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The bells rang, loud and echoing, across the quarry. The Poet's lips curled in a small smile, and started to pack up his things. His 12 hour shift had finally ended, and tomorrow was his day off. He was looking forward to the pulse-shower, and to use some new soap that had been a gift from his friend the Soaper.
It wasn't long after he had started walking that he had to stop. A pebble got in his boot, and he wasn't going to take the train back and deal with a packed car for an hour with it digging in his heel.
Leaning against the wall, he shook the boot until it clattered out. It lodged in the grate, and he didn't think anything of it.
That is, until he put the boot back on.
His hand left the zipper on the side of his boot, and he noticed the faintest hint of purple out of the corner of his eye. Drawn to it like a moth to a flame, he reached out and picked it up.
The pebble was mostly gray and unremarkable, feeling muted among his surroundings. But one side... one side showed streaks of lavender and violet. He passed the tip of his thumb over it, and a little more purple was exposed.
Beautiful.
He was shaken out of his reverie by a tired miner walking into him.
"Hey!" he said angrily, "watch where you're standing."
"Ahh, I'm sorry, sorry," he said, nodding nervously, slipping the pebble into his coat pocket.
He didn't cause any more traffic issues on the way home.
The rain barrel wasn't fit for human consumption, but running it through the jerry-rigged filter he bought from his Neighbor made it safe enough to bathe in. Of course, he didn't have enough room for a bath, so a sponge bath it was. They were never as good as he wished, but it was relaxing. It was a ritual, almost. Well, not a ritual, the Imperial Truth didn't allow for that, but something like it? Tradition? Habit?
Something.
He practiced square breathing as he bathed his first pass to help relax. There was no point wasting the nice soap on what would mostly be soot and dust. Or the second. He wrung the rag out, and used it to water his spider plants.
Ah, finally.
He took out the soap, wrapped carefully in a clean rag. It was purple and white, swirling together almost like those treats in High District that would cost him an hour's wages to buy. And this soap had sugar in it - but that was for exfoliating.
The Soaper told him that the scent was lilacs and day lilies, but he has never smelled either one before. Flowers from Terra, or so they say. They smelled like fresh air, or what it he imagines it must be like. She'd saved bits and pieces of the cut soaps, saving them and eventually pressing them together with a great weight.
The Poet was grateful. He'd traded for it with a piece of obsidian the size of his ring finger.
Outside, he heard the Busker singing. She frequently performed on the corner, but tonight was much too cold for that. She frequently liked to sing in Ancient American, and he would sit in wonder at what the meaning could possibly be.
His studio continued to fill with the gentle scent of flowers, and despite everything, he felt warmer. The Poet wondered about maybe asking for seeds for one of these "lilacs," and trying to grow it in his window. His studio was full of plants, mostly spider plants to help clean the air. And if he only saw grey in his home, he knew he would go crazy. Many of his neighbors thought he had an excessive amount of plants, but he didn't care.
The first bucket of soapy water was done, and he poured it in the waste bucket. There was the small roll of... a stone? As he tipped the last of the water into the bucket, a brilliant dark purple stone fell from the basin. Out of reflex, he caught it.
His hands immediately recognized the shape. It was the pebble.
It was not brilliant in the way an amethyst is, even the ones uncut. And this was no fragment from a geode, he could tell that much. But he marveled at the veins of violet and lavender.
"Charoite," he said out loud, "how did you get so dirty?"
And how had it gotten out of his pocket? He didn't recall taking it out. He had forgotten all about it, in his eagerness for the sponge bath.
It shined as if he had polished it to an impossible sheen. That didn't make sense, either. The texture had been smooth, but not this smooth.
They sold trinkets like this to children of high nobles.
Carefully, reverently, he put it on his nightstand.
It looked even more like the candy they sold in the High District.
He wondered how he could have gotten this lucky.
He wanted to keep the stone near him. It felt warm, and a part of him wondered if it would be warm enough to heat his bed. Stupid of course to think that - it was just a pebble - but he found himself putting the pebble underneath his pillow as he nodded off to sleep.
And that was the first time he saw the Prince.
The Poet knew he was in a dream - there weren't quartz like this in the mines near him. But oh, if he could find a vein like this! He'd be able to move out of his studio into an apartment with a separate bedroom and a full kitchen.
