“Whatever happens next is the aftermath of my choices… I just hope I made the right ones.” 

The people of Avaricé did not rejoice in the lives of their dead. It was a solemn procession that cut through the throngs gathered in the Grand Courtyard of the palace: 191 heroes in spectacularly painted caskets bearing the body of a beloved father or mother, a friend or a lover. From above it all she watched, swathed in the robes of her order and station. With a wave of her hand, the Consort called the mourners to attention as the last casket was laid to rest in line with the others.

The King’s speech was short and filled with pride for the fallen. After all, neither of them would be standing here addressing them at all without the sacrifices of the ones they were laying to rest this day. These men and women had all died in the service of their country, and received the highest honors as such. Throughout the speech, not a sound was heard aside the calling of the seabirds overhead and the whisper of a cold wind that came down off the northern mountains, signaling a hint of the winter to come. When the King had finished speaking, the fire-bearers stepped forth from the crowd to light the pyre for the dead. One by one the caskets burned, the flames licking up in a rainbow of colors as it reacted to the pigments in the paint on the wood. The King turned away to retreat to the comfort of the castle library, leaving his Consort to stand vigilant until one lone casket, swathed in white and golden flames, remained. And moments later it too was gone.

One by one the gathered raised two fingers to their lips and then the sky. Like a wave the salute made its way through the crowd until every soul saluted the Consort. With tears in her eyes she returned the gesture, then turned away from the balcony’s edge and followed the King into the library. 

Once the doors to the balcony had been shut behind her, the young woman turned around and took a deep breath. Carefully she shrugged out of the ceremonial robes and handed them to a waiting handmaiden. Long, slender fingers pulled at her tunic beneath to straighten it against her torso, and she gently shooed the rest of her waitstaff from the room. The King, it seemed, had already left. 

She found him standing near the exit of the library, his stance rigid. As she followed his gaze off to the left, she noticed a well-worn writing desk in a small alcove; An old leather-bound tome that lay open there. If it had been there before the funeral ceremony, neither of them had noticed. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized that she recognized the emblem embossed into the cover. It was her journal, the one she’d written in every night since they had come to live in the castle almost two years before. The Consort laid a hand gently on her King’s forearm, stirring him slightly from his shocked state.

He didn’t look back, but she could feel the tension in his arm. He hesitated another moment, then shook his head and shrugged away from her touch. She kept her face neutral, letting her hand drop as he moved away towards the door. She began to follow him, but paused in the doorway to look back at the journal. Her fingers tightened against the wood of the door’s frame as she seemed to wrestle with her own thoughts. She’d just begun to take a step back towards the alcove when his voice drifted to her from further down the hallway.

“Let it be.” She sighed and turned back to the King, whose eyes were hard as he watched her shift her weight back out of the room and away from the journal. “For once, please, just let her go.”

She hesitated a moment, a hardened look coming into her green eyes as if she was about to argue. After all, it wasn’t his place to tell her what to do. But the moment passed as she reminded herself that he wasn’t just her friend anymore, and to challenge him was not to be taken lightly. She drew a calming breath and released the anger before she spoke out of turn, then nodded curtly and followed him towards the throne room.

But as she walked away from the library, she felt a wetness on her skin. As she raised her hand to look, she noticed a tiny trail of blood that had slowly run down her hand. A small cut had opened on her palm, a few splinters peeking out from the reddened flesh. Gently, she picked the splinters from the wound and pulled a handkerchief from her robes to bind her hand. The cut stung terribly as she tied the cloth tightly around it to clot the blood, but she took a little comfort in it. The physical pain was much easier to deal with than the mental pain of losing the last family member she'd had left...

As much as she hated to admit it, the young Consort had to consent that he had been right to call her away from the journal tonight. It had only been a few days, after all. She hadn't yet even given herself time to grieve. She'd busied herself with making the arrangements for the funeral, alerting the families of the fallen, and helping him to get the Kingdom in order. Tonight, perhaps, she'd finally let it sink in that her sister was gone...

“And to my dear sister… I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused. It was the only way I knew how to finally put all our demons to rest…”