“Your Highness, Myracle,” the man said, his voice raw, barely a whisper. “I—I don’t know what else to do. She’s dying. I’m frightened. She’s frightened.”
Leander nodded, stepping towards the man and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He used whatAesthesia he understood to emotionally subdue the man from his frightful state. When he spoke, his tone was calm, measured, hoping it offered quiet resolve and comfort to the old man. “I understand your wife is unwell?”
The man swallowed hard, glancing back toward the small room where the coughing continued, weaker now. “Yes. She’s… she doesn’t have long. But she’s scared. She hasn’t seen our granddaughter since the attack and I haven’t the heart to admit I buried her this morning.” His voice broke as he choked back a sob. “She’s begging me to tell her Tilly’s okay.”
Leander’s stomach tightened. He could already see where this was headed, and it made him uneasy. He glanced at Jarryn, wondering how he would respond.
The prince’s face was indecipherable as he looked to Leander. He didn’t so much as shrug. There was no permission given—how could he when he had spent so long voicing his displeasure over Leander’s domain—but there was something in his face… something like recognition, consent for what was about to happen.
“You want me to tell her your granddaughter is okay,” Leander said, more of a statement than a question, a knowing look in his eyes like he had done this a thousand times before.
The man nodded frantically, wringing his hands. “Please. I know it’s wrong, but she’s suffering so much. If she believes Tilly is okay, maybe she’ll pass… peacefully.”
Leander’s throat tightened. Without his divine gifts, there was little he could do, save incurring the wrath of the gods by pretending. “I have no guarantee that this willwork in the way you want it to. I cannot insist on this lie, and she may grow more upset if she realises our duplicity.”
The man nodded ardently. “Yes, I know. I understand. But I must give her this chance of peace.”
Jarryn stepped forward. “This isn’t right,” he said quietly, his voice rough with the emotions he refused to reveal on his face.
Leander closed his eyes for a moment, counting to five, before opening them again and looking over to his companion.
Jarryn swallowed before continuing, his words halting. “Lying to her… it won’t change the truth. She deserves to know.”
The old man’s eyes snapped to Jarryn, desperation etched into every line of his face. “Please, Your Highness,” he pleaded. “I can’t let her leave this world heartsick. She may meet Tilly in the underworld, but she will at least draw her last breath in Cariun peacefully. That’s all I want for her. Can’t you understand that?”
Jarryn’s hands clenched at his sides. Leander knew that he could understand it, even if he would never be willing to admit it, especially in front of Leander.
Leander knew something inside Jarryn rebelled at the idea of lying, of offering false hope in a moment when honesty should matter most. He glanced at Leander, waiting for him to make his choice.
Leander was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the old man before him. Then, he spoke, his voice low. “If you think that telling her this lie will bring her peace, I’ll do it for you. For her.”
Jarryn’s jaw tightened. “Leander?—”
Leander slowly turned on his to heel to face the prince, his expression unreadable, as it could only be when faced with an impossible decision.
Jarryn had wanted him to decide, but only choose what he thought was acceptable. He had wanted Leander to refuse… something Leo couldn’t do, not when faced with such improbable odds of any chance of survival. The coughs, frail and gasping, could still be heard, more infrequent, less productive. She didn’t have long.
“This isn’t about right or wrong, Ja—Your Highness. It’s about easing someone’s suffering. Sometimes, the truth isn’t what people need.”
It was clear that Jarryn wanted to argue, to insist that lies—even well-meaning ones—were wrong.
But then the sound of a weak murmur—an old woman calling for her husband—could be heard faintly, and Leander’s heart twisted in his chest. He imagined the woman, alone in that room, terrified of what was coming, clinging to the last thread of hope she could find.
Was the truth really worth her fear?
Leander moved past the old man, stepping into the small room, where his dying wife lay in a bed in the corner.
Jarryn followed into the house, but did not approach. He stayed by the door, watching as Leander knelt beside the old woman’s bed.
The woman’s face was pale, her skin paper-thin, almost translucent, and her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. Her eyes fluttered open, searching the room in confusion before settling on Leander.
“Doctor…?” she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper. Could she get the words out? Did she have the energy? The breath? “Where’s Tilly…”
Leander took her hand in his gently. This was where he was most at home. The words came to him naturally, ready and as genuine as they could ever sound. His voice was calm, steady. “You’re going to be alright,” he said, his tone soft but certain. “Tilly is right here, holding your hand. Rest now. You’re safe. We’re with you… I’m here, your husband is here. We will not leave. Rest.”
The woman’s crystalline blue eyes—so like Jarryn’s it made Leander’s heart hurt—filled with tears, and her body seemed to relax, the tension easing from her frail limbs. She squeezed Leander’s hand weakly, her lips trembling as she murmured, “Thank you…”
Leander felt his chest tighten, torn between conflicting emotions.