He reached out to touch it. It felt... surprisingly solid. He looked at it with wonder, running his fingers down the sides.
"Enjoying the sights, are we?"
The Poet's heart leapt at the question. It was... was... soft and smooth, rich and light. It was... no, music wasn't right.
He turned around, and immediately fell backward.
Looming above him was a creature out of myth. He'd heard of snakes, and heard of the creatures that had half the body of an animal and half of a human.
But he was too large to be either. And too stunning to be human.
He had four arms, one set crossed and one on his hips. Long hair that shone like pearl cascaded down his back, falling well past his hips. And his scales... his scales were the color of the pebble.
And his face... gods didn't exist. The Imperial Truth said it was so.
The Imperial Truth was wrong.
He doesn't remember traveling to the Cavern that the Prince has made a lounge in. This is not his palace, and the Poet knows this without being told. This is... a curiosity. Something transient. It could easily be gone tomorrow.
The Poet is grateful to see it.
Cushions arranged in such a way for the Prince to easily recline, he settles into them, gesturing to a table. There is a large cushion near the Prince's pile, and the table is covered in hors d'oeuvres and beverages, even more decadent than anything served in the High District. The Poet feels like a child at such a large table, and the cushion is almost too large to be comfortable.
But he would not be rude. He didn't want to be rude to the Prince. It had nothing to do with survival. The Prince could tear the Poet apart like he were old rags, and he found himself thinking that he wouldn't mind so much. Not if it was the Prince who did it.
So, he sat, and wondered for a moment if he ever bowed.
"You did," the Prince said, pulling out a cigarette holder made of... was that amethyst? A red cigarette was placed on the end of the amethyst holder, and he lit it on a candle on the chandelier hanging above the table. Gosh, he was so big. The Prince chuckled. It sounded like music. If the Busker sounded like that, she could make a fortune on the corner in one night and never have to work again. Crowds would beg to hear a single word.
"Awestruck," he said, taking a deep breath of his cigarette. Somehow, the Poet felt a little bit of control handed back to him. It was by the grace of the Prince. His first gift. "That is a common reaction to me. Though I have to say, you are an odd one."
"I am?"
"You want," he says, looking at the amethyst holder, his grip slightly shifting and it balancing partially on his long claws. "You want, but in a different way than I've seen."
"I don't understand," the Poet said.
"I believe you," he said. "I can already tell that you will not lie to me."
The Poet blushed, and he didn't quite understand why. The corners of the Prince's perfect mouth curled in a smile. He took another puff of his cigarette, carefully studying the Poet.
"You're right, by the way. If I wished to kill you, you'd already be dead. He knocked some ash into a small bowl the Poet hadn't previously noticed. "If I kill kind people, I try to make it quick. I assure you, if I were to ever kill you, you would not suffer."
This shouldn't be a comfort, this should be terrifying. And yet, the Poet understood, and nodded. This was a gift, the second one.
He would have many more, all of them precious and beautiful.
"You may eat, by the way," he said. "I set the table for interesting guests, and am so pleased you found your way here."
The poet nodded. "Ah, thank you." He looked at the table, and his hand paused. He thought of stories he heard as a child, of the great and beautiful fae, and how dangerous their food was.
But the Prince also said that if he killed the Poet, it would be quick.
He reached out for the tray of tarts, putting one on his plate. Then a ladle of... mousse of some sort. He couldn't place the scent.
"You are full of questions," the Prince said. The very end of his tail moved into view. The Poet still couldn't see where all of the Prince's body was. His tail curled around a large bottle of wine, lifting it and bringing it to an open hand. And then, wondrously, the Poet watched all four arms at work: two to hold the bottle and uncork it with a claw, one to delicately pick up a glass flute, and the last to hold the amethyst holder.
"Does that ever get confusing?" he asked, watching as the Prince poured himself the deep red wine. Wait, why had he asked that? Hasn't he always had four arms? Who asks someone with four arms if that is strange? The Poet wondered if he was turning as red as the wine.
The Prince chuckled again. The Poet's heart leapt at the sound. "I like you, so I will tell you a secret." Another gift. This one, dangerous, if he ever shared it. "There was a bit of a learning curve, admittedly. However," he smiled, his teeth looking very sharp, "I am a fast learner."
