[And Charles can only think about how much he's disappointed her. How much of a disappointment he is, and has been, and mustn't be ever again. He can only think of how much he let her down. His benevolent queen, always breathtaking, whether she's outraged and drenched in somebody's blood, or petting him like she does now. He still wants to cry. He even rubs at his eyes with his wrist--just a little. Then he's hiding in his cloak again, and he's trying not to let his mind stray to how his cloak should be tattered and bloodied from his own death. He can hardly imagine how his sulking before a boy in a pod, with shitty little paper flowers, these carnations all intricate and pathetic, can have made anything grand.]
I didn't think I'd see you, [he says at last.] But you found me. I thought I would always be too far away to find.
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I didn't think I'd see you, [he says at last.] But you found me. I thought I would always be too far away to find.