Briny God, Father of Treland,he prays, please do not permit Avina to ascend to the Golden Citadel. I may not be an honorable man, but I swear to be her shield and her axe until the day she lies cold in the stone.
Fuck, the very thought of losing this woman drives him mad.
Could he storm the Golden Citadel and recall her soul at the point of his axe?
This enemy has possibly become the most important person in his life, even if the Prince could not pinpoint why.
He continues chest compressions, but she does not wake. Her lips tint a hideous shade of blue, and her heart stills. He would give his right arm for those orbs to open.
Rage against me, hate me, just meet my gaze. Fuel my life with that smile that I will never relinquish.
“Avina!” He screams at her, shaking her body to no avail as his world shatters around him like a cruel rain.
“Wake up, please! I barely have you in my life. You cannot leave me! I-I need you!” He holds her corpse against him as he sobs.
I command you not to leave me!
After everything they have gone through together and because of each other, Avina cannot leave him. Their history flashes before his eyes when she falls limply to the ground.
There is no anger left in him. Only the horrifying pain of having his heart ripped from his chest.
November 12th, Year 100, 9th Era
Toftlund City, Salt Province
“Fuck!”
Sigvid bolts upright in bed, his breathing heavy from the recurring nightmare.
A fucked up twist on the day he almost lost her and an unconsciousfear that has only escalated since the escape from the Arena. Beads of sweat cling like dew over the inked muscle of his chest.
He reaches over and finds Avina sound asleep beside him in his bed. A distant little snore assures him she is very much alive.
That does little to alleviate the lingering despair from holding her limp in his arms. He drops his head into his hands.
Why do I feel this way? What has she done to me? Has she manipulated my mind from the beginning?
He kneels on the rough wooden floor of his bedroom and pulls up a single loose board. Sigvid removes all the letters she has ever sent him during the war.
He settles in an old rocking chair in the corner of the room, smoking his pipe by the flickering glow of a half-melted candle. While Avina slumbers in his bed, he reads through every exchange.
As the light begins to fade, his back thumps against the back of the chair.
“My little Queen,” he whispers, “you have meant every word you have ever written in these.” He smiles crookedly at her sleeping form.
To think he once thought her sarcastic and taunting.
With the parchment refolded to its original condition, he carefully stores the letters in his secret cavity with every item she has ever given him.
Sigvid runs his fingers through his beard. “I need something to drink.” He mutters.
After retrieving a glass of water, he sips the cool refreshment on his side of the bed while watching Avina slumber. Eventually, he climbs back into bed and stares at her chest as if she might stop breathing.
Sigvid slides an arm under her side, gently rolling her against his chest and inhaling her floral scent.
Ives is the last threat from the Timber Province. Tomorrow, he will leave for Scarwood and bring back dear old Samson. No one will ever threaten her again as long as Sigvid breathes.
34
