King Alden was failing dismally at keeping Coris sane. Or perhaps, this was Freda’s punishment for his lies.
For two full days steeped in the solitude of a log cabin at the forest’s heart, Coris tasted the desperation of the Prince of the Woodland Realm. He now decided he’d rather shiver on the stones in his former cell atop the tower. At least he’d have wardens and guards he could observe, appraise their intelligence, and possibly exasperate.
He was reminded of the days in his nursery once the nurse had taken Zier away from his pinching claws—a crackling fire and twine-tied bundles of firewood, a table laden with hunks of cured meat, columns of bread and pies savory and sweet, a pell-mell pile of books he’d read through and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed in his pique.
No warden stood before his door. No guard prowled the cabin’s perimeters. He’d only lose himself should he attempt an escape, and Alden knew Coris Hadrian was not that much of a fool.
Dawn had just broken the sky, but Coris was already up and about, lunging a fallen stick to bash everything in sight with whatever strength his bony arm had. Zier would’ve taken the opportunity to train, would’ve perfected his technique and beaten his record. Coris was just channeling excess energy from his brain. There was no rhyme nor reason to his endeavor.
A chorus of footsteps joined his own, and Coris froze mid-swing. He spun around. Three hooded figures approached from the wall of trees, likely the daily batch of guards carrying more unneeded provisions, but why this early? And why were their hands bare? Was he being moved, instead?
Coris gripped the rod tight in his sweaty hand—he wasn’t allowed any weapons. His visitors drew close enough for the firelight to reach their faces. A jolt of fear sliced through his arm, and he dropped the stick with a clang.
A man with silky curtains of white-blond hair framing his square-jawed face and ocean-blue eyes glinting on ghostly white cheeks, accompanied by two burly, gray-clad knights.
Calming his ragged breaths, Coris bent his knees and retrieved his stick, unblinking eyes fixed on his old nemesis.
“How did you find this place?” he snapped. Graye’s lips stretched into a benign smile of amusement as he tilted his head, answering jovially,
“You should be more worried of why.”
Coris cocked an eyebrow. An ominous chill crept down his spine. He watched as Graye raised his arm and reached into the hanging mouth of his sleeve. From it he produced what appeared to be a cloth of dark, purplish red. He held it to his cheek, nuzzled his nose against it, eyes closed in bliss, a sigh rumbling in his throat as he savored its perfume.
“Fine fabric, soiled by sin,” he commented as if he saw Coris’s look of utter confusion. Like a beast alerted of fresh meat, his eyes snapped open, then he cast the cloth at Coris’s feet. “I think you’ll recognize the stench of a female in heat.”
Coris glanced down. The cloth unraveled, revealing a lace trim and a curious silhouette. It was a pair of fine linen pants, similar to the set he’d bought for Meya before they departed Hyacinth, for comfort and ease of cleaning during her pregnancy. It looked disheveled and damp in the flickering light, and indeed emanated a faint yet sharp odor he was familiar with.
And yet, for Freda knew how long, he stood and stared, uncomprehending. The truth was there before his eyes, but his head seemed to be falling asleep, protecting him from its fatal blow, while his heart pounded a tattoo in his veins, desperately waking it. Memories of their last meeting invaded his stupor, Graye’s offer to Meya, her anguished pleas, her fear, her despair, her desire.
No, it can’t be. Impossible. She would never…
Yet, there the proof lay. Yet, he knew her greatest weakness, the void she carried in her heart always, that this man would fill with his brand of poison.
No. No. Oh, Freda. Oh, please. Anything at all. Anything but this. Please no…
The cry curdled in his throat, swelled into a scream that filled his head to burst as he lunged forth with all his might, stabbing his wooden sword straight for that gaping mouth echoing with laughter.
He’d sever that forked tongue, pound those pointed teeth to dust, rip those whispering lips hissing lies clean off his flesh and burn them to ash for every moment they dared taste her lips, her skin, her hair. He’d rub the embers in those eyes, blind them for daring to look upon her with lust, purge the memory of her unclothed body from them. He longed to tear out his nose, his ears, his fingers one by one for the same crime. Yet, all he managed was howl and kick and flail in vain, pinned by limbs like steel as his hated enemy simply watched.
Graye reached into his sleeve again, straightening the pocket within.
