Chapter 23
"Rise Up"

Barion, Apulia
Five days later

"There is no discernable cause at this moment," the healer confessed in a hollow, reluctant tone. Each day, if not several times a day, he was called into the royal chambers with his eight assistants and numerous supplies to tend to the queen. And each day he suffered beneath the growing anger and disappointment weighing down the Alban crown prince. Whenever possible, he addressed Prince Ascanius, having abandoned any attempt to engage the crown prince in conversation. It would be analogous to striking his own back with a whip.

"What else can be done?" Ascanius pressed. While his handsome brow was furrowed, he remained level-headed and cool—quite the counterpart to his tumultuous brother.

"At this point…" The healer rolled a heavy ring around his finger to expel absent nerves. "It is the will of the gods. There is no reason for her to sleep still—"

"Get out."

The healer startled as if the prey had heard the low growl of a predator.

Haemon rolled his jaw and exhaled shortly. When the man didn't leave, he looked over his shoulder, grumbling, "Now!"

"You'll be called as needed," Ascanius translated his brother's anger, which was not an unknown responsibility for the prince.

"My lords." The healer bowed deeply and backed out of the space with his assistants and their supplies in tow. He was diligent in his adoration of Apulia's new royalty if only to avoid their wrath. Already in the five days since the battle Haemon and his brothers had scoured the lands for loyal servants of Savas. Their fates were discussed in hushed whispers and evoked pale, terrified expressions. The healer did not wish to join their ranks.

With the healer removed from the space, Haemon resumed his watch of the Apulian queen, his betrothed, who was caught somewhere between this world and the next. She had not stirred in five days' time—no food, no water, no pleading would wake her. If this persisted, she would wither before his eyes, if whatever injury evaded the sights of the healer did not claim her first. Haemon waited powerless to move the hands of fate.

"Rest, brother," Ascanius prompted while he grasped Haemon's shoulder and squeezed meaningfully.

Without considering him, the latter groused something indecipherable.

"I'll keep watch over her."

"Go."

"You'll be of no use to these lands, to these people, to her, if you don't sleep or eat," he warned, having surrendered his calm patience for a bout of short frustration.

Tense, silent beats passed where it seemed the crown prince would ignore his brother's pleading, and Ascanius nearly resolved himself to leave. At last, Haemon said, "She's afraid to be alone. She needs me here. She'll come back to me."

The dry desperation in his brother's tone quelled whatever angerAscanius felt toward him and his endless stubbornness. The man sighed gently, a dull pain striking his chest as he considered his eldest brother desperate for an intervention from the gods. Even Haemon was human, mortal, flawed, and at the end of war, capable of immense fear. Fleetingly, Ascanius wondered if Aurora had any idea what sort of man she had committed herself to, a stubborn ass but also a husband who would not turn from her in her darkest hour.

"Then stay with her," he decided after considering this train of thought. "I pray she returns, brother."

As was his habit, Haemon said nothing, and Ascanius left the pair alone in the royal chambers which had until five days prior belonged to a bastard king.

Now the rightful queen lay in its plush bed. She was propped upon several pillows, and Haemon had diligently cleaned away all traces of blood and dirt from her. The action brought memories of her bathing him in Samnium and healing his wounds, and he found himself humbled enough to care for her now in the way she had him. Her complexion was pale and clear despite the yellow and purple bruising spreading across her cheek. He stitched the cuts in her thigh and arm. Other wounds were cleaned and addressed in turn. He couldn't deny that every injury upon her was an affront to him. Appropriately Savas' corpse had been left out in the fields, untended but guarded to keep anyone from foolishly attempting to interfere with the prince's rage. Crows picked at the corpse. The flesh had begun rotting in the sun. Savas would wander the life after this, powerless and mute, stripped of his chance at glory.

Haemon took her hand and felt it was cold in his own despite the blankets piled upon her and the fire roaring in the room. Without hesitation, the prince stood from his seat at her bedside and slipped under the covers. He drew her into his arms, wrapping her in his embrace to warm her. He kissed her forehead, her pale brows, her cheeks, and encouraged her deeper into his grip.

It was unclear at what point consciousness surrendered to sleep. All was black. There was no sense of time or space. Only darkness supported him, and he was vaguely assured of the ground holding him upright. In front of him, Hector stood in his armor looking as young and sturdy as Haemon remembered him to be. Each day the memory felt further and further away, and the crown prince was surprised, then, by the flesh and detail that faced him.

