hiraeth (floradin)

2 ; the lonely forest

Aladin wanted death, which is why he headed to the forest.

He really tried to get to Laura. Really. In the months he's stayed here, he tried to smile at her in the halls and start conversation. He tried to be the dashing little prince everyone loved. And wanted.

He tried to be like Florante.

Obviously it wasn't working.

Laura smiled at him too. They talked about the weather and their fathers and life. But there was nothing. No spark, no connecting, nothing nothing.

"I understand what you are doing," Laura told him. "You are trying to claim me."

"Sorry?" Aladin stopped in his tracks, her books in his arms. He offered to carry them to the library for her instead. "I do not—I do not understand."

"As your wife," she said with no accusation in her tone. Aladin felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. "This is because of your father, isn't it?"

Aladin looked at the floor, his cheeks turning red. That always happened when he was embarrassed.

"I understand," Laura whispered. She touched his shoulder in a friendly manner. So polite. Up to now. Up to this end. "But—I do not adore you that way. You are a brilliant friend, Aladin, and I wish to have you around. But not like that."

He nodded. When he looked up, Laura smiled at him. Gently.

"We are friends," she said firmly. "We will always be friends."

He nodded.

Aladin sat down underneath a fig tree, back against the bark. He sighed, closing his eyes and breathing in the forest breeze. It was so comforting to be here, listening to the life of wild animals all around. They sounded so free, the distant growl of the tiger and sleepy little hoot of the owl. Snaked slithered in front of him but they didn't bother him, fortunately.

No one seemed to bother him.

No one seemed to notice he was there. Not even the beasts of the wild—much less the beasts of the castle prison he was caged in.

Aladin really did not want to cry. But the overwhelming feeling of being alone was too much. Too much for his youth-filled little heart. Too much for him.

Too much.

The royalty of Albania was so polite to him. But it was pity. That wasn't kindness—they felt sorry for him. They all pitied the Prince of Persia who couldn't make friends his age and was found sulking in the company of books and music.

They all pitied the Prince who didn't seem like he could ever be a King. Frail, skinny, friendless and worthless and nothing and no one likes him and he couldn't even get the girl when his life depended on it—

Aladin couldn't stop crying.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

His father hated him. No one in the Kingdom wanted to see his face.

No one.

No one. Perfect for a nobody. Like him.

~

His father was probably looking for him. But he couldn't bring himself to stand from his haven he made. Even if it wasn't safe at all.

Aladin wiped the last of his tears.

He was so spent. His eyes hurt from the crying.

He was tired. And thirsty.