended that his petty acts of savagery meant he was not at all like his brother, because Balekin didn't know when to stop. But maybe Cardan didn't either. Maybe none of them did, in the great games of more and most his siblings played at the foot of his father's throne.
He woke for the final time, and lay there in the pale light of day, as if he were nothing but a wounded animal that had no power in this life.
Or maybe he just got poetic when he was in too much pain to think straight.