Haemon smiled weakly, but it was a pitiful, hollow mask. Soon the true visage cracked through the surface. The prince's features crumpled with regret. "Honor the gods, love your woman, defend your country," he quoted even as his throat closed around the words. He laughed without humor. "Your code, Father. Did it bring you peace? To die alone? To leave us alone?"

"Father," Hector echoed and smiled.

Confused by his contribution when never had he spoken in response, Haemon laughed again even as tears pooled in his eyes to hear a voice he thought had long been lost to the sands of time. "You were a father," he agreed. "And I a son… I've asked nothing of you, but if she is…" His voice broke, and his gaze faltered looking at the black vacuum of space beneath them before steadying his eyes on the Trojan again. "If she is there… send her back. She doesn't belong there. Not yet. Please, Father."

This time Hector offered no response, though his smile remained, warm and wise.

Haemon could not stand such a look. He fell to his knees, took Hector's hands in his, and kissed each in turn.

Hector coaxed the man back atop his feet without a word. He gazed indefinitely into his son's tearstained face before embracing him. Haemon was reluctant to hold his father in return, but the comfort was too promising to ignore. The tears overcame him. He wept openly into his father's shoulder and held tightly to the bronze links that encased his chest. It was grief and understanding and forgiveness that overwhelmed him without cease.

It felt too soon, then, that Hector pulled away from him. Eighteen years these emotions had been buried down deep, and now that they breathed into light, Haemon wanted to hold his father and beg forgiveness for his impudence.

Instead, Hector took his shoulders and told him, "A lost king will have his crown."

"I don't care about crowns, Father," Haemon countered almost angry by such a prophecy.

To this Hector's face warmed in a proud smile. He nodded. "Father," he echoed once more, this time looking Haemon up and down as if assessing his worth. He seemed pleased by what he found, no matter his son's tears, and he considered the young man once more. Leaning close, their chestnut eyes peered into the others like an endless reflection. "Tell her she must wake for your daughter."

Haemon awoke gracelessly in a bluster and turned to the woman in his arms, excited by the prospect of what he might find. "Aurora," he called to her with a smile teeming from his face, and he was shocked to discover when he pushed the hair from her eyes that she slept still, soundly and uninterrupted. He shook her with pregnant anticipation, but the queen's head lolled deeper into the pillow, limp and unresponsive. The expectation building in his chest deflated in a painful moment of suspense. Daughter… Hector had named a daughter, and the word rattled through his head until Haemon reached beneath the covers and placed a palm atop Aurora's abdomen. It was soft, warm, but there was no discernable rise to tantalize his mind.

Swallowing down his thick disappointment, Haemon held stubbornly to her abdomen, leaned near her, and commanded, "Wake for our daughter."

Still the blonde did not react, and Haemon could scarcely look at her placid face knowing all that his father promised and acutely feeling the pain of it slipping through his fingers. He arranged her to lay atop her pillows with the covers pulled up to her chin. He moved the hair from her face last before he left her side in search of wine and a scalding bath, anything to pacify his mind and body.

Cleaned and numbed from alcohol, the prince was of a better mind to sit before a map of Apulia and consider his plans for this country. He had no desire to rule these wild forests without her, but he could not leave a country without a ruler. Men worse than Savas would rise to assume power. He owed it to Aurora and her family to right Savas' wrongs as best he could. Unfortunately, the sentiment was easier said than accomplished.

"What of the royal stores?" Haemon wondered while rubbing at a twitching muscle above his eye.

"The king demanded that the stores be filled with two winters' worth of grain," a servant reported from his place standing on the opposite end of the table.

The prince frowned deeply. "It is not possible to consume that much grain or keep it until the next winter. What of the excess?"

"Fed to the livestock, my lord," the man answered promptly.

The Alban laughed in amazement at such unnecessary cruelty and yet reprimanded himself that he could be shocked by Savas of all men. "Make an announcement in the market square tomorrow," he decided. "Two-thirds of the royal stores will be distributed at noon the following day. By the queen's orders."

"Two-thirds?" the man repeated, unable to hide his own disbelief at Haemon's leniency.

If possible, his discontent deepened. "These people are starving. The rains drowned the crops, did they not?"

"Yes, my lord," he responded looking startled by the prince's tone.

"And we have more than enough to share," he summarized impatiently. "Two-thirds. Guards should help distribute the grain. Women and children will be prioritized. Then the elderly. Then whoever else remains." Having decided this course, he rubbed at his brow where a pain throbbed incessantly above his eye, working its way down the right side of his face.

