Prognostication for Failures
a c a n t h a – c h a n
Authoress' Note & Disclaimer: This is a little drabble between a mystery female and our beloved Razalude of MeruPuri: Marchen Prince. It might not make much sense (after all, Raz is hardly what you'd call conventional in matters of the heart) considering the way Raz just is but then again, there does happen to be a reason why they call young love powerful and all-enduring.
And no, I don't happen to own said manga whose title is lovely but very long.
Unfortunately.
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Her face is akin to an open window, he thinks, as he passes her in the hallway; one that does not do a very good job of hiding what goes on beneath that ivory-smooth skin (so light and untainted he's surprised she's really even a desert native) and inside those crystal-clear blue eyes.
He's tried to tell her as much on many an occasion, but the words always come out wrong - so different from his usual stiff, immaculate demeanor. Then, as always, she brushes him off gently and simply walks away.
She pretends not to notice the attempts at eloquence, because her protocol demands only the utmost respect - and silence - of her. Love doesn't mean quite so much to her as her job does; and why should it? An affair with a member of an aristocratic family would only worsen her life. She would be noticed by others, yes, but for all the wrong reasons.
She doesn't know he doesn't realize this, that underneath the underneath she is not who she says she is and that she does not feel the way she says she does. It's only blind faith that gives him the means with which to persist in his pursuit of her heart.
He doesn't know that, but she does; he only thinks, angered by her softness, that she thinks he is a foolish child in man's clothing. It hurts, to be sure.
(And he is, after all, oblivious to the court, choosing only to acknowledge those whose status required acknowledging; what is one simple lady-in-waiting compared to the dozens of other women out there, all more beautiful, talented and elegant than she? Is she wrong to fear his rejection, to lose his favor, although it's the inevitable conclusion?)
It's why she refuses him every time he pushes her into yet another dark corner, no matter how much she basks in the attention he lavishes upon her during those dirty little moments – fantasies left unrecognized when she gently pushes him away. He marvels at her elfin stature then, how petite her delicate fingers seem as she twists her fingers together in distress.
(She's afraid of him, doesn't see him as a person, the man behind the facade of power and malicious smirk; or so he thinks.)
Does she know, he wonders, of the power she wields in such a lackadaisical manner over him?
Does she know, he contemplates, of what she could make him do with just one word out of those softly curved, pale, feminine lips?
Does she even realize, he thinks, how much he really loves her?
The only manifestation of lust is love, after all, because all love is simply spiritual lust.