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The lights- he was never sure about how they worked or why they lulled him so- they bounced softly off the rough stone of the walls and crystalline glass of the ceiling and doors. He and Mika sat upon their thrones of rock, the Stone of Blood being the only noise accompanying their silence.
"You almost died, then," Paris whispered, barely over the ambiance.
"Yes," he answered, casting his dark curtain of hair down across his face. Paris could only see the vampire's eyelashes that decorated his onyx eyes, eyes that vividly displayed great sorrow that Paris hadn't seen the likes of in hundreds of years. Those eyes ducked with Mika to the near-empty glass in his hand, allowing Paris the view of his straight nose and scarred lips.
"Did you want to?" Paris couldn't stop the question. Mika shifted, and looked directly to his mentor. His eyes continued to speak of thousands of years and of pain- even more, the acceptance thereof. They flickered as he considered his words.
"I-" he cut himself off. "Then, yes."
"And now?" Paris felt himself lean forward.
"For the sake of the clan-"
"Don't." He barely spoke over the hum but it was enough. Mika stopped and worried at his lip, and ran his tongue over his teeth, once, twice. It was in that moment that Paris saw how fragile the boy was that day- Paris remembers how light he was in his arms as he carried him over the healer's threshold, crying out in agony. He also remembers his own cries as he washed Mika's blood from his hands, his clothes, his hair.
Paris blinked and he was back in the Hall of Princes, watching the boy, now man, now Vampire Prince, search for his words. The ancient eyes turned to him fully.
"I don't know."