Into the Red Dawn
Looking at the sleeping form of his beloved, the knife cradled in his hands, the sun rising from the edge of the sea, he knew there had never been a choice. They had pleaded with him to take the blade, plunge it into his beloved's breast, cover his hands in crimson, and save himself, and for the tiniest of moment, he had considered it. He saw himself walking into the Prince's cabin, marring the porcelain paleness of Harry's chest, and drenching his body in blood.
But he could no more destroy his beloved than he could change his fate. Oh, how he had loved this man, this near-perfect being with more passion than any human could possibly understand; how desperately had he wanted the Prince to take him in his arms, to declare his unending devotion and fidelity and ...love.
He could almost feel the silken pressure of lips upon his own. Oh, it would be the sweetest of kisses, filled of hope and promise, but it was never to be. The prince loved another and now he was chained to his fate.
Softy, slowly, he swept his hand over his beloved's brow, brushing aside an unruly chocolate lock. Even in sleep, he was beautiful. Even in the arms of his bride, her scarlet tresses fanned over his naked chest, he could do no more than love and love and love with his whole heart.
Feeling the day calling to him, he looked down at the knife still in his grasp and turned towards the door, away from his love, and strode out into the sun. The dawn had come and it was time to become one with the waves, to melt into frothy foam, to return to the sea.