"Love is a better teacher than duty." Albert Einstein
Fiyero rubbed a hand over his sore eyes. The night had been long, and full of monsters. None so awful as himself.
Or if so, certainly none as stupid.
His stomach growled at the loss of dinner last night, but he couldn't handle the company. His gaze fell on the empty chair. She'd left her book.
He flipped it open to a random page. The words bled past him, but it smelled like her. He leaned forward to breathe in deeply: ink and parchment, patient and wise.
"Your highness."
He popped up, cheeks red, and stowed the book in his lap.
A steward laden with a pile of envelopes bowed awkwardly with the precarious heap. Fiyero nodded toward the desk. "Leave them there, please."
He flicked through them, recognizing the names. The advisors had already written back? His mother must have sent them right away.
He read through them, catching words like "honor," "privilege," "duty." Many would arrive within a week or so, a reasonable timeline given that his mother hadn't relayed the urgency. It would not do to reveal the king's dire condition in the same letter as the prince's unsuitability to rule.
He set down the papers. A week shouldn't matter that much anyway.
He penned replies, carefully grateful without being obsequious. It kept him occupied until a reasonable time for breakfast came and passed. The kitchen should be empty now.
Once there, he filled his plate. It smelled delicious, but he had no taste for it.
She'd really left. Oz. In a few days, she'd managed to haunt every inch of his childhood home. He saw her absence everywhere.
"Morning," Mgliore offered, and Fiyero jumped at the sound.
"How's your head?"
He shrugged. "Hard as ever. Your father?"
"The same."
His friend sat across from him. "Where's Elphaba? I'd take offense that you haven't yet asked me to be your best man if my fiancé hadn't tried to kill her."
Fiyero studied his eggs, shifting them here and there on his plate. "No wedding. She left."
"Left?" Mgliore leaned in. "What happened?"
"It doesn't matter. She's gone."
Thankfully, the boy let it drop. "That's unexpected. So back to Sarima? Or out of the marriage thing altogether."
Fiyero pressed his eyes shut. "I honestly don't want to think about it. My collection of tutors will be here within the week, and I'm sure I'll be too busy drowning in studies to worry."
The thought of studies drew memories of their time together that he forcibly shut out. He couldn't break down now.
"Sounds appealing…" They shared a look, and Mgliore clapped a hand to his shoulder. "Well, if you need a night on the town, I find myself in similar need of distraction. How did we both go from marriage fears to empty beds in a couple days?"
Fiyero flinched.
"Strip club?"
He shook his head, weary even at the thought.
"Whiskey?"
He nodded.
"Later, then. I have a good bottle at home."
Fiyero caught his friend's arm. "Are you alright? With Six and everything?"
"No." His smile fell flat. "But neither are you. And at least I'm not stuck possibly ruling soon, or…" Losing his father. Fiyero heard the words still, but he felt a gratitude that at least it wasn't out loud.
"He'll recover."
"Of course."
Sarima raced in the doorway. "Thank Oz. There you are." She ran forward and gripped his shoulder. "Fiyero, come quick."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Why?"
"Please, Ramoina says your father…he…" She blinked back tears, and Fiyero leapt to his feet.
"His father what?"
He didn't wait for a response. He sprinted up the stairs, three at a time. By the time he reached the suite, he was breathing hard.
"He's worse?"
Ramoina looked up, fresh tears trailing over her cheeks. His mother lay on her husband's chest, trembling. He shook his head, suddenly unable to take another step. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
The doctor flitted about the bed, his desperation ratcheting up Fiyero's fear. Ramoina held out her hand, and he edged forward, his feet made of lead.
"He's not…, is he?"
His father's chest rose, almost imperceptibly, and Fiyero let out a breath.
"What happened?"
She flung an arm around his waist. "The doctor said a seizure. We thought for sure..."
He clasped her to him and buried his face in her hair. Thank Oz they were wrong. He felt the tears even as he fought them, squeezing his eyes shut.
His father's breath rattled, and Fiyero felt a shudder weave through him. He prayed desperately to any deity he could think of.
Not yet. Please, not yet.
After a long moment, he pulled back, wiping a quick hand over his eyes. "Tyrius?"
"No one can find him," Sarima stood in the doorway, eyes on his sister's bent form. The girls had been close friends since childhood. Whatever her ambitions and scheming nature, he knew she wouldn't want this for his sister.
He gestured for her to take his place, and Sarima quickly wrapped Ramoina in a tight hug. His sister buried her face in the girl's neck, and she rubbed soothing circles over her back.
He stepped outside. Mgliore stood in the hallway looking uncertain. "Find Tyrius. I'm not sure, but I think he might not have much time."
His friend clapped a hand to his arm with a sympathetic look, and then rushed off on his mission.
Fiyero retreated back to his father's room, fear lancing every step. He stood behind his mother, a supportive hand on her back, and they fell into their vigil.
"You majesty, I must check his heart."
His mother didn't move, and the doctor sent a look to Fiyero. He collected his mother in his arms despite her protestations so the doctor could reach the king. She struggled to free herself, a soft keening at the separation that broke his heart, and Fiyero redirected her to his chest.
"Mother, please. Let them help him."
She sobbed into him, and Fiyero shared a desperate look with Sarima, his sister still cradled against her. His father's breath grew slower, and the doctor's activity faster until a final puff let his father's lips.
The doctor pressed on his chest, working frantically to force air back into his lungs, but after a few horrible minutes, it was clear that his father had left them.
Abandoned twice in as many days.
