Pitch had been lying in bed, hands folded over his chest as he stared up at the ceiling. His rib cage and rose and fell almost imperceptibly, his lips sporadically quirked ever-so-slightly, and one of his boot-clad feet tapped subtlety on occasion, but otherwise he was motionless.
He was in an odd mood that evening, filled with an introspective contemplation about many things that only seemed to be sated by only silent brooding until his usual state of mind returned. Yet while these thoughts ran though his mind he was calm and at ease, despite the content of such things. However he was also somber and morose, and he was glad that no one had stopped by that evening to speak to him for he wasn't in the mood for easy conversation.
Slowly he unfolded his hands and used them to push himself until he was sitting upright, and then swung his legs smoothly over the side of the bed before standing completely. He then gathered his hands in front of him once again, his gaze downcast and his expression distant as he began walking towards the mirror that was at the other side of the room. He didn't even need to look up to find his way for he knew the exact layout of the room so well, and he didn't lift his gaze until he was standing directly in front of the reflective surface.
He stared into his own orbs tinted with melding shades of shifting metallic tones for a long moment, then allowed his gaze to travel slowly over his angular yet smooth features. He brought his hand up to stroke and press his fingertips against his almost painfully sharp jawline and chin, his gaunt cheekbones, over his hairless brow, and even over his nose that started wide at the base and then tapered into a point. His hand moved to his lengthy throat then and stroked at it gently for a long moment before he blew a long breath from his nostrils and turned to the side. Finally, he grasped at the edges of his cloak before slowly slipping it off of his shoulders, letting it slide down until it was bunched across his waist.
He kept his arms crossed over his chest for a moment before loosening his grip on the fabric of his robe and letting it sit almost precariously where it rested against his hips, then ran his eyes slowly over his frame. He took in his bony shoulders and sharp shoulder blades, his prominent collar bones, his scantily-muscled abdomen and chest, his slim upper arms and forearms that tapered almost delicately to his wrists, and then he sharpened his critical gaze further and took in his puckered and raised scars; ones that weren't visible above the neckline save for one that could scarcely be seen where the follicles of his hair met the smooth part of his scalp..
He swallowed and closed his eyes for a brief moment as memories of the pain that had come with the creation of them flooded his memory, then he forced himself to go over each and every one; his fingers brushing over them in turn as he tried his best to recall both the events and tools that had been used to cause them.
The one between his ribs on the left side.. That one was the most recent. A faceless one had caused that mark, and it still ached slightly to the touch even though it had seemingly been ages. Then there was the one close to the middle of his chest, though closer to the right side than the other, which had been caused by Nightlight's spear. Now that one had been especially painful; and that was one of the ones that caused him the most mental pain, so he ghosted over it quickly. There were quite a few scars and nicks centered around his ribs, chest, and even his stomach, but none that were as important as those two, so he decided to move on.
There was one between his shoulder blades, one which he had to arch to manage to lay his fingers against, thus causing his robe to shift slightly lower. That one had been caused by the teeth of a vicious animal of sorts; a werewolf, if he recalled correctly. He supposed that was what he deserved for purposefully provoking one into battle and then letting his ego get in the way. He underestimated it and it had been so quick; he should have known it would pounce from behind, but he hadn't taken caution and that scar was his ever-constant reminder never to underestimate his opponent. Along his back there were many smaller scars as well, but those were ignored as well along with the others that were scattered over his skin beneath his waistline.
But then his mind was brought to how exactly he had gotten many of those as well, and a small smile curled up at his lips at the thought rather than an expression of pain. Love bites, scratches, tears in flesh caused by other instruments; all made in moments of passion and ecstasy or to cause pain-driven pleasure. He minded those much less than the others, though he carried all with at least a modicum of pride; but his brow furrowed slightly as his mind was led down another dark path once again.
Yes, he usually held himself boldly and fearlessly, seemingly not giving a care in the world about how others perceived him. Yes, this made him appear rather arrogant at times, for he seemingly held himself above most issues of physical appearance and didn't seem, frankly, to give a damn. But he did and sometimes he wasn't certain as to why anyone found him attractive or about the attributes that others claimed made him so.
He was so thin.. scrawny and pale, almost weak.. Angular with little muscle tone, the ridges of his bones sticking out perhaps a slight bit more than he would have liked. He was tall and slender, yes, but very much skeletal and he found himself rather repugnant in that moment more than anything else. His most redeeming feature, or so he believed, were his eyes; for they were a rarity the likes of which few possessed. But then he found that he could no longer even look at those; so, with a soft snarl, he pulled up his cloak around his shoulders once again and turned hastily away from the mirror.
He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed into the distance a moment, tapping his elongated fingernails against his upper arms, before his attention was pulled to their black, pointed tips. Those.. They were shameful as well, for no man should have them. And in that moment he felt like a vile, twisted beast of a creature; one that no one should love for he was incapable of eliciting such a thing from anybody, not with this form. One that was and should be resigned to dwelling in the shadows and away from the light where no one's gaze could fall upon his unsightly physique.
His lips parted and a pained sound escaped him, his brow furrowing further as a wounded expression overcame his features and his eyes shone brightly due to the sudden filling of unshed tears. But he soon got ahold of himself and his expression evened once again, shifting into one of careful stoicism. He couldn't allow himself to react in such a way, even while he was alone. He had to upkeep a façade of indifference, even in his own company. He couldn't let such a simple thing overcome him.
So he stepped into his library, busying himself with choosing a book from the shelves; any one that caught his fancy first and foremost; and then curled up in his nearest armchair to read. Soon all thoughts of self-displeasure were all but driven from his mind and his former calm returned, this time not simply on the surface but internally as well. His guise of pride had returned and no one would see him otherwise, not even himself. These thoughts would still reside in the back of his mind for him to constantly mull over, subconsciously or not, but he wouldn't let them surface for a long time. Kings shouldn't be subjected to such petty things as self-conscious body issues, for he was above all that. Or, at least, that is what he told himself.