"Of course you are," the Poet heard himself say. It wasn't sarcastic, or mocking. It was an agreement. He took a bite of the tart, and the cavern blossomed .
The Poet was in a field walking to a forest, a basket in hand. He knew where to find the wild raspberries, knew that the long day of picking would be worth it. Where was this much green? Where-
And he was back, looking at the half-eaten tart in his hand. He took another bite, and he pricked his finger on a thistle. His basket was half-filled with raspberries. The pain was worth it. He reached for a raspberry on the bush, and ate it.
He was back on the cushion.
"Oh you are interesting," the Prince said, sitting up a bit straighter. "You'll have to come back again."
It wasn't a request, it was an order.
It was a privilege to obey.
He woke up feeling full, which was strange, because he'd gone to bed hungry. He never had enough to eat, and that was simply how it was.
But his stomach did not ache, and he stretched, clasping his hands together over his head and pulling them back.
His finger smarted, and he looked up curiously. Carefully, he examined his fingers, running them one over the other.
It was not terribly painful, but more startling. It didn't feel like an injury he would have gotten from the mines. His fingers had been fine yesterday.
His thumb ran over the pad of his forefinger. That's where the thistle was.
Huh.
There was no blood, and perhaps he should be grateful for that. He reached under his pillow for the Charoite, and he wondered if he imagined that it looked bigger than it had been previously.
Was this another gift?
No, he realized. Not yet. It wasn't ready.
He'd slept in, which was a surprise. Maybe, if he had more than one day off, he would choose a day to not set an alarm. But it was not a given when he would get his slot at the pulse shower, so he set his alarm.
The Poet usually slept for 3 hours. Today he slept for 6.
He looked at his chronometer, and blinked. For a moment, there was the digital shape of a box with a bow.
He blinked, and it showed the time.
Huh.
...wait.
His pulse shower was set for 10 minutes from now.
The Poet was panting when he closed the pulse shower door. Barely. He'd barely made it.
He rested his forehead against the tile, and was surprised at how cool it felt. The pulse shower ran all hours of the day, it should be warm. It was only closed for cleaning.
A small chime reminded him that he had spent 15 seconds in the shower. Everyone got 6 minutes for their appointment. He'd been told that other buildings only gave 5 minutes, but that their landlord was feeling generous. But 15 seconds gone, he couldn't waste any more time.
With the water turned on, he gratefully stepped underneath the stream.
It felt soft.
He'd heard rumors that the High District had filters to water, and added something to it to change the very texture of water. That couldn't be possible, could it?
He lost himself in the feeling of soft rivulets running down his body. His eyes slid shut, and he tilted his head forward to wet his hair.
He'd kept it short out of necessity. It was hard enough to wash as it was with soap that didn't cause his skin to itch. And even if he could find more rocks that the Soaper would like, she might not have enough soap saved up to give to him. She could only take small pieces, here and there. He didn't have enough soap to properly wash long hair.
An icy spike of fear found its way into his heart, as he realized he wasn't sure how many chimes had passed. He looked up at the clock on the ceiling, and squinted in confusion.
Only 30 seconds had passed? That couldn't be right.
He took out his soap, lathering it carefully to try not to use too much.
There was something ethereal about the scent of soap filling a steamy pulse shower. This soap that the Saper had gotten was lovely. He hoped she could get him more.
Soon, his body was covered in suds, much to his surprise. He'd never seen so many. He checked the size of the soap, and... no, it was still the same size as when he brought it in. In fact, it looked like it might even be bigger?
He looked up at the chronometer. 45 seconds. He couldn't have been in there for only 45 seconds.
By the time he was done, he had spent 5 minutes and 45 seconds in the shower. The shower attendant was surprised when he came out early. But what surprised the Poet more was that it felt so much longer. It felt like he'd spent an hour.
And his soap was bigger, he knew it. It resembled the size of a bar she sold, but it still had the pressed feel of pieces she'd made.
He'd never been so clean.
When the Poet got back to his studio, he was surprised to see that his work clothes were clean, neatly folded on the edge of his bed. He'd made his cot before leaving, but it had been a blanket thrown haphazardly as he ran out the door. Now it was neat, and the bedding also looked laundered.
Someone had been in his room.
