Rainbow's Thought Volcano: I'm experimenting with a new style today: poetic angst. Short, bittersweet, and descriptive. Also my first cardverse AU, and I definitely want to revisit cardverse again eventually, though maybe not as dark next time. This world is a mash-up of old-age architecture and modern-day chemical knowledge. And this one doesn't have a set plot per say, just a big feels-fest.

Warning: Mentions of self-harm and suicide

Dear Arthur,

They said you wouldn't do it. They said you would never even dream of leaving my side; that not an ounce, not an atom, not an electron inside you would ever have the slightest inclination to do so. I believed them. But they were wrong.

I'd like to say that I'm angry. I'd like to be so furious that I spit on your pictures and stomp on your grave, or maybe dig you up and sock you so hard in the face that your lifeless corpse recoils in pain. But I'm not angry. I'm thoroughly devastated.

I know you've been gone for awhile now. And in truth, you probably deserve more than a half-a-year late letter that frantically crams all of my feelings together like some kind of storage closet. But I haven't been able to sort them out until now. This insignificant piece of paper is me cleaning out my old storage room and addressing all of the issues that I tried to bury alongside you.

Today I wandered the empty halls of our castle, alone. The once bright pastels are faded and weary. The drapes, once full and plump, now droop low and melancholy. Walls are shattered, windows torn, doors rotting and carpets collecting the dusty memories. The beauty and excitement that once lived in these rooms left along with you.

It has been nearly six months since the stupid incident. The kingdom has returned to their bright blues and their cheery dispositions, but I can't seem to will the black from my clothes. Everyone I meet now is constantly confused by me, by my change. I'm sadder, heavier, and more thoughtful with my words, even though I can never do them the justice you did. And if they can't see the obvious hole in my heart, then I don't have the energy to tell them. I used to be so full of energy that it burst from me like a fountain. But the fountain has been dry as a desert for six months.

I shuffled along the hallways, passing each ripped painting on the wall without a proper greeting, and acknowledged instead the spiders, this home's new residents. Maybe they will do a better job than you and I did. Maybe they will stick together, and fix the broken pieces like families should.

You were never the cheerful type. You were very critical, and bitter, and prickly. But like a rosebush, those thorns could not diminish the beauty of the flower they protected. You were like a burned marshmallow: black and crusty on the outside but warm and soft on the inside. Or maybe a book—hard outside cover, but filled with tender and fantastic pages that kept you wondering, guessing, enchanted. And you were stubborn. We were both perhaps the most stubborn people alive and we both baffled and understood each other because of it. Which was probably why your flight shocked me so much. I didn't think someone who so adamantly fought adversity tooth-and-nail would keel over so easily.

Finally I entered the bathroom. The day we moved in together it was pristine and shining. We joked how much "fun" we'd have in the room, how much alone time we'd have, how we would stay together through hot and cold water. We met the first day of our news lives there, together. We promised we'd always greet our new lives together, until death do us part. But it was really "until death did you part." You left me, in that very room, but I can never leave you.

Hesitantly I looked to the porcelain tub. The rim is still pink, though the scent has long faded. Or maybe I've just gotten used to blood in my nostrils. I took a gentle step forward and eased my eyes into the scene. Nothing is there anymore, of course. They took it all away. Even if all I had left of you was a bloody corpse at least I still had you. But now only fragile flashes of memories fill your place.

They called me a king. Their rescuer, their savior. Their hero. But the funniest thing about being the hero of a country is that I failed to be the hero of its queen. We held a thousand lives in our fingertips, and though we knew we couldn't hold them all, I didn't think the one I'd let slip would be yours. I didn't realize how heavy your life was until I dropped it. I didn't think that carrying less weight would make me feel heavier.

Maybe you had wanted to leave me all along. Maybe, from the day you were born, it was simply a matter of when, and not if, you would take your life. Maybe you were always meant to die this way, with 14 fresh straight cuts along each arm and a bone-deep stab wound in your right thigh. Maybe the love I offered to you unconditionally simply wasn't enough. Maybe it never reached you in the first place, no matter how much of it I had.

I told you long I ago that I would have given everything for you. I suppose the horrific, fantastic irony to this is that in the end, I did.

You are, were, always will be a cruel and beautiful bastard. I wish I could have understood. I wish you could have explained. I wish you had slowed down and given me a sign that you needed help. I would have been there. I always was; if only you had reached out your hand I would have grasped it, kissed it, and never let it go.

All my love,

Alfred