"Your Majesty," he whispered, and his voice broke completely on the words, shattering into pieces that scattered on the morning air.
His hands were shaking where they gripped the railing—violent tremors that traveled up his arms and into his shoulders, his whole body responding to whatever was happening inside him, whatever dam had just broken and was flooding everything in its path.
His knees felt weak, actually 'weak', like they might give out any second and send him crumpling to the balcony floor.
He looked—objectively, genuinely—like an absolute disaster.
His hair was still a tangled mess, sticking up at impossible angles, strands falling into his tear-wet face and clinging there. His sleep clothes were rumpled and twisted, hanging off one shoulder at an angle that was more chaotic than artistic. His eyes were already red and swollen from crying, his face blotchy and streaked with tears, his nose starting to run.
