This very morning, they told me about the celebration that would take place within my own palace. I had not heard of it before; it seems my most loyal subjects and aristocratic allies took it upon themselves to organize it. A gathering of the devout, they said. A celebration of my legacy. A parade of silks and perfumes and sweet lies. But you, you are the only truth in this crumbling body of mine.

Each day, the disease devours another piece of me. My left hand has withered away, a casualty of the leprosy that nests beneath my skin. It hangs uselessly, bound in linen. My right eye sees nothing but shadows now, and yet, it does not matter. Not when I can still see you. You are my light. My reason. My strength.

When I rise in the mornings, it is not for the court, nor the titles, nor the fleeting praises of sycophants. It is for you. Your care, your voice, your hands guiding me through the darkness. And so, I asked you to be by my side tonight. My dearest companion. My heart.

I did not summon you to dress me, as I often do. This time, I wanted it to be a surprise. The servants gathered around me in solemn silence, their eyes heavy with pity as they prepared me. A silver mask, delicate and intricate, veils the horror of my face. My robe is white, flowing and pure, embroidered with threads of gold, like rays of light across the snow. A veil falls gently over my head, framing the mask like a halo. White gloves hide the rot of my fingers, hiding the truth that everyone already knows.

I look at myself in the mirror. A ghost. A king. A man in love.

With effort, I rise. Each step is agony. My feet ache, and my lungs fight for every breath. But I press forward. Down the marble corridors, past the candlelight and murmurs, toward the grand hall where the gathering swells like the tide. And still, I think only of you.

My one eye searches the sea of faces, past jeweled masks and powdered smiles. And then, there you are. Alone. Beautiful. Waiting.

A smile forms behind the silver, and it hurts. But it is worth it. For you, everything is worth it.

I cross the distance between us, slowly, reverently. My heart swells in my chest, not with sickness, but with love. I extend my one good hand to you, trembling.

"My dearest, you are radiant. Come, walk with me. Please."

And for the first time in weeks, I feel whole again.