“Do not fret. I shall love my new wife and child as I have my old,” he said serenely, then met Coris’s eyes with a small smile. “Farewell, Corien.”
He turned on his heel and swept away, prompting his guards to fling Coris deep into the bowels of his prison then follow in his wake. The door swung close, leaving him in the sputtering final breaths of dying flames.
Coris hooked his nails into the floorboards and dragged himself to her, what he had left of her, tears blinding him, sobs suffocating him. He pressed the soiled garment to his chest as he rolled and writhed, howling and wailing as he had never done, hoping for something, anything to cling to, a shred of hope.
For even if he could, erasing Graye from the face of this land would not satisfy him, would not bring back what was lost. For it was his own doing, his fault. He’d failed her. It was he who brought her onto this road, then failed to protect her from its dangers. The wind under her wings that lifted her so high towards the Heights, then let her plummet to the black depths of the Lake.
“Why, Meya? Why?” He called out weakly in his delirium, and an echo in his heart replied.
You know why. You know why.
Yes, I do. Yes, I do.
“Meya. Meya…!” He moaned over its scathing hiss, but she wouldn’t respond to save his soul, leaving him to burn in his guilt.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Meya…” He whimpered. Tears rolled down his cheeks into his ears. He was deaf to his own voice. His lips were numb and his throat parched. He couldn’t be bothered to move, reach for water.
The fire gasped its last, then darkness claimed it. The cold, silent wave of the Black Lake flooded him where he lay listless, his strength spent. He held her remnants to his heart, keeping it warm and safe. The embrace he should’ve given her was now the most he could do, would ever do.
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The nail hit the glass with a jarring chime that rent the air and woke Alanna with a start. Used to anticipating the church bell and the cock’s crow, she was mired in confusion until she remembered where she was.
She whipped around to her husband. Mirram didn’t appear to have heard, grudgingly enjoying the deepest sleep of his life, thanks to a gobletful of sleeping draught. She’d wake him when it came time to board the wagon and depart for home, otherwise he’d shred whatever remained of his legs trying to help out.
Once she’d guiltily wrapped Mirram with the blanket she’d hogged, Alanna flipped over and reached for the half-spent candle-clock by the bed. Its circle of light fell upon an empty mattress where her daughter should have been.
Her ever-fearful mother’s heart skipped a beat. She swung the light around to the garderobe. No rustle of fabric, no sound of flowing water came from the thin wooden door. No Meya hanging halfway out the window, retching her guts down a bucket. Her heart sank as her worst fears came true.
Despite her best efforts at consolation, Meya didn’t seem convinced all would be well. Poor lass must’ve run, hidden herself away somewhere, hoping Lady Crosset would be forced to leave without them. Oh, goodly Freda. Imagine the flame and fury when Mirram finally found her.
Alanna sprang to her feet, brandishing the candle as she whirled, casting its light on every nook and corner. No Meya. No Meya. Not there. Nor there.
“Meya?” she called, unsure, then cried against the silence, “Meya! Meya, where are you, lass?”
Rustling from the bed. She scurried to the garderobe, yanked the door open and poked her head inside. She knew but she must be sure.
“What is it?” Mirram called. Alanna wheeled around, chest heaving, eyes wide. She managed one word—
“Meya—!”
A blink, then his deep brown eyes darted to Meya’s empty mattress. He edged forth, raring to rise.
“She with the Hadrians?”
Alanna paused only to leave the candle on the windowsill then pelted for the door. Down the hallway she flew, crashed her fist on the Hadrians’ door until it opened, spilled gibberish onto the half-awake Lady Agnes. No, Meya wasn’t inside. No, no-one had heard or seen her after Alanna. Lady Arinel mentioned the church as her potential refuge. She clattered down the stairs. Innkeeper was just coming through his door. One eyeful of her face shoved against his as she swooped down on the counter, and he knew her demands.
“Saw her through my window just as I tucked in for second sleep. Left in a carriage—that gray one from yesterday.”
Gray.
Surprise. Confusion. Disbelief. Crippling fear. The maelstrom of terror one word could bring. She faintly heard thundering feet all clattering to a halt on the stairs over her pounding pulse in her ears. She bulled through the double doors as a girl’s voice cried out Mirram’s name. The courtyard was empty, desolate blue as the waking sky.
