Cold Heart Feelings: Torn Between Love and Duty

Three thousand six hundred fifty-two days. That is how long it has been since someone called me by name. That is how long the palace has been blanketed by the coldness of winter, the days and nights intertwining into an unwavering white canvas. That is how long I have been alone, grappling with the echoing silence of loneliness. “Worthless runt!” “Vanya…” “Murderer!” Despite his best efforts to suppress the bitter memories of his past, they coursed through him, rampant as a raging river. It almost hurt—if not for the fact that he could no longer feel pain. He had endured every pain there possibly could have been in the world. He no longer had anything left in his unfeeling body. The years had worn away any tangible pain, replacing it with cruel numbness. Stuck in an eternal winter, the palace was freezing no matter the time of year: a frigid fortress whose temperatures seeped into the veins of its inhabitants. Cold, empty, stagnant— suffocating, the Prince thinks. If he could feel any pain, he would have shivered as he strode through the corridors, but alas, he was a walking zombie, nothing more than an echo of what he used to be. He stayed aloof even when a freezing wind bit harshly at his large nose the instant he stepped onto the marble staircase outside. Not even the memory of hot blood splattered on the walls, filling the chamber and pooling his body could warm him. A woman with dark brown hair attempted to express her concern. She appeared from behind the safety of the palace doors, away from the harsh winds of the Northern Ruthenia. “Your Highness, where are you going? There is a blizzard outside, it is dangerous.” But the Prince responded with the cold dismissal that he had perfected in the last decade. “I am going somewhere. Do not follow me.” Three-thousand-six-hundred and fifty-two days since words of warmth had last left his mouth. Ten years since he had last felt the embrace of another human being. The snow gradually piled on his large body as he absentmindedly strolled through the skeletal garden. The winter had stripped the world bare of its fruits, the only fruits stubborn enough to have survived lay hidden under thick blankets of white. Crisp, fallen snow crunched under his heavy boots as he trudged toward a familiar place. Ivan always loved his private garden. It was the only place on their property that looked truly alive. He took great care of it. From behind a curtain of snowfall, Ivan spotted a patch of yellow in the distance. A faint feeling of what could be described as happiness—or relief, he couldn’t tell—appeared in his chest for a brief second. He slowed to a stop and slowly sunk onto a bench, not bothering to brush off the snow and simply letting it dampen his white cloak. He stayed there, motionless, watching the yellow flowers. The big yellow petals and dark brown center made him feel slightly better. Undeterred by the snow, the beautiful flowers persevered in their icy landscape, their brilliance a stark contrast against the barren winter scenery. Stubborn, these flowers were. Even in a dark and gloomy time, with no one else around to keep them company, no matter how much snow threatened to drag them down, they kept upright with a firm resoluteness. It eluded the Prince how anything could remain so vibrant, so beautiful, so exuberant in such a harsh and unloving terrain. How could they shine with the brightness of a thousand suns when they have received so little of it themselves? “Here! A sunflower, so you’ll never be lonely!” It was baffling.