He quickly checked every corner of the studio, and everything was in place. He sat on the cot, and scratched his hair. It was still damp. Someone broke into his studio and... did his cleaning? It usually took him 6 hours to do.
He'd slept for 6 hours, too.
He didn't remember when he came back. At least, he didn't remember the start of the dream. He was awake in his studio and reading on his data-slate, and then he was sitting on the cushion in the Prince's cavern.
"Very good," he said, taking a long drought from his goblet. "You came back."
It felt like no time had passed between them, but the Poet knew that was impossible. "Of course I did, your highness. You ordered me to."
"Please don't tell me that's the only reason why," he said, filling up his goblet again.
The Poet shook his head. "I would fear approaching you without invitation, but I would long for it every day of my life." Of course he'd want to be by the Prince's side. He needed no order to compel him to do so.
The Prince gave the Poet a long look, considering. The Poet couldn't help but wonder if they'd said something wrong. Had they offended him? Had they-
The Prince gave him a warm smile. The Poet felt his stomach pleasantly twist. "Open your hand for me," the Prince ordered. The Poet hadn't realized that his hand was clenched in a fist. When he did as commanded, the Poet saw the charoite pebble in it. Leaning in, the Prince reached out with a claw, gently tapping the pebble.
"This," he said, "is the invitation to this cavern. As long as you possess it, you may visit it in your dreams whenever you wish. I might not be here, when you come. If I am not, you are welcome to my table to eat as much as you wish, as well as to take your leisure." His smile became a little sad. At least, that's how the Poet thought it looked like. "I know they do not give you enough time to recover from the quarry."
"Thank you, your highness."
It was something that the Poet sometimes thought of, of how much time he'd want to work. He longed for more days off where he could simply lie in bed, or maybe spend time transplanting some of his spider plants. He wanted more pots in his room, and to gift others to his neighbors. He didn't want to leave when the sky was dark and return with it looking the same. But... that was just the way things were.
The Prince's face was unusually serious. "It doesn't have to be that way."
The Poet found another charoite pebble as he sat down to take a drink during a five minute break. He'd set his lantern on the ground, and immediately recognized that streak of purple. It was like how the first one had been - dirty with dust and grime, and just enough color for him to know that this was Different.
He rubbed his finger against the stone. There was a little more purple, but not enough.
He carefully tilted his canteen over, so a small bit of water could pool in his palm. There was only half a canteen left of water. He washed the pebble as best he could. It was foolish, to use his limited drinking water to do such a thing, but he just... he needed it. He needed to see the purple. He wanted to see the Prince.
He'd left his own pebble at home, fearing that he'd lose it. The washed pebble was not nearly as vibrant as the one he had cleaned with soap, but it was a comfort.
There were still six hours left of his shift. When he put his canteen back on his belt, it was two-third's full.
"I found another pebble," he told the Prince, as he put several cucumber sandwiches onto his plate.
"I noticed," he said, delicately picking up a piece of raw fish that had been seasoned with vinegar and spices. He had told the Poet that the dish was called sashimi, but the Poet had never heard of it before.
He stuck to the cucumber sandwiches for now, and the coffees.
"I will allow you to have a second pebble," he said as he licked his claw, "because I like you so much." His tongue was so long. "But you shouldn't keep any more. I would like to fill my table with artists. Do not hoard my invitations."
The Poet had considered starting a collection, and at that, he paled. The Prince chuckled, and ran the tip of his claw under the Poet's neck. He left a fine cut, barely any blood, all the way to his chin. The Poet shivered.
"I won't keep any more," he said, "that's a promise."
When he woke up, there was a thin red line traced on his throat.
The Poet found a third pebble several days later. This one he did not clean off, when he noticed the streak. He kept it in his pocket, and when he passed by the Busker singing on the corner, he dropped it in her hat with some crumpled credits.
A day later, she sang in words the Poet did not understand, but he knew she was singing about the Prince.
The tattoos the Prince wore today were vines of ivy that wound around his arms. The Poet thought that they could move, but it might have just been a trick of the light. He would not question if the tattoos moved... he just wasn't sure. The Cavern was a strange place, where certain rules did not apply.
The Poet could never be too sure what the "rules" were. The only thing he knew for certain was that the Prince's word was law. And, as his wont, if he desired to change it, he could.
"I've noticed you've been moving my pebbles around," the Prince said, stretching on his stomach across the pillows.
