(Ariana)
I shouldn't be here.
That's the first thought that repeats in my head, over and over, like a scolding whisper. I shouldn't be sitting beside his bed. I shouldn't have stayed after the healers left, I shouldn't have stayed after his mother left, shouldn't have stayed after his sister left. I shouldn't have given in to… to whatever impulse kept me here through the night, whatever impulse that had me sleeping in the chair I dragged beside his bed, and now had me sitting with my hand in my lap... right beside him.
The chair I dragged beside his bed is uncomfortable, stiff; the cushioning did nothing to help. This chair was merely in his room for design and not for comfort. It was entirely beneath the dignity of King Aredhel's daughter, but I haven't moved from it in hours. The morning light slips through the curtains in thin, pale sheets, brushing over Sora's still form. He hasn't stirred. Not once.
Unconscious. Alive. Barely.
I let my gaze trace over him, not too long, not too intently. Just enough to confirm he's breathing, that his chest rises and falls.
I exhale slowly, quietly, turning my eyes away. I don't like the feeling gathering in my chest. It's thick, heavy, almost suffocating. But not fear. Not guilt. Something else. Something I hate even more because I don't understand it. This weird—weird pull I feel.
Iliam told me everything. He recited the events like a confession, like he had to get it out of his system or he'd choke on it. I expected him to exaggerate.
If anything, I think he downplayed it.
Sora had screamed. Clawed at the ground until his nails cracked. Sobbed with a voice so broken, Iliam said he still hears it when he closes his eyes. And through all of it—through agony that didn't seem human—he kept calling out to me.
Begging me to stop dying.
I glance at Sora again.
He looks peaceful now since his mother closed his eyes. Too peaceful. Like the boy Iliam described and the one lying in this bed are two different people entirely. Once again, I asked myself. Who are you... Sora?
My fingers twitch in my lap.
I shouldn't have sat down. I should've left the moment I confirmed he wouldn't suddenly drop dead. But the idea of walking out. The idea of not being here when he wakes up made my stomach twist in a way I didn't like.
So I stayed.
He was pathetic.
But right now. I was pathetic.
I smooth the ends of my robe, pretending it needs fixing. It doesn't. I just need something to do with my hands before my thoughts drown me.
I don't love him. He doesn't love me. Our engagement is a political tie and nothing more. We both know it. And even if by whatever stupid miracle that we did love. It was too soon, a mere four days.
So why… why would he see me in the middle of whatever hell that poison dragged him into? Why would his voice crack, begging me to stop dying?
What exactly was he seeing?
I study his face again. Carefully. Cautiously.
The faint lines of dried tears still stain his cheeks. His lips are parted slightly, breath shallow. His brows twitch every now and then, like some remnant of the nightmare still clings to him.
He looks fragile.
Vulnerable.
Human, in a way, he rarely lets himself be around anyone.
And that's the part I can't shake.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold down the pressure building under my ribs.
I shouldn't care. I know that. It's easier when I remind myself he's reckless, infuriating, endlessly arrogant, and overly pathetic and ignorant.
But hearing Iliam's voice break describing Sora's screams… hearing how desperately he'd choked out my name like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
It did something to me.
Something I wish it didn't.
Because for the first time since I met him, I felt something other than disdain towards him. I felt... pity.
I turn my face away from him and stare at the pristine marble flooring. The morning sun is warming the room, but I feel cold.
I shouldn't be here.
I should get up, leave, pretend none of this affected me. That's what a sensible person would do. What a distant fiancée would do. What I would've done.
But when I try to stand, my body refuses.
It's as if some invisible thread pulls me back into the chair. Or maybe…
Maybe I just don't want to leave. I grit my teeth at the realization, eyes trembling on the golden band on my finger. I don't like this feeling. I don't like being unsettled. I don't like that part of me keeps replaying the idea of me mattering to him.
I don't love him.
But still.