The servant lingered uncertainly, and Haemon looked over the bronze cup he brought to his lips.

After a chaste sip of wine, he prompted, "Do you understand what I've told you?"

"Yes, yes, my lord," the servant assured him with a small bow. "I only… I wonder how I am to tell them it is by the queen's order… when none have seen her since the battle."

To this, Haemon eased back in his seat donning a stern look. "What are they saying?"

"Nothing of note, my lord. It was not my place to question—"

"Speak," the prince interrupted shortly. "Truthfully. What are the rumors?"

The servant nervously wet his lips and bent his head answering to the floor and his wringing hands when he said, "They say that the queen is being held captive by the Alban prince and his family. That you rule in her stead—or worse, that she is dead."

Haemon smirked. "How astute."

The man made no remark, only bowing deeper in shame or fear. From Haemon's seat, it was difficult to discern which.

"Say nothing. They will be too preoccupied filling their bellies to wag their tongues gossiping about the queen."

"My lord," the servant murmured in agreement and managed to bow even lower before backing out of the space.

It was doubtful Haemon would ever acclimate to the standard of royalty in Apulia. Albans were loyal, honest, and willing to serve, but they did so with their heads held high. There was a time he found these traditions, somehow familiar and distant, seductive, but these lands lost their allure in the wake of battle. All was gray.

In the servant's absence, another stepped forward to demand the prince's audience. Damian neared close enough that the lamps illuminated his features, and after a moment of thought, he nodded his head in a poor bow. "My prince… or should I call you king?" he wondered.

"You've a bold tongue, Spartan," Haemon observed dryly.

"Your father's threatened to cut it out," he agreed without humor and folded his hands before him. "Is that why you've called me?"

"You have my father's protection."

"In Alba Longa," Damian answered almost looking bored by the conversation if that were possible. His ease and almost daring suggested death had little hold over him. "We're not in Alba Longa, Prince."

One corner of Haemon's mouth drew back in a dubious smile. "You think I would call you here to take your tongue or your life?"

The blacksmith shifted back and forth between his feet in momentary consideration before he offered, "Have you?"

Haemon drew a long sip from his wine and answered, "No."

Admittedly, the Spartan's features flexed in surprise no matter his calm presentation.

The prince replaced his cup of wine, taking the stem between his fingers to swirl it absently over the table. When he looked back at the Spartan, he commented, "I've been told you protected the queen in battle."

Damin looked further perplexed at this turn of events. The surprise held his tongue. In time, he decided, "I tried."

"How did you identify her?"

Once again, the question disarmed the Spartan, and progressively his stoic façade faded to reveal pieces of the man beneath—calculating, proud, but honest. "I saw her with the archers before battle, Lord," he admitted. In his mind's eye, he could see again her focus on the soldier at her side before she noticed Damian beyond him. In that brief moment, he caught sight of her unusual eyes, although she tried to look away to hide her identity.

"And you said nothing?" Haemon continued. The cup stilled on the table, and the prince leaned forward to consider the man.

"Was it my place?" he returned without pause.

All at once, Haemon's fist landed on the table, disrupting the contents and splashing wine from his cup. "If you had told Nereus or Ascanius or myself…" he growled out shortly. His flexed fist relaxed, and the prince bowed his head between his shoulders at a loss for the words.

Damian stared with hardened features at the prince and his brash display of emotion. The Spartan frowned at the implications. "Yes," he decided loud enough to catch the prince's attention. "If I had alerted someone, the queen may yet be conscious and unharmed. I failed you, Prince."

The Alban peered up at Damian in mild surprise before his lips curled angrily. "I don't need your pity, Spartan."

The man exhaled slowly recognizing that he had acquiesced too easily and unintentionally wounded the prince's pride as a result. "I would return to that moment," he said instead, "and I would have spoken. I carry that decision with me."

"Why didn't you?"

Damian opened his mouth, but the words alluded him.

"What held your tongue?" Haemon pressed, the raw edge to his tone flaring as he spoke.

"It was her war," Damian snapped more sharply than he had intended and attempted to mediate in a kinder tone, "Lord."

"You've often kept secrets," the prince observed to which Damian snorted lightly. "You disagree?"

"No." He shook his head full of thick black curls and offered up his empty hands. "I am a liar. A bastard. And I… I have poorly repented."

The prince hesitated on the cusp of countering his words with a curt reply when he eased back in his seat and gazed upon the blacksmith in a curious manner.

Damian clasped his hands once more and stood tall, accepting the prince's scrutiny as if he were accustomed to suspicious gazes.