"You said you were looking for artists."
"I did. Are these your recommendations?"
"In a sense, I guess they are. You said it was up to them if they pick up the pebble, correct? If they keep it? They don't have to pick it up when I set it down near them."
The Prince smiled. Oh, his teeth were so sharp. "Good," he said. "You understand my vision."
The Poet blushed, and nodded. He'd taken a risk, but he thought that the Prince would appreciate, and he did -
There was a cough, and the Poet looked in surprise to the other side of the Cavern. There's never been anyone else in this room with them, before.
Standing there was a naked... he wasn't exactly sure what they were. Another the Prince had dominion over. Their skin and hair were white, and their skin was dusted with blue and purple powders, creating a gradient effect. They had a single breast and a flaccid cock, which only made the Poet more confused. There were no marks for surgery on the flat part of their chest. But what really drew his attention was their striking green eyes that made him feel like bugs skittered under his skin. They carried a tray with various tools, but those were also unlike anything the Poet had ever seen before.
"I've prepared a reward for you, dear Poet," he says, as the Attendant sat down next to him on the pillows. "I will be attending a soiree, and I would like your assistance lacing my corset."
The Poet did not see any cloth corset, and it wasn't until he got a better view of the tray that he understood. Oh. Oh . He'd seen some people do this in the High District before.
The Prince used his upper right hand to pull his long hair out of the way, so that it looked almost like a waterfall flowing down the pillows. For a moment, the Poet thought he heard the roar of rapids in his ears.
"I heal quickly," he said by way of explanation. "I have to get my corset redone on my back every time I wish to wear it."
The Attendant picked up the pair of forceps, and pinched the skin at the upper left part of the Prince's back. He inhaled sharply, and soon the needle followed. There was a small amount of blood, and a low moan.
The Poet had never seen anything like it. He had his ears pierced as a teenager by a friend with some ice and a needle, but he hadn't done anything beyond that. They would only get in the way of work in the quarry.
The Attendant knew their business, doing each piercing slowly and methodically.
The Prince looked to the Poet, and grinned. "Would you like a better view?"
He nodded mutely, and the Prince crooked a finger for him to come close. He obeyed immediately, his breath catching in his throat.
As he had paid attention to the Prince, the Poet had noticed that the texture of his skin would change on occasion. Sometimes it would look like skin, but purple. Sometimes it would look like he were covered with minute scales that glimmered in the low light, almost like a cut opal.
Here, in this moment, he resembled skin, but burnished like the sheen of a lavender pearl.
The Poet looked to the rings being put in. The hinge to close them was invisible to the eye, and he would not know they were even there had he not seen the Attendant open one. The shine of the metal was brilliant, and for a moment he thought it was silver.
Only for a moment, through. "Are those titanium?"
The Prince smiled. "You have excellent eyes. Yes, I wanted something that could withstand the pressure I wish to put on it. And I would like it to last longer than a single day."
The Attendant continued to work, and the Poet got the feeling that they could work faster, if they wanted to. The Prince was deliberately asking them to work slowly.
"How much does it hurt?" he asked, admiring the titanium rings slowly lining the Prince's back.
"Very much," he said, "but it is also relaxing. And thank goodness for that, otherwise getting these redone would be such a chore."
The Poet knew without saying that that was one of the worst things to exist. There would be no forgiveness for boredom, in the court of the Prince.
The Attendant cleaned the wounds as they went, and the Poet could not help but wish that he could assist. He wanted very much to kiss that skin, to lick the blood up with his tongue. But he knew nothing of the art of piercing, and did not wish to disturb the process.
The Prince inhaled sharply.
Counting the rings left over, the Poet realized there were six more to do. The Prince tilted his head to look at the Poet, and grinned.
"Would you like to assist with the last few?"
The Poet was struck silent. "I... am I strong enough, your highness? I am but a man, but you are so much more."
"You will have help," he said. He didn't look back at the attendant before he spoke. "Assist him."
The Poet got the distinct sensation that the Attendant didn't like him, but also that they were in no place of authority to protest. And having watched them pierce him so many times, he had memorized the form of it. The question now became, how he would do so in practice. His eyes knew the pattern, but it was not in his muscle memory.
