Chapter 65- What I Leave Behind
I have always known how this would end.
Not the hour. Not the exact breath that would fail me. But the shape of it the way the world would narrow, the way the future would finally loosen its grip on me. Some men fear death because it comes without warning. I have feared it because it never stopped watching.
Lucian told me once.
Not as a threat. Not as prophecy wrapped in ceremony. Just a truth, spoken quietly, like telling someone the weather will turn. Ten years. He said it the way one says winter will be harsh not cruel, just inevitable.
And now here it is.
Standing at the foot of my bed.
Waiting.
Every breath feels wrong.
Air scrapes my lungs as if they've turned to rusted metal, as if my chest is lined with broken glass instead of ribs.
My heart beats too slow, too heavy, each thud a reminder that it is failing at the one task it has never stopped performing.
I breathe anyway. I always do. I have never been good at surrender.
I am so tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. Not the kind that fades after rest or wine or laughter. This is the tiredness that settles into your bones and whispers that you have carried enough. That it is allowed to put the weight down now.
I hear her before I feel her.
The sound of her crying reaches me first soft, restrained, the kind of grief that hurts itself trying not to be loud. She presses her face against my chest and for a moment I forget the pain, forget the weakness, forget everything except her warmth.
Gods.
I want to hold her.
The instinct is violent, desperate. My mind screams at my body to move, to wrap my arms around her the way I have a thousand times before. To pull her close and bury my face in her hair and tell her this is not the end.
But my arms do not obey.
They lie useless at my sides, heavy as stone. Even lifting my fingers feels impossible, as though the effort alone would steal the little strength I have left. My body has already begun to betray me, piece by piece.
She sobs harder, her shoulders shaking against me, and I feel her tears soak through the sheets, through the bandages, onto my skin.
I memorize the sensation the heat of them, the way they cling.
I memorize the scent of her hair, the weight of her grief, the sound of her breath breaking when the pain becomes too much to hold inside.
I want to comfort her.
Like I always have.
But this time, I cannot.
I want to tell her I am sorry.
Not for dying I made my peace with that long ago but for leaving her to carry the crown alone. For making her strong when the world should have let her be gentle. For loving her in a life that demanded payment for every joy.
She whispers my name.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again, like if she says it enough times, it will tether me here.
Each time hurts more than the last.
My throat tightens. I try to speak, to tell her she is not alone, that she never will be but no sound comes. My lips refuse me the mercy of goodbye.
I listen instead.
To her grief. To the quiet of the room. To the faint sounds of life beyond these walls the guards' footsteps, the wind against stone, the world continuing as it always does, indifferent to kings and endings alike.
Eventually, she pulls away.
The absence is immediate. The cold rushes in where her warmth had been, sharp and undeniable. I hear her breathing change steadying, controlled. That frightens me more than her tears ever could.
That is the sound of resolve.
That is the sound of a woman becoming what the world needs her to be.
The door opens.
Her steps hesitate. I know her well enough to hear the battle she is fighting with herself the part of her that wants to stay, to crawl back into my arms, to beg me not to leave.
I want to tell her she is doing the right thing.
That she has always done the right thing. That the crown will not break her.
Not because it is kind.
But because she is relentless.
The door closes.
The sound echoes through the room like judgment.
My thoughts loosen, drifting like embers carried on a dying wind.
I see my children not as they will remember me, but as they are now.
Laughing. Running. Alive. I see my sons bickering over nothing, my daughter sneaking around with a grin far too clever for her age.
I see Lucian's name written into the future not as sacrifice, but as legacy.
They will be safe.
She will be safe.
That was always the point.
I became a tyrant so they would not have to. I crossed lines so they would never see them. I let the world call me cruel so it would never touch what I loved.
If this is the price my strength fading, my voice silenced, my hands stilled then I pay it.
But knowing that does not make it easier.
Death is not loud. It does not arrive with thunder or judgment. It comes quietly, settling into my bones like winter, stealing warmth one breath at a time. Each inhale feels borrowed. Each exhale feels like surrender.
And all I can think about is what I am leaving unfinished.
Her.
I feel her tears before I remember hearing them.
They soaked into my skin, heavy and desperate, like she was trying to anchor me to this world through sheer grief.
I wanted to hold her. Gods, I wanted to pull her into my arms, press my lips to her hair, tell her she would survive this that she was stronger than the pain clawing through her chest.
But my body betrayed me.
I hate that she will remember this moment as one where I did not move. I hate that she will wonder if I was already gone. I was not. I am still here. I am screaming inside my own bones, begging my hands to lift, begging my chest to rise just enough to comfort her.
I hope more than anything I hope she knows that my stillness was not indifference.
It was love choking on its own weight.
I never told her enough.
I never said it in all the ways I meant to. I said it in battles, in blood, in crowns and protection and threats whispered to the world but not enough in quiet moments. Not enough in soft ones. Not enough like this.
I would give anything for one more moment. One more chance to say her name the way I do when no one else is listening. One more kiss. One more promise that I would keep, if only time would allow it.
And my children
I see them everywhere now. In the space between heartbeats. In the ache behind my eyes. I see their small hands wrapped around my fingers, their laughter echoing down halls that will soon feel too large without me chasing them through it.
They will wake up tomorrow and I will not be there.
My son will look for me. He always does. He will stand a little taller than he should, trying to be brave, trying to be the man he thinks I expect him to become. I hate that I will not be there to tell him that he is already enough. That he does not need to harden himself to rule.
My daughter sweet, fierce, stubborn will ask why I did not come say goodnight. They will wait for flowers that will never arrive. For laughter that will never fill the room again.
I should have kissed them one more time.
I should have told them stories until my voice gave out. I should have held them longer, even when they complained.
I thought I had more time.
And Lucian
That name feels like a wound that never closed.
I failed him in ways I will carry beyond death. I should have protected him the way I protected my children. I should have been louder. Stronger. More present. I saw him as something fragile the world would devour if I looked away and then I looked away anyway.
I will never forgive myself for that.
I wonder if he knows I am dying. I wonder if he feels the thread between us thinning, fraying, finally breaking. I wonder if he is angry, or laughing, or pretending this does not hurt because pretending was always how he survived.
I wanted to see him again.
I wanted to tell him that he mattered. That he was not disposable. That he was never just magic or sacrifice or collateral damage in someone else's war.
I wanted him to be free.
My breathing grows shallow. Pain becomes distant not gone, but unimportant. The world dims at the edges, softening, like it is trying to be kind.
I am not afraid.
I am grieving.
Grieving the life I love. The family I would have died a thousand times over to protect. The future I will never see unfold.
But if this is how it ends if this is the cost of loving this deeply then I accept it.
Because my wife will live.
My children will grow.
And the world, cruel as it is, will not take them the way it tried to take me.
I hope she forgives me.
I hope she remembers me as someone who loved her without reservation even when I failed to show it perfectly. I hope she knows that every terrible choice I made was born from the same place: fear of losing her.
My final thought is not of crowns or wars or destiny.
It is of peace.
Of laying down the weight I have carried for so long.