It's too quiet, he thinks, too quiet and too dark.
Of course, being located in the heart of the Dark Kingdom, the castle is always dark; but it's never seemed quite as dark as it does now. The corridors had seemed so much more brightly lit when they were full of laughter - and the occasional temper tantrum; those same stone corridors are now full of shadows and silent stillness, no longer echoing with the sound of small bare feet running, teasing chuckles, angry shouts, or muffled sniffles.
He misses the fire in those emerald eyes; he misses the hot spill of tears over those porcelain cheeks; he misses the perfect, lithe body and the flash of impeccably groomed fingernails. He misses the common morning sight of that graceful nude figure seated in front of the dressing table, an ornamented silver hairbrush stroking through those long coppery curls like a lover's caress. He misses wrapping his arms around that beautiful naked vision and kissing that vain, pretty face.
He remembers, with a stab of pain, the soft cries that often spilled from those pouting, kissable lips; the quiet moans and the not-so-quiet shouts of ecstasy that made him so grateful to have an isolated home and servants who knew how to keep their fanged mouths shut. He remembers the damp curls that clung to that smooth white brow in the exhausted afterglow; how he had reveled in the striking beauty of their mingled limbs, tanned and sturdy intertwined with milky and delicate and... fragile.
Fragile, like the cherry blossoms that scatter into heart-shaped pieces in a strong breeze.
Like the cherry blossoms he had so loved.
Fragile, like the small flame flickering on the wick of the bedside candle - forbidden light, but he doesn't care anymore: it's too dark, and his bed is so cold and so empty. If he stares into the feebly dancing light for long enough, he can almost see that beautiful face, hear that intoxicating laughter; and for just a moment, he almost thinks if he reaches out with his gloved hand, tapered fingers will meet and cradle his, and everything will make sense again.
Almost.
It's so difficult to maintain his regality when he's grieving this deeply, so difficult to pretend he's the unflappable king he's supposed to be when he feels as though he's lost half of himself: the half that was so full of implacable joy and unshakable loyalty. Now all he has is the dull, hollow feeling of emptiness, loneliness... loss.
Come to the throne room, Kunzite. I summon you.
Kunzite blows out the candle, wrapping himself in the cold darkness, and answers the call of Zoisite's killer.
END.