#dawrcy

[thedaintydoe]

there goes the prince talking to his weird yellow cat again

[thedaintydoe]

i love this stupid prince

[thedaintydoe]

the boys who sacrificed themselves

[thedaintydoe]

recent dawrcy art

[thedaintydoe]

On his father’s command, Dawrcy stabs the knife through his own hand. Splotches of dancing white crowd his vision as his hand feels like it was set on fire. He can feel the trickle of blood as it pours out of the wound, warm and sticky, and onto the grand oak desk. He missed the bones and veins, just as he was instructed to do, but it still hurts nevertheless.

Dawrcy cannot think for the life of him why he did it, why he listened to those harsh words and did as he was told— like an obedient dog with no thought other than to please its master. Dawrcy wishes he had stabbed the knife through the king’s chest instead— but that would have put Raphael next for the crown and he’s not sure if that outcome would be any better.

The pain seems to grow to a throbbing that almost completely whites his vision. Dawrcy grits his teeth against it and tells himself that this is nothing. He’s endured worse. But the thoughts begin to creep up and crowd his mind. Why would he follow the words of a man that does not care about him? A man that would force his youngest son to hurt himself just to prove his loyalty. Sometimes, Dawrcy wonders if he does it in the memory of who his father once was, when his mother was alive. It’s a stupid thing to follow the memory of a man that no longer exists, and yet the prince still does.

[thedaintydoe]

Damitri took the washcloth from the water filled bowl and dabbed gently on the bruise that was beginning to form around Dawrcy’s eye. His hands were so soft, like a butterfly’s wing, much softer than Dawrcy would have granted his own self.

It was foreign. It made him want to run, to swing his fists, to beg him to stop. He didn’t though and instead he sat silently on the wobbling wooden chair, wringing his battered and bleeding hands together, imagining he was anywhere else but in the presence of such warmth. Warmth of honey golden pools and bright light and everything Dawrcy’s been told he’s not supposed to have.

Dawrcy’s over active thoughts, paused by the sound of a soft chuckle, had one eye snap open. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been squeezing them, as if the very sun were in the room with him.

“Why are you scrunching up your face?” The voice like bells chuckled.

Dawrcy didn’t have an answer for that. But he was an excellent liar.

“The sun’s too bright,” he blurted out and immediately had to dig one hand’s nails into the other’s to stave off the urge to slap his palm over his own face from shock.

Okay. Usually he was a good liar. Being a prince of Frostiel ensured so. So what the hell was that awful display?

Damitri’s bright blue eyes blinked in surprise. Dawrcy watched him take a couple glances about the room, where it was night and there were no windows.

“Okay,” Damitri said simply, shrugging and continued on with his work.

Dawrcy wished he could shrivel up and roll underneath the floorboards of the tavern.

[thedaintydoe]

dawrcy is a whore and i will dress him as such

[thedaintydoe]

Dawrcy is a better sword than he is a person. That’s been drilled in him. Yelled at him. Beat into him until there was nothing left to do but nod, accept his fate like a broken dog and be led by the neck to the closest battle.

He was molded into his father’s favored creation of rage, obedience and snapping fangs.