Harold watched his wife watch the gardens. He stood in the doorway, he didn't know what to say. He worked best trying not to think about anything, distracting himself. Lillian found distraction uncomfortable, as he'd grown to learn over the past two weeks. At first, Lillian had very much put on a brave face, she was sad, but she'd continued with life and taken things in her stride. Though, slowly, she deteriorated. Each day growing more and more miserable and despondent. Not that he could blame her. The rock at the pit of his stomach hadn't yet gone away and whenever he dwelled on their situation too much it put a knot in his throat. Still-

"It's what's best for her," he spoke again. Reminding his wife, and himself, all over again.

"I know," Lillian breathed, looking down at the stuffed tabby cat that she held in her lap. Her gaze returned to the window.

He didn't move from the doorway for a while more, watching her. Her shoulders were rolled forward a little, slumping, one hand held the toy, the other was rested atop its back. Her eyes were hollow and yet she didn't cry. She had cried, on their journey back from letting their daughter go, the quiet night that followed, at breakfast the next morning, unable to look at the uncharacteristically empty seat. Since then her tears had dried. He hadn't seen her this way in roughly thirteen years. Fiona's existence had put a stop to that, only to be resumed now, upon her departure.

"Our daughter is gone," she finally spoke. Her words were quiet, almost as if she were talking to herself.

"Lillian, she's not dead," he carefully spoke his thoughts. "She's coming back to us. One day." He was practically minded.

"I know that," she sharpened her tone. "I can't help but feel like I'm mourning her, Harold."

He didn't know what to say, so he didn't. He felt much the same, not that he would tell her. It felt surreal, the time they had been waiting for – for years – had arrived. They had both been dreading it, assuring each other they still had time, that she would be okay. His resolve to find another solution had slowly grown until he realised he was too much of a coward to do so. He had realised it far too late. Without distraction, the guilt was overwhelming for the king.

He slowly approached her chair, she remained silent. It had been a quiet two weeks. He hadn't realised how much life and conversation his daughter had brought to their days. The pair even avoided talking about her lest it renew the painful emotions they were simultaneously trying to avoid and as well as constantly wallowing in.

"I've changed my mind, Harold," she commented nonchalantly.

"What?" Alarm rose within him. As much as his heart ached for Fiona, the thought of Lillian demanding her back terrified him.

"I don't want to continue trying for another child," she spoke slowly, much to his relief. It had occurred to him long ago that conceiving another child was an impossibility for them, not that he told her of course. "How could we? They wouldn't even know their older sister. Fiona might see them as a replacement. The kingdom might see them as a replacement. That's not fair."

"But… we wouldn't get to have a son," Harold gently reminded her. Despite knowing what he knew, there was still hope that Lillian would alight within him every now and again. Hope that had vanished with his daughter.

Lillian shrugged. "My parents had seven daughters before they resided to the fact they weren't getting a son. My sister made for a fine heir, as does Fiona."

Harold nodded. "She does."

"I hope more than anything she's okay." Lillian expressed the same hope she'd been repeating all the while, subconsciously stroking at the toy cat in her hands.

His hand landed comfortingly on her shoulder, eyes heavy. He sighed. "So do I."

. . .

And we're back to depressing. I feel strange saying I hope you liked after this…

Thanks for reading! Fast update for a mini chapter.