Third Arc (Fallen Heart) – 239. Artheur’s Curiosity III
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Third Arc (Fallen Heart) - 239. Artheur's Curiosity III
Rose's gaze met Artheur's, a momentary connection that held a depth of understanding beyond the words that had yet to be spoken. In the midst of their unspoken conversation, a silence enveloped them, allowing the weight of their emotions to settle between them.
"Artheur, stop chasing me and appreciate what you have right now..." Her words, softly spoken yet carrying a resolute tone, seemed to pierce through the stillness like a gentle yet firm admonishment. The echo of her words reverberated within the chamber as if the very walls were reflecting her sentiments. "If he can choose..." Rose's voice took on a contemplative edge, her words carrying a sense of empathy that extended beyond the boundaries of their conversation. "I'm sure, he is willing to exchange his power to have a loving family and a peaceful life like you..."
The room seemed to hold its breath, as if caught in a moment where the threads of destiny were being delicately woven.
"Because for him, all of that is just a dream that will never be achieved..." Her words carried a weight, an acknowledgment of the complex circumstances that had woven their lives together.
Rose's grip on Artheur's hand loosened, a gesture that held both finality and gentleness. She took a step back, her gaze still locked with his as she prepared to move away. Her words had been delivered with a sense of compassion.
Artheur's expression shifted, the tumultuous emotions within him now mingled with a sense of introspection. He watched as Rose began to walk away, her figure bathed in the moonlight's soft glow. Her footsteps, echoing softly against the stone floor, seemed to carry the weight of her words.
Elsewhere, Angel walked with a sense of purpose down one of these dimly lit passageways, his steps echoing softly against the marble floor. Yet, amidst the seeming tranquility, a sense of alertness coursed through him.
And then he heard it – the unmistakable sound of footsteps, each step a subtle symphony of approach. Angel's pace slowed imperceptibly, his instincts kicking in like a well-practiced dance. There was something amiss, a dissonance in the rhythm of those approaching footsteps that set his senses on edge.
He didn't have to wait long. The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they were nearly upon him. With the swiftness born of intuition, Angel lunged forward. His grip was firm, unwavering, as he pulled the intruder – a figure draped in mystery – and pressed them against the cold stone wall.
The figure, it seemed, was none other than Ophelia. Her form was tense, her posture reflecting a mixture of submission and fear. A bow, trembling and hesitant, followed by words uttered in a voice that seemed to dance between trepidation and respect. "F-Forgive me, Ange ... I-I mean, Your Majesty," she stammered, the title a reminder of the dynamic that existed between them.
Angel's grip, a vice that held his captive in place, slowly relaxed. Ophelia's presence, usually confined to the castle's inner workings, held a sense of anomaly that beckoned his curiosity.
As he lowered his hand, his voice cut through the silence, a blade of authority cloaked in a tone of inquiry. "Ophelia? Why are you following me?" His words were measured, a testament to the calculated approach he took to situations that veered from the ordinary.
Ophelia, her voice soft yet determined, raised her head. Her eyes, once closed in deference, opened slowly, meeting Angel's gaze with a mixture of trepidation and earnestness. "Ange--... Y-Your Majesty," her voice stumbled over the words, as if the formality itself held a weight she struggled to bear. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
The corridor, long a conduit for silent history, bore witness to their exchange, its ancient stones holding a sense of permanence that contrasted with the transient emotions of the night.
Angel, his features a play of shadow and light, regarded Ophelia with a measure of curiosity. The figure before him was far from ordinary, and the question that hung in the air seemed to reach beyond their current situation. "There is no need to call me Your Majesty," he responded, a touch of warmth underlying his words. "Just call my name as usual." A subtle pause followed. “What do you want to talk about?" he said.
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