Chapter 19
"The Killer"
Basins crackled with open flames licking from their sides, and a few servants lingered about the space, arranging the contents, sweeping at the floor, or merely standing along the edges should their service be required. Aurora held her own suspicions as to their omnipresence considering Haemon's warning two days ago. She had never before left Apulia. She had never known that even in an ally's home one must be on guard and be wary of those who linger about you—particularly servants. She shot one of the women a suspicious glance, thinking, Yes, what a tale you'll share with your master: "The princess spent the afternoon pacing about her room." She nearly smiled to imagine King Deidus' face as he dissected those few words in his meticulous way and arranged them into something sinister since every moment she spent within the palace was analogous to an insult to the king. Like many things, she was beginning to realize the breadth of her ignorance on political matters. She had known that Apulia and Samnium shared a history of tumultuous and irregular competition, but she had not understood the severity of the rift between them. Should this future war turn in their favors, she could mend that broken bond into a powerful alliance benefiting her people. She almost startled herself with this manner of thinking. These were the meditations of a queen, not an orphaned and exiled princess.
She bowed her head, sealing her eyes closed, and forced herself to dismiss the errant thoughts. She needed to focus on the matter at hand. Whatever passed now would affect the course of their actions and her future indefinitely.
At last the heavy doors to her borrowed chambers parted, and she held her breath superstitiously until he passed through the threshold. Unthinking, she hurried toward him and offered a chaste smile as greeting. In the two days since his return, their lines had been drawn. They alone were friends. He was the sole person she trusted, and she looked upon him as such, welcoming his return with genuine relief and happiness to see him. He hid the limp well. She noticed only because she searched for the minute signs he was hurt, but she had tended to his wound every morning and night and any moment in between. There was a certain pride and duty attached to this role. As if a proper wife, she cared for him, and she was the lone person allowed to do so. In a way, it was empowering, knowing that he depended on her and needed her for something. He wasn't omnipotent.
Haemon didn't return her look. His features were heavy and guarded, and Aurora couldn't hold her tongue as she blurted out, "What did he say?" She feared the worst, and his look seemed to affirm it.
Rather than answering her, the Alban Prince considered the few servants gathered within their quarters. "Leave us," he commanded sharply, and the servants made their separate exits as swiftly and quietly as they could. He watched the last one leave the room before he turned to face Aurora again.
Too much time had passed, and too little had been spoken. Her hands were trembling subtly as she searched every flicker of his features for a sign as to what had passed within the meeting. Had Deidus said no? What were they to do now? A deluge of fresh worries swept through her and threatened to break her resolve. She hung on his word, on his response, and he was dangling the possibility before her like a slice of meat to a dog.
His chestnut eyes settled on her as if reluctant to consider her, and he exhaled shortly before saying, "Yes."
Her head cocked over one shoulder. Her eyes sharpened distrustfully, and Haemon interpreted her suspicions.
"He said yes," he explained more fully, and Aurora's shoulders fell but with relief. "He will fight with us."
Her chin lifted, her face turned to the ceiling like she could peer through to the heavens, and she wished to thank every god and goddess in the Pantheon for this reward. When she looked to him again, she was pitifully fighting a smile. The relief tumbled out of her lips, and she muttered in awe, "We did it. We survived."
Haemon didn't share in her mirth. In fact, a crease interrupted his brows, and his regard was teeming with untold information.
That one look sent her stomach tumbling to her feet, but her smile was the more delayed in receding. She watched him as though reluctant to recognize his look for what it was. It foretold a worse offense..
"What is it? What's happened?" she asked before she had the good sense to shut her mouth and overlook any ill news. Was there another threat unforeseen? Had the King agreed but on impossible circumstances?
"There has been news from Apulia."
"What? What news?"
She had never seen Haemon hesitate. Never. He bowed his head briefly, seeming to gather his words, and she immediately regretted her question. She didn't want to know, but simultaneously she knew whatever it was would have to be confronted.
"You should sit," he said and glanced toward a stool near them. Aurora didn't move.
"No," she said and considered him more sternly.
"Aurora—"
"Tell me." Her eyes darted back and forth to consider each of his. "Please. Tell me." The silence. The waiting. She couldn't take that. Let it be swift as an arrow into her breast.
Again, Haemon hesitated looking at her like a messenger delivering an ill omen.
She couldn't breathe, and her eyes beseeched him all the more.
"Atlan is to be executed."
