Work Text:
Condense
Nights on Vers are dull, and naturally, there's only rest or work to be done.
Naturally, he chooses rest, though all it does is hurt.
Sometimes he sits with his Princess, and wallows in his self-pity (not that he would subject her to such a sight), sometimes he lies prone trying to feel, again, her gentle caress, her lips on his, and not her blood on his hands.
Sometimes it's too hard to even breathe, the air in his lungs seeming to condense and force themselves out as chokes and sobs as he mourns his stupidity and his Princess.