“MEYA—!”
She screamed into the still air, bile searing like fire in her throat. As if Freda heard her, a carriage rolled up the gravel, gray as ash over crumbling firewood. She watched its door with bated breath. She couldn’t see a shadow behind the glass in the meager light. Please be Meya. Please be Meya. But the figure that emerged was a stranger. No flaming red-gold hair. No blazing green eyes. No tattered dress. No freckled cheeks and wry smile. Just a reed-thin young man prim and gray as the wagon that bore him over.
He ascended the few steps that separated them as behind him the whip lugged out ornate chests and set them on the ground, some with clinking thuds of gold coins, some with muffled sighs of costly fabric. Alanna fixed her gaze on the road ahead and prayed he’d sweep past her, headed for his unknown lord still resting inside, but he paused before her. His blue eyes settled upon someone nearby.
“Mirram and Alanna Hild?”
Alanna whipped around then back. Mirram stood ashen-faced by her side, caneless, hanging to the stone pillar for support. He must’ve nodded, for the messenger bowed then continued,
“The Baroness Graye, upon her marriage to Baron Graye, claims the titles and rights afforded to her station.” He flourished his hand at the carriage. The whip bowed then resumed unloading chests of riches from within. “She would like for you to join her in Graye residence, so she could personally share this auspicious news with her beloved parents.”
His last words slapped Alanna awake. Parents? Baroness Graye? Since when have she birthed a baroness? Would this nonsense end already, so she could storm over to that church and pull her boar-headed daughter home by the braids?
Her head screamed the answer at her, but her heart was feverishly pounding blood up to drown its voice, leaving nothing but echoes in her ears.
“Us?” she sputtered, eyes scouring the courtyard as if the mysterious baroness would materialize somewhere. “Who…but…what…?”
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The messenger must’ve anticipated or been forewarned of her reaction. He produced a tied and sealed scroll, which he presented to her.
“The contract, signed and sealed between your daughter and Baron Graye himself. Legally binding and witnessed. He hopes it will be enough to reassure you.”
My daughter?
Marin, Morel, Meya, Mistral—the names streaked by in her head. But it couldn’t be. Marin was at home, so was Mistral. Morel was in Hadrian. Meya was, as usual, holed up somewhere causing mayhem, hoping Alanna wouldn’t find her too soon. And yet, her hands trembled, and she broke open the scroll, and she read the contract as Mirram edged in for a look.
Words arced into her eyes like knives from rivers of ink. Grimthel, Baron of Graye. Maelaith Aine Hild. Marriage. Titles. Baroness of Graye. Rights. Duties. Stipend. Birthright. Child. Consummated. Witnesses. Maelaith Aine Hild, again. Then, above it, a scrawled signature in childlike handwriting she’d only seen once but already knew by heart.
MAELAITH AINE HILD
Her hands trembled harder as she ran her fingers over the shiny ink. No warmth remained in it, yet it was brand new. She read again from the top, this time taking in the words in between, weaving a tale as old as time. An old nobleman taking a young, beautiful peasant girl for his mistress in all but name, lavishing upon her his riches and luxury. Thud, thud, thud went the chests of gold and jewels, as if she were watching a sideshow in the stadium, raring to burst out from behind curtains with her opening act.
Yet, no laughing audience surrounded her. And the name to be read out and ridiculed was a name she knew, one she had chosen. Her daughter. Maelaith. Her darling May Queen. Her wee songbird. Stripped bare and splayed on a bed. Ravaged by a crooning beast as his minions watched and lusted. Tears streaming down her cheeks as her lifeless eyes stared unseeing. She did not fight, as she must endure. She must endure if she wanted to…help.
All I ever want is to help. To repay you. To be useful.
She screamed and screamed and screamed as the truth sunk into her, the parchment crushed against her chest as she shattered and crumbled to the ground. She screamed so she couldn’t hear any other voice in existence, so all she felt was the pain of her throat splintering, her eardrums cracking, her forehead splitting against stone. She’d rather suffer all those for eternity than a heartbeat of the other. She hated the anguished sobs and the stubborn hands trying to hold her, distract her from her insanity. She must delay it, the inevitable, for as long as she could—
“MEYA! MEYA! MEYA—!”