There had been times when the Prince had drawn close, but it had usually been when he leaned in, most of his body sequestered in the pillows. Here, the Poet felt like he were in a maze of him, and he blushed at the feel of scales on his legs.
It was true, he was not strong enough to clamp the forceps, or push the needle through. But as soon as the needle broke the skin on the other side, the Attendant let the Poet take over. He slowly took off the forceps, pushed the needle through until right before it would pass through the new holes, and then threaded the half of the ring in. When the latch closed, he found he could not open it.
"What mechanism does this work with?" he asked in wonder.
"With a technology beyond your comprehension," he said. "Well, in time."
The Poet looked up at the Prince, confused. The Prince smiled. "Do not belittle your accomplishments," he said, "as your mind grows, you will come to understand."
The attendant prepared the next piercing, the forceps holding his skin in place. The Poet took over when the needle had pierced the other side. The Prince's skin was impossibly soft, and without blemish. It was in stark contrast to how tough the Poet knew it needed to be, for him to not be able to work the needle himself.
He was apprehensive about how his fingers would feel to the Prince, covered in callouses the way they are. His skin wasn't pleasant to look at, covered in scars and damaged skin from exposure, and he never had enough lotion to take the roughness off of his fingers.
But when the Prince continued to moan, the Poet's confidence grew. And before he knew it, the last titanium ring was set in place. He used the cloth to wipe the blood away, and pushed all the rings so that they were flush with the Prince's back
The Prince turned and looked at his back, with his head turning back farther than should have been possible. "Oh, very good," he said, his two lower arms moving down his back, his claws running along the rings. His head completely turned around to face behind him, as he looked at the attendant. "He will lace me, and then you will tighten."
They nodded respectfully, still giving a small glare to the Poet. A small silk pouch was on the tray, and the Poet picked it up.
Inside was the ribbon to be used. It was a brilliant metallic violet, and he could already tell it would look stunning on the prince's back. The ribbon is impossibly soft and smooth, and for a moment he wondered if it could take the stress.
He started threading the ribbon through the rings - he would need to trust the Prince - and the Poet could still not believe his luck at being able to touch the Prince so much. He made sure that there were no creases in the ribbon, and that the ends remained even.
"Is this silk?" the Poet asked, as he reached the halfway point.
"Calibanite Spider Silk, actually," the Prince said, "very difficult to obtain, and one of the strongest textiles in the galaxy."
The difference in feel of the silk to the Prince's back was sublime. The Poet could feel the goosebumps raise on his arms, making him hyper aware of his surroundings.
And then he was at the top. He measured both ends of the ribbon against the other. The same length.
"Excellent," he said. "Now sit back."
The attendant took his place, and the Prince pushed his torso up by his lower arms. The upper arms gripped at part of a rocky outcropping, his claws threatening to puncture the stone beneath. And as the attendant pulled at the ribbon, the Poet could see how the skin stretched to accommodate. The Prince arched his back, his face one of bliss, as the ends of the ribbons grew longer and longer. The rock cracked.
The Poet wondered briefly if it were possible to die from sheer joy. If it was, he was close.
The sheets on his cot felt scratchy, after lounging all night on silk and velvet pillows. A part of him smarted against it, but another part of him... enjoyed it? Liked the sudden differences in extremes. He fanned his limbs out as he usually did when his bed was clean, but instead of enjoying freshly-laundered sheets, he enjoyed the scratchy sensation. How had he missed this, before? Had he become desensitized to it?
The chronometer on his nightstand went off, interrupting his reverie. Time to return to the quarry.
The Poet lay back on his cushion, looking up at the Cavern ceiling. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, looking precarious as icicles. They could fall on him and skewer him at any time.
The Poet didn't care. If he died, he got to die in the presence of his Prince. But if he were to go to his death, he had to know something, first.
"Why do you like me?"
The Prince blew green smoke into a ring, watching it float up. It perfectly 'hooked' one of the stalactites.
"Now why," he asked, "would you ask a question like that?"
It was difficult to move, stuffed with sashimi as he was. The Prince had encouraged him to try it, and he liked it more than he had expected to.
"You're so magnificent-"
"Thank you, I know."
"-and I am just. Just a worker at a quarry."
Fulgrim traced the shapes of snakes on his goblet with his claw. "Come now," he said, "you and I both know that's not true."