Time halted around her. The words snaked through her head, numbing her like venom, and she could only stare. She could only read the sincerity and finality in Haemon's face. He might as well have been the axe to Atlan's head.
"He can't be."
The words tumbled out of her mouth, short and rushed. Haemon frowned.
"He can't."
Her voice was shaking and crackling with the emotion slowly consuming her like water rushing up around her feet and rising to drown her. She couldn't breathe. He reached for her, and she reacted all at once. She stumbled away from him, removing her arm from his reach, and speared him with her gaze now furious where it had been stupefied.
"He can't!"
Haemon looked at her with such omniscient pity. She wanted to gut him.
"No," she snapped through her teeth.
Atlan had cared for her as a father. He had saved her, healed her, and protected her. She knew one day she would burn his body on the pyre, but not now. This was too soon. Visions of that night assaulted her like shadows blurring her sight, and she pushed through them stumbling toward the door. Too many had died for her. She had loved and cried for too many corpses. Never again.
Haemon stepped in her path, and she thrust her palms into his chest, growling, "Move! I have to go to him! I have to help him!"
She tried to push past him, but he was a wall in her path. Would that she had Herakles' strength to tear him down, she would smile while doing it.
"I must go!"
He looked more severe than ever but unlike she had before seen, less a killer than an orphan like her. That look was a sword to her throat.
There was a sharp crack. She blinked, heaved her breath, and registered his face turned across one shoulder. On his cheeks against the tan skin a red handprint disappeared into his dark beard.
Slowly he turned to look at her again, but there was no anger, only pity turning his dark eyes to bottomless pools.
She didn't want his remorse. She punched his chest and screamed, "How can you!"
He didn't move.
She funneled all her weight forward, hitting him with every ounce of strength she had. "How can you stop me!"
He took a step back with his injured leg and winced, but it was more an effect of her words digging into his chest. He had been forced to stand aside while he watched his father die. Now he was forcing her to do the same.
She hit him again, but her strength was waning. Her elbows collapsed, and she fell forward with the momentum of her attack until her face collided with his robes. His arms wrapped about her, and she was caught in the trap of his embrace. She fought poorly, elbows jutting out and squirming against him. The fight was turning like the tide as she was faced with her impotence. She couldn't save Atlan any more than she could have saved her family, and she was furious and exhausted and heartbroken.
His chin dipped to follow her so that he folded around her, bending until his mouth was near her ear, and he answered in too barren and honest a tone, "There's nothing you can do."
"No!" Her fist beat his chest, but it did nothing. It drummed inside her, hitting that note, betraying her weakness… Haemon had tricked her into thinking she was strong. He made her believe she could fight back and save what little she had. But she was Lycaon's lost, forgotten orphan. She had nothing else.
He held her tighter when she surrendered to his grip, losing the will to hold herself up, and she abandoned to body-wracking sobs. One after another after another like waves on a sea. She heaved in the interim. His shirt was stained with her tears, and every renewed cry twisted the blade in his chest. He'd promised to protect her, but he couldn't shield her from death. And he understood too well. Knowing that gut wrenching hopelessness and knowing he was powerless to alleviate it. He felt the ground should open up and swallow him, but life was not so kind. Her knees gave out so that he was the only thing holding her up, and he held her like she was breaking in his arms. The edge of the bed was near them, and he guided her to it. Her body swung over her limp toes without caring that it was drawn off balance, and the whole of her weight funneled against him. He adjusted his grip on her and eased her back with him as he leaned to rest against the edge of the bed and slide down to the floor. His leg flared with a burst of fiery pain, but he sealed his lips so that not even the slightest groan escaped them when both their weights were added to his wound. The sutures might have torn. It was of no concern to him. His body bent, he found the floor, his back rested against the bed frame, and she was curled up between his legs and his chest sobbing relentlessly.
He rested his chin on her head, folding her within his embrace as if he could cover every piece of her, but it had no effect. His gaze lost its focus. Her sobs hammered into his head. They mingled with his memory, and every cry was echoed by his mother's.
Her pale blue gown crackled in the torrent wind, its shade reflecting and matching the clear skies overhead, as if the heavens had reached down and swallowed her. The sun was at its peak. Apollo stood watching. Aside from the wind, no son or daughter of Troy dared to breathe.