"Is this how you speak to my sister?"

The Spartan visibly startled at the question only to blanche in the next moment. Gradually, he admitted, "I'm not sure how I can answer that question."

Haemon didn't offer guidance on this but scratched thoughtfully at his beard. When his hand fell, he reviewed, "I've been told that you staved off an attacker who would have killed the queen. That you attempted to guide her to safety away from the battle. That you followed after her when she evaded you… Is this true?"

"Yes," Damian replied before meditating, "She was quite difficult to hold onto."

Without warning, a smile spread across the Alban's features, sincere and warm.

That was the most disarming moment between them by Damian's account who struggled to consider how to interpret such a candid look.

In the next moment, Haemon stood from his chair and eased around the table to approach the Spartan.

Damian watched him with hawkish awareness, searching for a sign of deceit in the prince's amiable posture.

Haemon clapped the Spartan firmly on the shoulder, sighing with an unvoiced thought. "You may lose your grip on my wife… But you will hold to my sister." The warmth in his features faded as his grip on Damian's shoulder grew tenfold driving his fingers toward the bone. "You will speak kindly to her and honestly. And you will honor her with your loyalty. If you disgrace her in any way…" Here the prince leaned closer to the Spartan assuring that the men were on eye-level and nothing could interfere with his threat. "I will kill you, and curse you in the life after this."

The Spartan maintained his prince's intense gaze and bowed his head, this time sincere in his respect.

Once more Haemon clapped him firmly on the shoulder and turned toward his seat. "You'll leave with the army in three days' time."

"My prince," Damian agreed, but before the Spartan could leave, Ariston rushed into the space jubilant and anxious at once.

"She's awake!" the youngest prince reported scarcely capable of standing still. He rushed toward Haemon and then retreated abruptly. "Your wife lives!"

Haemon was stunned at this news, his feet having turned to lead beneath him, and he struggled to allow himself the hope that this was not a dream. Unwittingly, his gaze strayed to Damian almost not trusting his own ears, and the Spartan flexed his brow at the pale shock arranging Haemon's once menacing features into a vulnerable look of surprise.

Damian couldn't withhold a grin and prompted, "Go to her, Prince."

Assured that the man had indeed heard the same news, Haemon was invigorated, and he started for the doors at a run. Servants darted out of his way, while Ariston chased at his heels. Haemon grasped onto the edge of the atrium while his feet nearly continued the chase without him, and he leveraged his body through the space and through the main doors of the royal chambers. There he found Ascanius seated in the chair Haemon had occupied for days and speaking with the blonde propped upon her pillows.

Aurora dared to laugh at one of Ascanius' poor tales. Haemon had heard it numerous times and recognized the key points before his brother reached the climax of the tale. He might have made a quip at the man's expense were he not too enamored by the sight of her sitting up with eyes open. Though he provided no quip at his brother's expense, Haemon disrupted the story in a clamor of slapping sandals and nervous breath.

The queen looked at him at first in shock by his abrupt entrance, and then her features warmed in a smile unlike he had ever seen. He rushed toward her. Ascanius was clever enough to make space for his brother who swept Aurora into his grip. He held fast to her face, kissing her cheeks and her forehead and her lips, all the while condemning, "You stupid, stupid woman. How could you…" Before he could finish the statement, he folded her in his embrace, and she held tightly to his shoulders and laughed against his neck.

"You woke the one moment he was not at your side," Ascanius explained. "You'll be relieved to know we finally convinced him to bathe."

Aurora found Ascanius' gaze over Haemon's shoulder and winked conspiratorially. When the crown prince dared to pull away and consider her face once more, Aurora adopted a meek, tender look. "I worried when you were not here," she said in soft tone.

Haemon's brow crumpled at this news. He stroked her cheek gently. "I would have… I should have…"

Unable to maintain her game, even if it allowed her to enjoy an adoring side of Haemon, Aurora broke into a charmed grin and kissed him. The prince eagerly returned her affection, holding tight to her face to feed off her lips. They were dry from days without water to quench them, but they folded under his mouth. The heat from her lips and feel of her flexing them to match his kiss was intoxicating. He lost himself in celebrating her return until Aurora managed to angle her mouth away enough to prompt, "Help me sit, my love. We have much to discuss."

Haemon exhaled stubbornly through his nose, idly massaging his fingers into her temple and jawline, unwilling to release her. He kissed her twice more before at last he allowed her arm to steady herself around his shoulders, and he eased her to sit higher against the pillows at her back. He adjusted these as well to be sure she would not be uncomfortable, and his focus fortunately prevented him from noticing the loaded look shared between Ascanius and Nereus as they observed their eldest brother tending to the queen.