He cratered into his mother, who wailed pitifully as the doctor stepped back. "I'm so sorry, your highness. He's-"
"No!" She flung herself onto his chest again. "No, please, Marillot. Don't leave me. Don't."
His sister sobbed, and Fiyero sank to the chair. This was a nightmare. It was impossible. It simply couldn't have happened.
Mgliore burst in. "I can't find him, but the-" He stopped short, his face draining of blood. "Is he-"
Fiyero nodded, his head in his hands.
Mgliore swore and crossed to set a hand on Fiyero's shoulder. "Should we-"
He stood, forcing away the grief until he could manage it. "Help my mother. Sarima?"
The girl led Ramoina to the door. Her gentle words murmured at her charge too softly to be heard, but his sister seemed to take comfort in them.
He turned to the doctor. "What arrangements need to be made?" He held out a hand to the outer room, and they discussed what should be done with the body. He left the doctor with a pair of stewards to assist. He had to handle the funeral arrangements.
Well, so much for their intrigue. Letter or not, the advisors would all know his vulnerability. And while he couldn't yet bring himself to care, he knew he would need that strength someday.
He could only focus on one step at a time. What's done was done. There's no undoing it.
Many hours later, he left his mother in new quarters, asleep with the aid of the doctor's sleeping draught. Sarima had his sister in bed as well, and Mgliore had relieved him in carrying out the finer points of preparation.
Luckily enough, the flowers already on their way for the wedding would serve well for the funeral instead.
He hung his head. Wedding.
His father would never see him marry.
The grief he'd kept at bay swarmed him, and he gave in rather than think of what else must be done. He fell to his knees, lost in a sea of pain. How long he wept, he couldn't say, but when he rose, he knew that luxury had ended.
He was no longer a spoiled prince, allowed indulgences and plotting scandalacious pranks. Coronation impending, he was now the king, and his country depended on him to emulate his father's example.
He spent the night outside his mother's door. What would she do without his father? She slept the dreamless sleep of the drugged, but he couldn't help the fear that if he left, she'd somehow vanish to join the husband she so loved.
The cold stone helped him stay awake. Better his thoughts than his nightmares.
He left his post only when the sun crept through the window.
The funeral was mid-day, with a bright sun beaming down at them. A shocked Vinkus came to pay respects to a king they'd never hope to replace. The sept overflowed with petitioners, all reaching for Fiyero's hand with hollow words of comfort.
He nodded without listening.
One step in the door, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of his father's casket. It drove him back in the hall to regain his composure.
He scanned the crowd. Still no Tyrius. Something wasn't right. His brother might have his moments, but he wouldn't miss his father's funeral. He subtly beckoned a guard. "No sign of my brother?"
"Still no, your highness."
"Take another company, and comb beyond the grounds. Don't stop until he's found. Should you reach the borders, send word back, and let us pray it doesn't come to that."
The man saluted, and Fiyero tried hard not to think how it should have been his father's order, not his.
He drew a steadying breath, and entered the sept. A roomful of gazes swung to him, but he kept his trained on his father. He knelt by the altar. The face that stared unblinking back seemed unfamiliar, cold.
"I'll make you proud, father. Or at least, I'll try."
It was not appeased. Your fault, it accused. You let her leave. You should have saved me.
He had no excuse. Below his breath, he vowed, "I'll try harder."
He retreated to the bench at the front where his family sat. Ramoina peered up at him with wide eyes. She tried to speak, but the hiccupping sobs prevented it.
He caught her hand. "I know."
How he longed to break down, himself, but he held his own feelings at bay. His had to be composed for his mother and sister. The women clung to one another as the priest began his blessings, and his mother's hollow-eyed stare tore at his heart.
Sarima caught his eye from across the room, but her attention was on her friend. The sincere empathy in her expression endeared her to him more than any schemes she could possibly have maneuvered.
The funeral and burial passed in a blur. It ended with a raw pain that took away the last piece of his father. Like a missing limb, the ache continued past, filling the void.
A calm emptiness filled him, and with it, a clarity. He knew what must happen. Out of time and out of options, he hung back to catch Sarima.
"Will you still marry me?"
Her gaze stayed on his sister. "Of course."
"Today."
Her nod carried the weight of their sacrifices, though he still didn't know what hers was. He felt a sting of sympathy for her. He'd born the weight of his choices for a day, and it felt an eternity. She'd carried hers how long now?
How idiotic he had been. His "noble" protection had cost him any comfort he might have found, any chance for his kingdom. He'd destroyed it all, for what?
The sept cleared, and he caught the priest's attention. It took less explanation than expected.
She hurried to change, but he didn't bother. Funeral clothes felt more appropriate somehow.
The time came, and the music swelled. Sarima approached at the altar where too recently his father had lain. He took her hand without meeting her eyes. Her fingers were cold, pale. For a fleeting breath, it felt like a nightmare where he would look up to see his bride a corpse.
But she wasn't. She met his eyes with an upward tilt to her chin. Too alike another, though with skin the wrong shade. He looked away.
His sister still wept openly, setting quite the mood for the wedding. Not that he blamed her. His mother's calm was almost worst, a silent drowning. He understood. No amount of tears shed now could undo what had been done.
Or what still had to be.
And he accepted it, repeating what he was given to repeat.
He accepted it, kissing Sarima's cheek if not her lips.
He accepted it, as he would accept his responsibility for the country his father had protected until his last breath. As he would now.
And he might be foolish, but he knew that doing what had to be done was not yet over.