Over and over, Alanna bawled her daughter’s name. Beside her, old Mirram Hild crumpled to his knees, listless, broken. As the messenger, the whip, the innkeeper stood and watched in bewilderment.
Kellis shook his head, his heart writhing. He had no daughter. He would never feel, never understand their brand of torture, would never find the equivalent in his two sons. And yet, he also did, a tenth of what they were experiencing, perhaps. For seven years, he’d known of the girl, asked after her in reports from Blood Druids, tasked them to watch over her, did what little he could to reward her for saving his son, rescued her in the nick of time from the clutches of traffickers.
For the past few weeks, he’d known her, accepted her as his daughter-in-law, looked forward to her marriage to his son and her coming into his clan, her birthing his first grandchild. She was innocent and kind of heart, stubborn, fiery. A dangerous combination rare in women of noble blood, as few could survive court intrigue long with such temperament, without a sharp man just as pure-hearted to protect her. Or even with him.
Breath left his lungs as his thoughts stumbled upon his son. Sylvia’s fingers were claws of ice rattling his arm. He turned to her and found Coris’s eyes looking to him for hope, for consolation.
“We must go to him! We must warn him, please!” Sylvia gasped through her tears. “If Graye finds him first, I couldn’t bear—!”
Kellis looked to the Heights through a haze of tears. Two fires raged inside him. Were they discovered, it would jeopardize their entire scheme. He pleaded to all the eyes of the sky, of tormented souls of man and dragon alike who still knew no rest, who still waited impatiently for duty to be fulfilled, for unjust to be atoned.
Just a day. A day longer. He needs me. Now more than ever before.
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Dawn broke. Birds sang. Wind blew. Leaves flutter. Time flowed on, heeding not, caring not. Regardless how much one struggled and strove, one’s existence meant naught in the grand scheme of being but pain and suffering.
He couldn’t save anyone. He couldn’t even save himself.
What was the purpose, then, in enduring? If all life had left to offer was to wallow in his uselessness? His waste of resources?
Fatigue shielded him for now. Dulling his senses, drowning out torturous thoughts, delaying the permanence of truth. But when his strength returned and his mind cleared, how much would it hurt? Like a stake driven through his heart, yet he couldn’t die? The wisest and only escape was death. In death, he would no longer feel, no longer know, but how to die with no laudanum to quietly ease him into eternal sleep?
His limbs lay dead and heavy as lead, but at least his eyes could still roll. Morning light lit his little cabin gray, reflecting from his mirror to lay upon the bundles of firewood.
He could perhaps nudge the mirror so it fell on its face and shatter into a dozen pieces. Hopefully one would be just the right size to fit in his palm, but would it be sharp enough for a quick, painless cut? Would he be brave enough to muster the force needed to saw through his own flesh and split open his vein? How long must he watch his blood flowing to puddle around him, feel it drenching his clothes? What if he changed his mind during the wait, then realize there was no turning back?
There must be a quicker, more effortless way. Quick as an impulse, too quick for fear and instinct to react. His eyes slid to the door. There was a little pond outside, but getting up and crawling there was such a bother. Water must be ice-cold, too. Drowning took time. He would soon try to swim free of Fyr’s clutches. Perhaps he would succeed, perhaps he wouldn’t, but either way he would be scared.
His eyes strayed next to the firewood. Thick ropes bound them that he’d need to untie. Then, he’d need to get up, fetch his chair, reach for the beam…
Even dying was a hassle. Yet, there was nothing else to occupy him but his thoughts, and he must waylay them at all costs. He’d just do what little he felt like for now.
He tugged on the end of the rope until the stack of wood tumbled onto the floorboards, splintered noisily into a dozen split logs. Caring not, he dragged the length of twine onto his chest. He’d make that simple noose used for trapping game, one that tightened with pull. Despite his battalion of dogs, he’d never much cared for hunting, but what was the hurry?
Grudgingly, he raised his head so he could slide one end of the rope under his nape, then raised both to his bleary eyes. Hopefully this would be long enough—it would vex him greatly to have to pull apart another bundle of wood.
The rope was coarse and stubborn, slipping from his sweaty fingers, springing undone as he bent it into a loop. What next? Under? Over? Around? How many rounds until it would hold? Or would it snap and he’d end up breaking his face and kneecaps on the floor?