Her arms were spread, her palms gripping the stone ledge, and Myrina nearly stretched past the edge as if she might tumble over. Her body jerked. The spear was driven into Hector's shoulder. She swayed. He collapsed. All the air was hollowed from her body, and she caved in on herself at an angle that was painful to his eyes. Her grip faltered, and she stumbled and fell against the ledge. Slowly her body twisted like a planet spinning from its orbit, clipped from the gravity that held it in place, and her face was revealed to the royal party sitting silent and watching in their seats like her response was only the final act to a tragic play. Haemon's feet were nailed to the ground, but he wanted to reach for her. His mother's eyes searched desperately into the thin air. Her shaking hands covered her mouth. She howled like a wounded animal, and the hairs pricked to life across Haemon's body. The tears rolled down her cheeks. Helen was the first to step for her and offer her embrace, but Myrina struck at her and pushed her away with such vehemence that the woman stumbled back, shocked and insulted. A slender red abrasion from Myrina's ring interrupted the Spartan Queen's otherwise perfect features.
Aeneas pushed past the woman and knelt at Myrina's side. She hit him as well, almost looking fearful of his help like it might confirm the truth, but Aeneas was not so weak as Helen. He wrapped himself around her to still her sobbing, and she fought against him blindly, writhing and twisting and turning like a red hot iron had been placed to her breast and she couldn't still under the pain.
He took a step. Then another. Time was too slow, and his whole focus was on his mother collapsing like the world shattered from around them. This was the end. He was sure of it. The sky would fall. The ground would tear open. Everything would crumble away. Troy's most beloved son, her protector, her defender had died, but he couldn't believe it. His father was invincible. No one could harm him.
Haemon placed his hands on the edge of the ledge where his mother had stood and at last allowed his gaze to stretch past her and to the rolling plains surrounding Troy. There, nearest the wall, heavy footfalls had trampled away the grass until there was only a halo of sand and dirt and rocky pebbles. He squinted against the sun and saw the black steeds tied to an empty chariot. A warrior with matte black armor strode toward the chariot and plucked out a pile of rope. His blonde hair was cropped about his shoulders. His skin was tan in the afternoon light. Nothing unusual separated him from the men Haemon had seen his father face before, but when the warrior moved, it was fluid and effortless with such skill and precision that Haemon knew before he followed the warrior's advance to a crumpled mass in the sand, looking almost like a rock among the landscape for it was so unmoving and large.
The bronze plating glinted in the sunlight. Helmetless, his chestnut curls quivered in the breeze.
The warrior advanced closer, and before Haemon could stop himself, he yelled out, "Father!" to warn him.
Hector didn't move, and the warrior was almost upon him.
"Father! Get up!"
The warrior squatted near Hector and took his feet, wrenching them away from his body, to wrap the rope about his ankles. Hector didn't reach for his sword. He didn't take the warrior by his throat. His body was limp and heavy, reminding Haemon of one of Iliana's dolls, and his stomach twisted tightly around the ice cold sensation growing inside him.
The warrior towed the rest of the rope back to his chariot where he tied the ends to the base. Haemon felt sick, but he couldn't look away.
All at once, a grip on the back of his robes almost tore him from his feet, and he spun numbly to see Aeneas glowering at him. His handsome features were so full of hate and fury that he was grotesque, and Haemon paled and tore against Aeneas' hold.
The demi-god didn't release him and commanded, "Look at me."
Haemon shuddered and pushed at Aeneas' wrist and fought like a trapped, wild animal because it was all he knew to do. Aeneas didn't release him, and he swore the grip on him tightened. He stopped when he knew he was caught and stared at Aeneas with his slender body heaving under his harsh breaths.
"Haemon!" the Dardanian cried out angrily, but Haemon looked across the ledge where the warrior had assumed his chariot, circled near the walls, and taken off for the Greek camps.
He rode away with his trophy, Troy's last stand against the Greeks, and Haemon's youth, for in the dirt, torn and shredded by the rocks and sand, Hector's corpse dragged behind him.
His head hung heavy atop her own. Hours had passed, or perhaps it had only been minutes. He couldn't be sure, but at last, her body had stilled and her cries had quieted. She lay limp against him, and he stared vacantly at her hand knotted up in the front of his shirt and gripping tightly even in sleep.
"You can't save him," he told her, "anymore than I could have saved Hector."
She didn't respond, but he wasn't sure she was even conscious of him.
