She sat in the grand library, a place where the crown's weight lifted ever so slightly. The walls were lined with books, towering tomes and ancient scrolls, relics from the kingdom's long and tumultuous history. The flickering candlelight cast restless shadows, as if the past itself stirred on the edges of her mind.
She absentmindedly fingered the spine of a dusty volume, eyes scanning the lines without truly reading. Her fingers, rougher than they had once been, displayed the life of a warrior, yet they now felt idle. The fire crackled in the hearth, but the warmth it promised barely reached her.
Across from her, an ornate clock ticked, its sound steady and certain, an anchor in the silence. Its rhythm was normally hypnotic, but today it grated on her nerves. Her hands twitched in her lap, folding and unfolding, restless. She rose to stand by the window, looking out over the vast lands of the kingdom, her lands, and yet they felt distant. The people adored her still - their Hero Queen - the one who had saved them all. But sometimes, she wondered whether they adored a memory more than the woman she had become.
Behind her, she heard the soft click of the door. Fineas. She knew his step, knew the way he would walk in with all the quiet authority of a man confident in his role. She felt his presence before he spoke, felt the practiced warmth in his voice when he greeted her. He was a good man—kind, thoughtful. But the words he spoke now, about some diplomatic matter she should attend to, slipped past her. They were merely threads in a fabric she had long stopped weaving herself into.
He was still speaking when she turned her back to him, her eyes drifting back to the fields below. The conversation between them was more like a formality than a connection. He asked for her input, but she sensed he didn't truly need it. He rarely did. After all, he handled the kingdom with meticulous care. He always had.
Her fingers brushed the cold window, her brow furrowed. The lands stretched before her, vibrant and alive, but somehow, in this moment, it felt like an illusion, a painting she was detached from. Fineas' voice had faded, replaced by the steady drum of the rain starting to tap against the glass.
She had loved before, once. Not a different kind of love, but this very same one. It was passionate, urgent, the kind that both thrilled and terrified. Back then, Fineas had not only been her partner in duty, but in everything. They had shared a bond forged in the fires of battle and ambition, a bond that, in the fleeting moments of peace, felt unbreakable. Together, they dreamt of a kingdom remade, of battles fought side by side, of victories that would always feel like theirs.
But then, the war came. A war that consumed more than just the land. She had fought on the front lines, lived through horrors she could never speak of. In the dimly lit castle nights, still she could see the blood on her hands. The scars, both visible and not, had settled deep within her, into crevices where Fineas couldn't follow.
He had tried, at first. She remembered his gentle patience, his questions, his offers to share the burden. But she had come back different - and he knew it.
Reader, don't misunderstand. The love was still there - distant, faded at the edges, but not gone. He still smiled at her with a kind of fondness, still looked at her as if she were the same woman who fought and dreamed with him. But she wasn't. Years of battle hollowed something in her, left a coldness she couldn't seem to shake. Age had done the rest.
She glanced over her shoulder, catching his expectant gaze, the subtle hopefulness in his expression, mixed with agitation. His eyebrows, once dark, were drawn together.
"Verena? Are you even listening to me?"
With a nod, she gave him the answer he waited for, whatever it was. He smiled, tight-lipped but satisfied, and quietly excused himself. The door clicked shut behind him.
For a long time after, she stood by the window, staring into the rain-soaked horizon. The clock ticked, the fire crackled, and somewhere deep within her, something stirred—something old, something forgotten, something she couldn't name. But whatever it was, it waited, just beyond the mist.