Once his task was completed to his satisfaction, he sat at Aurora's side, and she smiled as she took his hand into her lap. She then turned to the three princes waiting beyond her bed and wondered, "What of my country? What of my people?"

‡‡‡

Two days later

Her breaths were short, shallow huffs through her mouth. The cold morning burned her cheeks. Still her lips were chapped and split in places despite the salve she applied several times daily. The purple bruise fading to yellow stood prominent on her face, even more distracting than her mismatched eyes, and the queen of Apulia did not hide her wounds when she rode through the capital. Barion was not Alba Longa. There no cries of adoration. No cheers. No warmth. Citizens lined the road as the royal party passed, but they offered only wide eyes and silent tongues. Her country had lived too many years in silence, she recognized, and even in Savas' absence the quiet fear permeated.

The party likewise rode without conversation, and the sole sound was the horses hooves clopping on hard ground. The rains had stopped, leaving the ground to dry and settle like hard bone. The battlefield was far from the palace, so that the queen was breathless, sweating, and gripping tightly to her reigns with her unbroken hand to weather the journey. She was weak still and easily exhausted, but no more time could be wasted avoiding this decision.

Without question, Haemon was at her side reaching up to help her dismount the horse once they arrived. She swallowed thickly, trying to mask her haggard breath lest she concern him, but she gripped to his arms to steady herself a moment longer peering up into his face to borrow strength from his stolid expression.

"You don't need to see this," he told her for the umpteenth time that morning.

"I do," she replied and released him to twist and face the field.

She could hear the clash of bronze, smell the fresh blood, remember the weight of her armor… She exhaled shakily and approached. Guards led her, scaring away the crows that were feasting on the blood and guts abandoned to the field. The ground was still stained from the fight. A rank, heavy smell hung about the land. Not far ahead of her, she saw the forgotten king like a black boulder or sack left behind. Crows squawked angrily at the guards approaching, claiming their feast, and the guards swung their torches to scare the animals away. The smell increased tenfold as she drew closer, decaying flesh lacing her nostrils. She covered her mouth and nose, but her throat jerked beyond her control. Soon her shallow breaths stilled as she held her breath and approached closer.

His green cape fretted in the breeze. The sun caught his matte leather armor. Pale hair stained with blood quivered, almost making the queen mistake the man for trembling in the cold. A few more steps, however, and it was impossible to gaze upon him. The smell was a warning, but her uncle was scarcely recognizable. The crows had taken his eyes and pieces of his cheeks. His throat was a mangled, torn mess, and the memory forced its way into her sights. The blood frothing and gurgling from his ripped throat. Aurora could taste it in her mouth. She shuddered uncontrollably and could no longer hold her breath. She gasped a swift inhale and was assaulted by the smell. All her senses collided until the sun was too bright, the rotten smell too strong, the breeze too much… She closed her eyes seeking out the calm black behind her lids. Her uncle had been left to deteriorate into a horrible perversion of himself—a victim of Haemon's justice. She couldn't bear to stare at him, but she couldn't allow herself to turn and face the man who allowed this. She knew the disgust in her heart would spill from her eyes.

You must be strong now, she reminded herself. Be the voice of your people.

She moved to step closer to him when unexpectedly a hand held her from approaching. Haemon was at her side and advised, "Keep your distance."

The blonde couldn't look at him, even as she recalled distantly, "I killed him."

"You avenged your family," he corrected.

"He was my uncle…" The thought trailed off into the day. Her eyes were dry, but at any moment she felt she might retch.

Haemon held tightly to her arm to steady her, and she wasn't entirely aware that she was swaying atop her feet. His attention was focused solely on her profile. A pale halo surrounded her dry lips despite the sweat beading along her forehead. Pieces of her hair curled around her damp temples and cheeks. She looked like she might crumble at any moment.

"He murdered the innocent," the prince continued, "and stole power."

"Haemon…" The response died on her lips. She couldn't find the words to explain that this was not her vengeance. Exhaling shakily, she decided, "He will be given a proper funeral."

"He deserves no respect."

Finally, the queen turned to look at her lover and shared the guilt, disgust, and pain in her eyes. Haemon's already tense frown turned lower. "He has hurt these lands and my family long enough. I won't allow him in death to give the gods reason to curse us." At this, she turned to consider the party that had joined her. "He will burn, and he will be forgotten. And he may meet my family in the life after this… That is my wish."

