There are days in which his scar pulses, when the phantom twitching of his socket casts a terrible glow of agony across his head and shivers to his fingertips. There are nights where he awakens with a dagger slashing at his face, fading away with the blanket of darkness.

There are days where he hardly thinks, and nights where he hardly sleeps at all. This night, like all others, is no different, with murmured agonies under his breath and twitching fingers that curl into thin bedsheets, ivory hair which fans upon his pillow as though he is trying to rise from the flesh containment of his skin. He twitches, and begins to writhe, with his lips parting and his patch set on the bedside table. There are days where the one-eyed prince hardly sleeps at all - this is one of them.