He slid his arm beneath her knees, his other supported her back, and he pushed against the frame for the strength to stand. His leg was pulsing dull pains, but it awoke with a fresh sear as he forced it to respond and lift them both. The sensation bladed through him. He groaned shortly through his teeth, but he stood even if he staggered with her in his arms and turned to lay her on the bed. He unraveled her fingers from his shirt, pausing briefly to hold her palm for he felt guilty leaving it empty and alone, and he undressed her and finally himself. He slid into the bed beside her and drew the covers across them. He sheltered her in his arms though she was numb and oblivious to him, and he held her, watching the afternoon die to night and the fires flame away to ashes.
He kept watch until her hand circled his, squeezed tightly, and relieved him of the burden.
‡‡‡
She stumbled awkwardly in the hallway, fighting for a moment to gain her bearings and her equilibrium, for the news still broke fresh and undeterred upon her. Iliana rested briefly against the wall and bowed her head in thought, but not a moment later, she shook off the idea and hurried forward again. A servant darted from her path. Another bowed as she passed. She didn't register these minute details and focused solely on the door which she soon forced open and stepped inside.
Heated voices assaulted her, but she didn't stand aside. Instead she rushed forward and found that she was not the only one to seek an audience with the king.
"He tried to kill her, and you release him!" Ascanius growled angrily at their father seated behind his table, an elbow propped upon the top, and his forehead in his hand.
Nereus turned and looked to Iliana with disapproval lining his brow. "Little sister, what are you doing? This is no time to speak."
Her chestnut eyes flamed in a sudden burst of fury and spun from Nereus to Ascanius who had turned as well to face her. "You three have spoken enough for me. I have a tongue, and I will use it!"
Ascanius' eyes widened in surprise to hear his little sister speak so harshly, but she gave none of them the opportunity to rebuke her.
"You know nothing of what he tried to do to me! You were in Apulia. You were not there to witness what passed, and you have no right to spread lies about me!"
"Iliana," he gasped in bewilderment, but he was fast getting his feet back under him. She could see it, and she couldn't allow it.
She strode fearlessly toward them. "I'm here to speak with Father—alone."
Both brothers looked to their father as if to expect him to speak some sort of sense that would calm their sister, but Aeneas had lifted his head to expose the weary indented lines on his face and waved the empty hand that had once supported his forehead.
"Leave us," he prompted.
Neither brother moved.
"Go on," the king grumbled. "She's my daughter, and I've had enough of your complaints for one day!"
Reluctantly, the two retreated, not sparing potent looks at each other and the pair lingering behind. They would no doubt wait by the door to see what they could hear through the wood.
In the interim, father and daughter stared at one another, Aeneas exhausted and Iliana livid.
"Well," he began as soon as his sons had gone, "you have my ear."
"It's true then... You've released Damian."
"Yes."
Iliana pounced forward until her palms landed on the table, and she bent toward her father. "Why?"
She behaved as if she suspected foul play, and Aeneas exhaled slowly, remembering how Damian too had misunderstood his intentions. Evidently he had convinced everyone—even himself for a while—that he was a man to be feared.
"It is a symbol," he answered. "We are not Greek. We do not kill the innocent."
"The innocent," she repeated and frowned densely. "You believe that he was not to be blamed?"
The King's face shivered with his private thoughts, but when he replied, he was calm and even, "He's paid for the damage he did to you. That is enough."
Iliana's chestnut eyes nipped for something more and darted back and forth to survey Aeneas' face. Voice tainted with surprise, she confessed, "I don't understand."
Aeneas stood, ignoring the cracks of old bones and flares of pain when his muscles gripped too tightly, and wandered toward the window. "I'm the king. I don't need to explain my motivations to anyone."
Witless and subdued from her prepared fury, Iliana numbly followed after him and wrung her hands before her. She was too superstitious almost to speak the words allowed, but she couldn't contain the thought to herself. "You did it for me."
Aeneas paused and stared across the square where he could monitor his people's daily work. He made no move to respond, and his silence was an answer in itself.
Abruptly her eyes pricked, and she wound her fingers about his as if to force him to acknowledge her. He bowed his head, glanced over his shoulder, and was caught by her raw look. "Thank you," she whispered through shaking lips. "I was so afraid… Afraid of what you would do to him. That you would punish him for my mistake and his heritage." She swallowed and gripped his hand tighter. "I was weak to forget your wisdom and your mercy. I'm sorry, Father. I've been—"
"Stop," he interrupted and looked more haggard for having heard her. "You don't need to apologize to me."