Suits you right for never bothering to attend a hanging for once in your short, miserable life.
He grunted and growled. The door banged open, and morning light blinded him. Two shadows wavered in the blazing white, inexplicably familiar. Good, they could help him figure this out. Goodly Freda, he was so pathetic he even needed help dying—
The quivering silhouettes settled into crisp curves and bright colors. Man and woman draped in flowing cloaks. The woman’s hood fell to reveal dark brown hair. She froze, then dove like a hawk with an earsplitting scream to match—
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO—!”
Fingers like burning bones pried the rope from his hands, tugged it free from around his neck. Before he could even think to scold her for intervening, she slapped him senseless across the cheek.
“Sylvia!” The man swooped in, hoping to put himself between Coris and the crazed lady. She shunted him aside and yanked Coris up by the collar, rattling his eyes out of his sockets as she screeched into his face,
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? WHAT IN FYR’S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?”
The sharp, burning pain jolted him awake. Coris blinked sudden tears out of his eyes. Blurry shapes settled into Mother’s beautiful face, twisted with fury, but how could it be? She couldn’t, shouldn’t be here. How? Why was she?
“Mother?” he breathed, half-expecting his sigh to blow the mirage away and return him to solitude, but she lingered. Her anger melted at his voice, and she crumbled instead into tears, her palm now cold and soft against his searing cheek.
“Oh, Lexi,” she moaned, shaking her head as she cradled his face. “My poor Lexi. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry—”
Words swallowed by sobs, she launched herself forth and wrapped him in her arms, pressed his head against her chest. She was warm, and soft, and smelled of roses. Her heart beat strong on his cheek. Again and again, her lips brushed against his hair.
She loved him. The same mother who’d never wished for his existence, who’d tried to rid her womb of him before he’d had a chance to prove his worth, who’d refused to let him feed from her breast. Mother loves me. For the first time in his life, he truly believed, knew, was sure yet couldn’t find words to describe, nor reason to justify. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He still hadn’t been loved by her long enough.
“Mama,” he gasped. She started—he’d never called her so before—then tightened her embrace in acceptance. He spluttered in relief, “I’m sorry. Apologies. Chione must’ve possessed me—”
Mother shook her head and smoothed her hand down his hair.
“She’s not worth it. She’s not worth you, Lexi,” she hissed through gritted teeth. At the reminder, Coris stiffened and pulled free.
No. She didn’t know Meya. She didn’t understand, would never understand, yet how dare she blamed her? This was his fault. Entirely his fault.
Silence fell, bristling, fearful. He kept his eyes fixed on Meya’s linens, lying abandoned on the floor amid the ruckus, his heart pounding in guilt as much as anger. Mother sat petrified, watching him, nervous yet adamant in her judgment.
Father knelt and sat, a firm hand on Mother’s shoulder signaling her to retreat. Slow, gentle, quiet. Coris raised his eyes to his piercing blue. There was no resentment beneath the calm, only sadness. Father would listen, would forgive, would know where it all went so wrong.
“What should I have done, Father?” he whimpered, tears welling in his eyes as memories echoed to him. Of happier times. So fresh, so new, yet so far away as a different life.
“She saved my life. I’m supposed to repay her. I’m supposed to protect her, protect our babe, but I can’t betray my duty. I can’t forsake all those people. I can’t let their fate fall into wrong hands.”
He held her linens flush to his heart, cherishing its smoothness, remembering the feel of her skin beneath it. By Freda, how he missed her. How in the three lands could he survive?
Father’s hand wrapped easily around his thin shoulder, finding purchase in the deep recesses of his collarbone.
“Son, you owe her your life,” he began, his voice tender. “Not to give to her to wield for her own ends, but to live true and give unto others what she’s given you. That is how you honor her.” He shook him as he uttered each word. Coris froze as the simple realization dawned on him.
“A life on your deathbed you will look back to with pride. A life any son would strive to live by. Recorded not in golden ink, but passed down by the breath of those whose lives you bettered.”
Coris hung his head. Father was right, yet from his hands dangled what was left of Meya Hild. The girl he loved, mother of his child, savior of his soul. Price of his noble quest.