The queen stalked away from the field and her uncle's mutilated corpse. Memories followed her nipping incessantly at her heels. She shivered from somewhere deep within and desired nothing more than the warmth of her bed and a full cup of wine.

Behind her, Haemon motioned to the guards who were too afraid to move the body while in the prince's presence no matter Aurora's order. They startled to attention and hurried to complete their task while the prince watched Aurora mount her horse with the aid of a servant and ride for the palace without another word. He remained awhile longer, thoughts complicated by the disgust and pain he had seen in Aurora's eyes. He had promised her Savas would pay for his treachery, but his visceral justice faltered.

He was distracted by the sound of a guard vomiting nearby, and that show of disgust infuriated him. "Be quick about it," he commanded sharply. The prince remained with the guards to escort the body back to the palace where it would be prepared for the funeral rites.

It wasn't until afternoon when he found the courage to face the queen in her chambers, avoiding that potent look of disgust and fear that he was sure would meet him. Aurora was resting in a plush chair overflowing with furs near the fire and gazing lost into the flames. Servants found reason to leave the pair, and only after the final servant slipped through the door did Haemon consider Aurora still mesmerized by the fire basin in front of her. It was unclear whether she was aware of his presence or not.

The prince grappled to translate the complicated, heavy feeling in his head into words. At length, he confessed, "I was wrong."

His voice clearly startled Aurora who twisted to consider the Alban with wide, curious eyes. "What?" she wondered.

The man set his jaw, then relaxed it, then flexed it again. "I was wrong to leave him there."

If possible, the blonde's expression fell further to hear Haemon bear his guilt on this occasion when always he had been proud and stubborn in his ways. "You were afraid and angry…" she understood in a soft tone even as she pushed away the memory of Savas' corpse in the field. She was quick to pivot from discussion of him. "You managed affairs well in my absence. I'm fortunate you have been at my side."

The prince shared her surprise in that moment, that she did not lash out or condemn him for his cruelty. Lost for words, he offered, "There is still much to be done. The army marches for Alba Longa tomorrow."

Her brow cinched subtly while she looked at the fire once more, searching its pulsing and crackling embers. Her voice was clear but void of emotion when she prompted, "Will you leave with them?"

He dared closer to her drawn by some inexplicable magnetism that exerted its power if only to demonstrate how he could not part from her. She leaned heavily against his open palm when he cupped her cheek and closed her eyes. Her bruised cheek was exposed to the fire's light, and Haemon stared at the evidence unsurprised how it stirred that sickly, familiar rage in him.

At length, he replied, "I would not leave you until your health recovers."

She opened her eyes turning her cheek in his palm to peer up at him through her lashes. "You will be unable to travel after the first snowfall—not until spring comes."

"I know." He smoothed his thumb across her cheekbone like he could sweep away the guarded look in her eyes. She seemed at once to cling to him and push him away. Confused he wondered, "Do you object?"

"No," she answered in a hushed, short breath. She placed her hand atop his, unable to grasp it in the way she desired because of the broken bones, and she quickly reached across with her other hand to hold his wrist. She stared up at him, abandoning her attempts at seeming strong and capable for that one instant. "I need you here with me."

Haemon easily squatted onto his heels next to her where their eyes were on level and gripped more firmly to her cheek. "Then you have me," he promised.

A tremor traveled across her features, leaving her lower lip trembling in its wake. Her eyes darted nervously back and forth between his while a pressure grew and poised to overwhelm her. The first few hot, stick tears burned her cold cheeks, and she cracked with a hard sob. She had not cried since she awoke, and it was unclear who these tears were meant for—the final grieving of her family, the loss of her innocence, the death of her violent uncle, the tortured fate of Atlan… The complicated layers of emotions washed over her sweeping her out into a black sea. Haemon easily curled her into his embrace, tangling his hands in her hair to hold her steady and leveraging his chin atop hers. She heaved with body wracking cries, able to sit in the darkness of her despair when she was not alone. His quiet strength promised she would never again be alone.


Author's note: So, there will either be one or two more chapters after this. It depends on length and if I have any other bright ideas. Next chapter Iliana and Damian will have their time :)

Thanks Hpuni101 for the sweet review and constant support. I'm sorry to have left you waiting for such a long time to figure out if I was going to save Aurora or not. I'm also sorry you were emotional in the last chapter... but also kinda not sorry because that was my goal! I hope you approve of how things are progressing and are looking forward to see if Hector's predictions are right or not. xx