There was no healing to be done, no obedience to drive weary bones into motion. The hurt along the curves of his body was ever present, but he found himself undeserving of the talents his shy sister or painted disciple could offer. No, and he did not desire their cheerful forced optimism either, nor their hidden looks of concern and veiled attempts at prying into his thoughts on the matter. There was only one soul he desired to see, to speak to. There was only one he trusted in that role, regardless. So he waited, drenched in water to the knees and flaked in blood above, until Kahlua was sure to be gone. And he lifted tired eyes to the sky and sang out softly, voice specific and wheedling, calling for the wise October woman and her firm words. She had helped him once before in extraordinary ways...but was she capable of advising him on matters of the heart? Or would he have to seek out the experience of someone else? Briefly Destrier came to mind, but he had to even speak to his brother since his return; he did not deserve to be welcomed back with such a burden.

Dropping to his knees to splash the water weakly upon his canvas with a flutter of wings, birdlike, the King stared at his reflection with a vapid sort of silence. He could not allow his feelings to separate the ruling pair, could not afford such weakness of leadership. But his heart was weary and his thoughts pessimistic. What if the revelation never came? What if it came and instead he was turned away? Or somehow she decided that he was wrong and would forever regard his love as a ball and chain around her limbs? Kaj knew his love for her was already tainted, impure with his doubts and his desires to protect her. Instead of an equal he at times saw a child, both frustrating and endearing. Were they even compatible? Hearts were such complex things, and he ached to know he may always make the wrong choices, so out of tune with it as he was.

So instead he stood on shaking bowed legs, wading from the water to shiver plaintively in the chill of the autumn fog and the wind off the ocean. He would not face Evangeline as a coward, would at least be seen standing instead of curled in fetal defeat in the blood stained spring. There was still a level of pride in his exhausted bodice; it was likely that, more so than any power of will, that kept him standing and awaiting her arrival.

Sighing he drooped to snuffle disinterestedly at the grass, eyes glassy and drooped as body ached and flamed up with frustration at his lack of desire to seek magical aid. But he had lived in worse bodily conditions, had fought again in similar shape. Helovia had softened him. Briefly he was disappointed in himself. Tearing away from the grass he listlessly moved about, no real goal aside from a focus aside from the hurricane in his head. His title had never been more fitting; if only he didn't bring his own storms upon himself.

@[Evangeline]