The most striking difference between the two princes who stepped out of the two halves of the mirror is their pallor. One is a facsimile of your prince (as he now comes to be called in your head), from his chestnut hair that just licks the nape of his neck to his round jawline and skin the colour of coconut butter.
The other, however…is everything your prince would run from. The man’s limbs have been sucked of muscle and colour, and his hair looks more like it has once been set on fire and now is charred.
‘Your’ prince smiles. God, that’s a cute smile, dimples and all.
“Hello,” he murmurs. Damn, you heart is fluttering, as if he’s physically tickling it.
That’s weird. The jet-haired prince strides forward and throws a hand across his… You suppose they’re twins. But not in the from-the-same-mother way. Unless you can count the mirror as their mother. You run your hands through your hair, and you between them.
The bad prince steps forward again. He smacks a hand across the other’s stomach with a thwack. He glares towards the other, but the frown is not met with negativity as much as confusion. Hurt.
“Back down, brother,” says the second prince.
“Brother?” You raise an eyebrow.
“Well, not quite,” says the first prince. He shrugs his shoulders. About to step his own way forward.
A right hook meets his jaw. The other prince’s cloak swipes the air and swings around his thighs as he turns. Again and again, he lays his fist into the good prince. You resist to stereotypically cry out not the face!, and hold yourself. One prince crumples to his knees, then to the floor, as the other hits him skilfully; even splaying his hands is not much of a protection.
As a final finish, the bad prince kicks the limper one. For good – or, rather, bad – measure, he spits in his eye, too. Urg. Talk about bad manners. He strides away, his neat shoes, though withered around the leather of the soles, making soft clouds of dust with every footfall in the stables.
You follow him with your gaze, concern pressing painfully in your chest.
At the doorway, he turns, and the deep, black eyes piece your soul like a bad dream you can’t get enough off.
“You coming?” he asks, before turning again, and ducking out under the doorframe.
You scratch your ear. He’s kind of compelling.
“Help me…” says a voice by your ankle.
Oh, right, the good prince.