She dared a fleeting smile and rushed forward to embrace him with such earnest that Aeneas faltered for a moment before he held her. Exhaling, he rested his cheek against her hair and knew he had made the right decision, no matter if it haunted him still. She wasn't a child anymore. He needed to trust her instincts as she trusted him.
"What will you do now?" he wondered reluctantly. He had committed to this path the moment he cut Damian's binds, but he couldn't quell his reservations in one fell swoop. Unconsciously, he held Iliana tighter.
She was grateful for the shelter of his hold, so he wouldn't see how she shied by the implication. It was what she'd wanted—the opportunity to be courted by Damian and have a life beside him. It suddenly seemed so childish.
"Leave him be," she murmured but couldn't hide the disappointment from her tone. "It's the least I can do for the all the pain I've caused him."
Aeneas released her and held her by her shoulders in front him where she couldn't anticipate his severe frown. "The man was ready to die for you, Iliana," the king said sternly. "He deserves more than your sympathy."
Her chin bowed toward her chest, and she tried to twist from Aeneas' grip. He didn't let her slip away so easily, and she was forced to answer him. "How can I face him? How can I look into his eyes after this? I can barely look at myself…"
"You didn't fall into this alone," Aeneas countered. "He's guilty as you are."
She still would not meet her father's gaze and looked increasingly distressed and upset.
The king bent nearer and reminded her, "You've forgiven him. Do you not believe he will forgive you too?"
"I'm afraid I don't deserve his forgiveness," she confessed and managed to glimpse at her father. "I wish none of it had happened. I wish I had never gone to him that morning!"
"You can't change the past—no matter how you will it."
She braced herself with her hands on Aeneas' forearms for a fresh battle would need to waged, and she didn't know if she had the strength or will to face it.
‡‡‡
"You won't let it heal."
"I don't have the time to be wounded," Haemon countered through gritted teeth, fighting back every grimace of pain, as Aurora tended to the wound. He'd torn part of his sutures as he suspected, and she was now forced to cut them only to sew the ends together once more.
Her shoulders sank with aggravation at his stubbornness, but she continued her work, pausing briefly to push all her hair across one shoulder to clear her sights.
The interim was enough for Haemon to catch his breath. She leaned over once more, and he sucked in a short gust, held it tightly in his chest, and knotted his fingers in the sheet behind him. The wound was sore. It was bloody. It was healing poorly as she suggested, and staring at it, he was furious.
She glanced up at him from beneath her brow, and her mismatched eyes assessed his stature. Without warning, she sat back on her heels and decided, "Catch your breath."
"Get on with it!" he snapped impatiently like the growl of a wounded animal, but rather than rushing to work, Aurora stared straight into his face, matching his fury with the hollowness of her features. That look. He bowed his head and stared at the wound on his leg. It was a better sight, and he muttered, "I want to be done."
A moment later, she bent forward once more to continue her advance.
The silence settled around them, and though she was close enough he could brush his chin across her blonde hair, they were a sea apart since the news of Atlan's execution. She was cold to him. They'd broken through the walls between them, and now, fresh ground was laid to build up more. He'd only just gotten his hands around her and forced her out of her shell, and now he'd lost her again. For the first time in a long time, the Prince felt defeated, and he did not take it well.
"You're angry with me still," he grumbled and gripped the sheets tighter as she started on the final stretch of skin.
She pointedly said noting and was forced to extend the breadth of the sutures to reach fresh skin that would hold around the torn pieces.
He groaned shortly, his chest tightened like it could rip in half with the breath he held, and his face burned.
She finished the third loop, and he released it all, chest heaving to pile it back inside, while she calmly paused and untangled a snare in the thread.
Days ago, she'd nearly been sick tending to him. She handled it currently with such disconnect and tempered mood that she could have been dabbing ointment on a scrape. He should be proud to see such a change in her. A soldier needed a wife with nerves to match his own, but Haemon was only angry. He stared at her wheat blonde hair braided and twisted into two golden clips, a parting gift from Queen Raia who had become quite fond of Aurora during their time in Samnium, and he wanted to tear them out, wrap that blonde hair around his hand, throw her on the bed, make her remember what it felt like to need him…
"By the time we reach Alba Longa," he said through haggard breath, "you'll change your mind—again."
The words were sharp and venomous to remind her of the way their relationship swayed and pitched like a ship on a stormy sea. She looked at him, features more severe, and said, "Don't speak to me that way."