“At the cost of hers,” he blurted out. Father waited for him to finish. His eyes traveled as he reminisced. Their fateful meetings, their deal, their friendship, their courtship, a bond like no other. He shook his head, mourning it.
“I was her mentor. She trusted me to guide her. An emerald in the deep I crafted and mounted on a band of gold, lost to a twisted man. She would’ve been better off left alone. I should’ve never offered her the choice. Should’ve let her go that night but I so loved—love her—”
He gasped as renewed sobs choked out his voice, clapped his hands over his spilling eyes in shame. He knew this would happen. Of course, it could only end this way. He’d feared it would come to this. He would curse all that strayed near him to ruin. That was why for so long he resisted her pleas, but ultimately it was his selfishness that doomed her. Too dastardly a coward to turn her free. Wily enough to trap her with promises of purpose and safety. It was his fault. All his fault—
“What you created together would’ve been better off not ever being? Truly?” Father whispered fiercely. He took his other shoulder and shook him again, harder this time, then harder still when Coris squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “How many lives have you saved together? Yours and hers, too? The love you had for her, she for you? The change you brought? The child you made?”
A flash of cold strangled him as he remembered. Oh no. Oh, Freda. How could he have wished such things upon his babe? How could he, of all people—?
As he stilled, shivering, Father’s grip slackened to comforting. His voice was once more gentle,
“Yes, you’ve failed her. Such is the curse of a mentor. You can point the way, but in the end, she must choose which path to walk. You learn from your mistakes, and walk your path.”
Fear crept over his heart as Coris digested those words. Did this mean he must give up on Meya? Was there truly nothing he could do to salvage the situation? To help her? The wisest and only choice was to abandon her, move on with his life?
“Where do you think you’ve gone wrong?” Father’s voice pierced his reverie, and Coris leaped for the saving grace. If he found the cause, then he could correct it. There may yet be hope left. There must still be a way…
So he delved deep into his heart, and far into the past, examining every detail, every moment, every word. Glimmers here and there coagulated into the glaring truth he’d overlooked, ignored. In favor of a dream.
“I reckon…I’d never truly known her,” he breathed, numbed by his own revelation. “All I had were scraps of memories, but I filled in the rest over the years. So much so that nothing she could’ve done could’ve shattered that fantasy.”
He shook his head as Meya’s tearful face flashed before his eyes, her sobbing voice pleading for him to reconsider, their rows, her deep-seated resentment. For seven years, he dreamed of her as the dragon that saved its own hunter, a girl whose kindness knew no logic, who gave faith to him, a boy who’d never known love. And her impressive feats—in Hadrian, in Jaise, in Caesonai, in Hyacinth—served only to prove that beyond doubt. Then her parents returned. And out emerged a side of her he’d never seen—no, looked past.
Meya was perfect. Meya was the solution. Meya could do no wrong. Meya could never fail. For he loved her, and she loved him. And he needed that to live, so he willed her into being.
“I couldn’t understand. She was scared. Of being poor and hungry. She wanted to help her family. I couldn’t understand. She was my savior. Brave, selfless, beacon of hope. I gave her a speech. I should have held her and listened. I brushed aside her fears. Graye used them to seduce her.”
Father nodded deeply, his grasp tightening on his shoulder.
“And you won’t make the mistake again.”
Coris managed a nod. His heart lifted slightly, although there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t, no proof history wouldn’t repeat, other than that Father said so.
Mother edged near again, her hand clasping over his. He let her, his fury long faded into guilt. She loved him. She couldn’t help resenting Meya.
“There is little you can do for your babe now. Least until you return. But I’ll keep watch over him. Until his Dada comes for him. You can rest assured,” she whispered. Coris turned and met her eyes, mustering his courage.
“And Meya?”
He couldn’t help it. Despite what she almost cost him, what she did to his babe, what he now knew of her, he still truly loved her. He was exasperated beyond words, heartbroken beyond mending, but he didn’t hate her. Not at all.
Mother’s eyes hardened to iced steel. Still, he pleaded, until at last she sighed and dipped her head.
“I’ll do what I can.”
Coris smiled through his tears, melting to a puddle in relief. He fell weakly into her arms, resting his heavy head on her chest.
“Thank you, Mother. Thank you—!”
Mother held him as he cried. His child still lived. His love still lived. Hope still lived. He would return and set things right. When the time was right.
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