[This time, Charles has enough self-control not to flee from her. He shouldn't have done so in the first place; it was wrong. A knight should not bend away from his queen. He's always been a failure of a Chevalier, but he just gets worse and worse, doesn't he... So he stands where he is, even though it's perhaps the most humiliating experience he's ever had to undergo. It's even worse than actually losing the arm in the first place.
It's even worse than crying over the death of an intellectually challenged human being.
So, all in all, he doesn't deserve her concern and he doesn't deserve the onset of her possessiveness. He isn't worth her rage. He isn't worth the drop in her hallowed guts. Charles stands in place, stock still aside from his shallow, shuddering breaths, letting her touch the old stump of his arm. It's so ugly, even through his shirt. He lets her examine him because she is his queen, and he does deserve whatever confirmation of his failure she might give. But it's still the most humiliating thing. He'd rather be stripped and flogged.]
It's nothing. [His voice is thin, tight, and dwindling. His throat can barely accommodate it.] It's the death of me, the start of a dreadful fall, the worst your court has had to offer--it's the sum of what I am. So it's nothing, my queen.
[There's no hope of him not crying, now. His eyes feel sticky.]
Please. I'm happy I could see you. I'm happy to be so blessed. I had forgotten that blessings could be real. But please, I'm begging you as the majesty of my heart, if you could forget about me now, it might be better. If you wish to leave me to my losses, I won't be ugly in your line of sight. I was never supposed to be so ugly for you.
[She should cast him out. It would be best; it'd earn less shame. But he still wants her to hug him again, even if his ugliness is unavoidable, drawn out of his rotten little heart by the fact of his self as a failure. He's hideous because he couldn't do what his role for her demanded. All that talk of making things grander for her--he's just remembered how impossible it is. Now that she knows...]
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It's even worse than crying over the death of an intellectually challenged human being.
So, all in all, he doesn't deserve her concern and he doesn't deserve the onset of her possessiveness. He isn't worth her rage. He isn't worth the drop in her hallowed guts. Charles stands in place, stock still aside from his shallow, shuddering breaths, letting her touch the old stump of his arm. It's so ugly, even through his shirt. He lets her examine him because she is his queen, and he does deserve whatever confirmation of his failure she might give. But it's still the most humiliating thing. He'd rather be stripped and flogged.]
It's nothing. [His voice is thin, tight, and dwindling. His throat can barely accommodate it.] It's the death of me, the start of a dreadful fall, the worst your court has had to offer--it's the sum of what I am. So it's nothing, my queen.
[There's no hope of him not crying, now. His eyes feel sticky.]
Please. I'm happy I could see you. I'm happy to be so blessed. I had forgotten that blessings could be real. But please, I'm begging you as the majesty of my heart, if you could forget about me now, it might be better. If you wish to leave me to my losses, I won't be ugly in your line of sight. I was never supposed to be so ugly for you.
[She should cast him out. It would be best; it'd earn less shame. But he still wants her to hug him again, even if his ugliness is unavoidable, drawn out of his rotten little heart by the fact of his self as a failure. He's hideous because he couldn't do what his role for her demanded. All that talk of making things grander for her--he's just remembered how impossible it is. Now that she knows...]