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The Prince kissed his Princess as an act of true love, yet she did not wake to ease his concerns nor allow him sweet respite, as he could not sleep a wink without hearing her voice again.
Callisto didn’t dare sleep when nightmares of her death would plague him as soon as he tried to rest for even a moment.
It was her vengeance, it seemed, otherwise why could she have her eyes closed but he couldn’t do the same?
His gloved hand ran down her hallowed cheek, inwardly shivering at the lack of warmth. She didn’t seem inclined to honor him with a reply, skin unsettlingly cold against his warm one.
“Wake up…” he lisped out once, “please wake up, my love,” he begged.
His darling remained passive against his broken pleas, painting a tableau of possible eternal slumber.
Had she sought death because of him? Had his words led her to this state, laying on this queen-sized bed uncaring about the world around her as she awaited her final moment amongst the living?
He’d always teased her, hoping to spark an angry outburst out of her and, to his past delight, succeeding. His darling’s looks could kill—Callisto would know as he went through a little death each time she sent frigid glares his way, his heart beating just fast enough to render lightheaded for the shortest of moments.
He loved it. He loved her.
But now Penelope was as still as a corpse, as dead as his rapidly withering heart whenever he thought of the worst outcome, none of those tart scowls in sight. Just pale, sickly lips drawn into a thin line.
Callisto would conquer over a thousand kingdoms and give them all to her if that was what it took for her to wake up, place hundreds of crowns atop her head to prove she was the absolute commander of his soul.
Penelope could slap him if she so wished, she could pull on his hair—the very one she claimed had caught her eye from the first moment their paths had crossed—if only she’d open her eyes again.
She could order him around as she pleased and he’d spend the rest of his life dedicating his existence to her and her alone.
What a pity that he’d come aware of the depth of his feelings too late. How could he let such a horrific thing happen to his beloved? How could he fall short when it mattered the most, when all this time he’d tried to protect her?
Callisto was a coward—if he weren’t, then right now she’d be in the safety of his palace, frolicking about in the gardens admiring flowers as pretty as her smile.
She’d asked him if he loved her. He did, but he’d loved her too late, or not quite as she deserved, at least. He knew he’d been a lost case from the start, something sparking in him since their first meeting, falling for her bit by bit—doomed to love her this entire time.
“I love you…” and it was said too late.
Now Callisto was gazing down at her comatose body, broken by poison, cursing himself all the way to hell and back for letting her spiral down such a horrific path.
After so long he’d finally found someone who could make him feel like he was something more than a killing machine, more than a vessel meant to execute the Emperor’s orders at the drop of a hat. Someone who made him see beyond his beliefs, who made him feel like he was breathing and alive—who made him feel like he was human.
And he’d let her slip right through his fingers.
Callisto had kissed her then, hoping to give her the air in his lungs—if only she’d take it again like when she stole his breath away every time his eyes fell on the lovely vision that was her.
He’d give her his heart if only she’d ask, it already belonged to her, always had.
His soul, his humanity, Penelope had it all.
How unfair—to him, not to her, that she’d taken everything she could from him without giving anything in return.
But deep down he knew that asking for her heart would be too much when he’d hurt her so.
Kneeling beside Penelope’s bedside, Callisto swore to take revenge on her behalf against those who’d wronged her, speaking of cruel punishment before catching himself in the midst of it, realizing she would be displeased to hear such brutish resolves.
Instead, he’d pledged himself to her, to be whatever she needed, even if it meant he’d become yet another sword for someone to use—for her, Callisto would gladly carry out any command.
Only the Emperor’s own order was able to rip him away from her side, for what was he if not another weapon?
He’d obliged only under the premise of having his engagement to his beloved officially recognized. Then even the Duke of Eckhart and his sons would not be able to stand in his way.
Callisto would return to her with his heart in his hand—let Penelope see for herself how much she meant to him.
Let her be awake once he came back to her, let it be known that he loved her enough to topple the empire he shall one day rule, to rebuild it from scratch free from any corruption to make a perfect home for his Penelope to live in.
He felt he’d owed her as much after she’d brought out the best of him. He could only hope it would be the same for her.
Callisto departs disillusioned, shoulders heavy with burdens untold as he left a piece of his soul with the woman that could die at any moment and drag the rest of it with her.
He will know then, that there is nothing else worth his time on this cursed earth, for it would do him a great honor to follow Penelope wherever she went, even if that meant falling into sweet death with her.