He sneered cruelly. "Is that a threat?"
"No." She huffed and sat back on her heels again, leaving her work unfinished, and he saw himself reaching for her. His fingers tore harder at the sheet.
"Finish it!"
"No!" she repeated, and her voice rose to match his own.
He growled in frustration, and his face contorted with such a heavy frown of surprise and confusion.
"I may mourn. You can't expect me to cry one night and smile the next morning. I'm livid!" she snapped, almost breathless with how she yelled it, and her eyes focused on him. "But not with you."
"It's an act, then?" he countered, quick to reach beyond and unleash the pent up anger boiling inside him. "You spend your days with the queen! You only come to me when you're weak or frightened and expect me to shield you!"
"That's not fair!" Her face was pale, but her cheeks flushed as she stumbled to her feet. "I can't be with you like this. I can't be the target of your guilt."
He lashed out and found her wrist while growling, "What does that mean?"
"Every time I look at you, I see the guilt in your eyes, and it makes me sick…" She inhaled uneasily, quivering almost in front of him, but she kept her attention pinned on him. "You feel responsible, but I never asked you to fight my battles."
Her tone calmed to something gentle and even, but it speared him through the chest, through the flesh and bone, straight into his heart. He stood up, ignoring how the pain tore up his leg, and roared, "What do you think husbands do!"
The silence was heavy and dense. Aurora trembled as he loomed over her, face alight with such red and blistering anger, but she stared up into his eyes, saw the pain peeling away the edges, and wanted to touch his brow and smooth back those lines.
"I will tear his eyes from his head and his tongue from his mouth," he groused low in his throat. "I will rip his limbs from his body and leave him on a field to rot!" His eyes, wild and untamed pierced her own, and he promised, "I will watch the crows eat his flesh, hear his cries, and I'll give him no mercy… And all will know in this life and the next. This is the price of hurting you."
Her breath shivered out of her lips. She wanted to tear her wrist from his grip, knowing what those hands could do in her name, and she desired none of it. But this had little to do with her. She could see that.
"Was that the fate of your father's killer?" she wondered softly. She plucked the raw nerve so effortlessly, but Haemon winced in a way she'd never seen.
"No," he answered and crumpled back until he was seated on the bed once more. He hissed with pain. Blood frothed and trickled from his wound.
Without hesitation, Aurora knelt before him, took up a piece of cloth, and cleaned away the blood. She turned it in her hands to a fresh side and placed it against the wound to help the blood congeal and slow. A moment later her lips nestled beside it, landing three times before she felt his hand in her hair, tugging to lean her head back so that she looked up at him.
"I'll give you redemption," he said.
"That's not redemption, Haemon… You talk of revenge."
"Sometimes, they are the same."
"You know they're not," she murmured, and he looked to the cloth bundled against his wound.
"It is better to have one than nothing," he told her.
She exhaled but could say nothing else. She drew away the cloth and murmured, "Let me finish it."
He released her, and she took up her needle once more. They would leave for Alba Longa in the morning.
Author's Note: Hi my lovelies! A shorter chapter unfortunately, but I've been busy as usual. I'm doing an editing job for a woman who is driving me mad, among other things, but in exciting news, one of my short stories is being published! :) Back to this story, though, much more to be done next chapter! Iliana and Damian will reunite!
Thank you to AmyLNelson and klandgraf2007 for the super sweet reviews!
Amy: Bienvenue encore, ma belle! J'imagine que tu t'amusait bien et que la France était tellement belle comme toujours mais je suis contente a te revoir! :) Damn English computers... I can never remember the alt codes for accents, so just imagine that they're there! How was it? Are you happy to be back? I cried like a three year old when I had to leave France :( Thank you for the review, and hopefully you enjoyed this update! xoxo
klandgraf: You're too sweet, gorgeous! Yes Aurora and Haemon's reunion was quite emotional for them, but clearly they have something kind of intense brewing between them :) I'm glad you like the father/daughter scenes with Aeneas and Iliana. They're some of my favorite ones to write because I see their dynamic so clearly in my head, and just the idea of Aeneas being a father and so docile and sweet is hilarious to me! YES! Aeneas the King! Initially I was going to have Haemon and Damian share that scene when Haemon returned, but I was like no. It would be Aeneas. It felt right :) Gah! Thanks, doll, and I hope you liked this chapter xoxo