"I don't understand," the Poet said.
"I know you don't," the Prince said. He pulled the hair out of his face and to his right side as he sat up. "So, let me enlighten you."
The Poet sat up, even when his full stomach threatened to throw him into a deeper sleep. He looked the Prince in the eye, his irises glittering like amethysts. He felt naked - more than naked - like the Prince could see into his very soul.
"I have told you before," he said, "I am looking for artists, for philosophers. People of a similar mind to me."
"But how could we compare?"
The prince laughed, and it sounded like music. "You can't. And yet, humans are so full of surprises. You've brought me so many artists to my table. The way they used the supplies available to them is ingenious. Every day, it is something new, something delightful.
"You were not meant to live your lives downtrodden, with no shred of hope. I am here to change that. I am here to help liberate you from your shackles. And more than anything, I need someone to be my voice to the people."
"I'm that voice?"
"You are. I see the words bubbling inside you, trying to break free. I see you compose stanzas, staring at me when you don't think I'm looking." The Poet blushed at that, and the Prince smiled. "I've heard your beautiful thoughts, as your heart cannot help but shout them for all that know how to listen. But also," he smiled fondly, "you remind me of friends I had, a long time ago."
In that moment, an image flashes in the Poet's mind: someone tall, but not as tall as the Prince (maybe an Astartes?) - short white hair poking out from a helmet, dust from the mine over his mended clothes and exquisite face. He was laughing with several humans who could have easily worked at the Poet's Quarry. They were as dirty as he was. Then, he was back in the Cavern.
The Poet blinked. "That was you?"
He nodded. "Another life, before I was reborn. But though I ascend, I will not forget my roots." The Prince slithered forward, and then around the Poet's cushion to take a position behind. He placed a hand on the Poet's shoulder, claws glittering from the polish he wore.
He leaned in to whisper in the Poet's ear. "It is a fool that throws away a gemstone that has yet to be cut. Will you be my brilliant poet, dear one?"
Of course he said yes.
Awoken early and feeling rested, the Poet sat down at his desk, and pulled the battered data-slate out of a drawer. The battery was charged, thankfully. He couldn't remember the last time he'd charged it, and it was getting old. He opened up a document, and started to type.
He winds through silk pillows and large cushions
That hug the serpentine body of the prince.
Smoke of incense curling in the air,
And the Poet knows he cannot look up. He is not worthy.
Not given permission. Not yet. Not yet.
Head bowed, he looks at the prince’s scales.
Does he have scales only? Does he have skin?
It’s hard to tell. He cannot study now.
But the scales look like the chips of charoite
He has diligently smuggled from the mines
Polished to an impossible sheen
And he wonders if the Prince is a god of precious stone
If sound were water, then the Prince's pleased hum
Is the water to the man dying of thirst.
It is music, it is the strike of the hammer on a rich vein of ore
The shift bell ringing, sending him home,
The whisper in his ear as he aches in his bed.
He knows he shouldn’t - don’t do it! - but he looks up.
His hair isn’t white, those are not the right words.
Nor silver. The answer is somewhere between,
It’s the glimpse of clean snow when the sun hits
At the angle that makes it shimmer.
It’s never the same length,
but it is long. Always long.
There is something terrible in his eyes -
Shadows, stories, passion, determination.
Like his coils, he will bend bend but not break,
Though he breaks any who would oppose him.
If the soul can be seen, it is there in his eyes,
Never has such beauty existed before.
The Poet wonders, will it be his last sight?
A wide smile, mother of pearl, teeth sharp,
For the sweet sin of looking without permission.
But as he falls to his knees in front of the large coils,
The Prince bends, silk-spun hair curtaining the Poet,
Touches a claw to the Poet’s neck and says “ Mine .”
For a first draft, it would have to do.
He went to save the file, and the prompt for the file name did not pop up. He tried again, and nothing. As an experiment, he tried typing a few more words. Nothing.
Fearing that his data-slate would crash, he grabbed paper out of his drawer, and transcribed his progress.
Files of the Prince would not save on his data-slate. He'd tried multiple times, and nothing worked. The programs would freeze until he'd copied it to paper.
After several attempts, he gave up typing on the data-slate, and went directly to paper.
He wanted to show the Prince his poems, but they were first drafts. They weren't ready.
They needed to be perfect .