“Of course, Your Highness.” A little sheep dutifully raises his head to properly address royalty. Swaying in a polite-ish fashion. Beaming with a careful absence of mischief. “Shall I, tell them anything, ah, else, while I’m...at it?”

His voice is hoarse from screaming. Perhaps you can still hear it echoing, someplace far away from here; agony tinged through with regret, apology, remorse. 

Stirring a cup of tea effectively without hitting the sides of the cup required a delicate touch. A delicate touch required the fingers to pinch just so, and circle this fast, and no faster, the power coming from a twirl of the wrist. 

They taught him well. They taught him deeply. What does it matter, that surprising his wife with a little treat required the muscles currently being ground to nothing? To suffer audibly is a shame. And yet, he persisted. He couldn’t help himself. Forgive him. Forgive him. Please, forgive him.

They built him with intent. They imagined servants who would always be soft, always submit, no matter the master or treatment. Their imagination lacked experience.

In practice, eyes are mostly a luxury. Memory, complex thought, overrated. There are more important things for a body to tend to. So when he gazes up at the figure holding him, it takes quite a bit of squinting to get at the silhouette. Now, he knows who this is. He knows he knows them. It’s on the tip of his tongue, yes. What was it again?

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Of [i]course.[/i]

Dolce of Beri bonks his fluffy forehead against a wall of silver vines. A friend nestles into a sea of inky black, cool and soothing. And a contented sigh slips from his lips.

“I knew…your name was Bella……..”