The cold stone provides more shelter than a crowd ever could. Pressing against it, you turn your body sideways, providing the smallest profile possible.
You mutter apologies as you slide across the walls, occasionally bumping into people. The crowd is so thick that wagons are forced to reroute. Despite being against the wall, it's still difficult to push through.
Every accidental contact with someone makes you flinch. But after a few minutes of uncomfortable hell, you find yourself in front of the gate.
The crowd is much thinner here, allowing you to swing back onto the main road and set back out for the palace.
The streets of Wrido stretch out before you.
Next
It takes you roughly an hour to reach the palace at the leisurely pace you travel. You enter through the open main doors, passing two guards, who clear out of your path as you approach. Once again, these men were bought with alcohol.
The ease at which you were able to bribe the guardsmen both amazes you and disturbs you.
Being inside the palace for two weeks straight makes you feel strange. For you, the palace has a nasty tendency to evoke old, painful memories. On the other hand, you've lived with relative comfort in your guest room.
You've never had your own room at the palace. At least not since you were the prince. But pleasant childhood memories feel distant, and The War feels so near. Oh so near.
You try to bring back any happy memories of your childhood. Of more innocent times. But you can't. They feel like they're in another world. Because they are.
They're from a world before The War, before your painful casting down from your throne. Before you took up a blade. Before your whole life was defined by your ability to claim the lives of others.
Though you hold your head high, not showing any of your pain on your face. You must stay strong for the others. For Elya.
You always have.
You arrive in front of Elya's room.
Next
You take a deep breath.
You don't know what state Elya has been in. She's yet to leave her room since the party. The death of Sobik is clearly weighing heavily upon her heart.
You try to remember what it feels like… to feel grief. Your life has scarred your tear-ducts shut. After such violence, nothing truly compares anymore.
For the last five years, the numbness has been all-consuming. Now, however, the painful memories you were once able to repress have begun to resurface. And they burn.
But you still cannot feel grief.
Truly, you do wish to be able to comfort your sister—but how does one who cannot grieve comfort one who does?
You shake your head to clear your thoughts and knock on the door. There is some ruffling, followed by a shout of, "Just a moment!"
Seconds later, the door unlocks and swings open to reveal Elya. Her eyes are still bloodshot from crying. Her hair is unkempt, although it appears to have been hastily brushed back after she heard you knock.
Elya's clothes are ruffled, wrinkled, and clearly not suited for any formal setting.
Towering above her slight form, you look down and meet her amber eyes. You know you're scary. You can't deny it. But Elya is your sister. She knows you. You give her the best smile you can, even though it probably looks strange on you.
Elya returns your admittedly forced smile with a genuine one of her own. You say in the gentlest tone you can, "It's good to see you, Elya."
"Hey, Arthur Hornraven," she replies, trying to muster some amount of cheer, but coming across forced. That makes two of us.
You stand there awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to say next. She, probably just to break the tension, motions for you to follow "Come on in."
You follow her inside her room.
And you feel so very out of place.
Next
The door shuts behind you with a thud. You tense up at the sudden sound but quickly snap your focus back to Elya. She sits down on her bed, which lies at the other end of her luxurious room, studying you intently.
You still don't enjoy such focused attention from anyone. You fidget uncomfortably under her gaze.
She looks away and out her window. Her glass window. Such material is expensive and difficult to acquire. Same with her bedsheets, being made from fine, dyed fabrics. A massive dresser sits at one end, filled to the brim with outfits and jewels.
Women, at least those of her rank, are simply expected to own such outfits. Anything to look as appealing as possible for a marriage partner. Such is the way the world works. In that way, you relate to her.
The two of you have been placed into your roles by factors beyond your control. Both of your lives were practically predetermined.
Until yours fell apart, anyway.
Elya, her tone blunt and almost demanding, states, "You have something to tell me." It's no question. There's no uncertainty. She knows that something is up.
Being read so openly makes you feel vulnerable. Elya is one of the few who can actually read your intentions off your face.
Elya tenses up slightly at the sound of her nickname. It brings back connotations of better times. Before The—
You shake your head.
Slowly, she untenses and continues to stare blankly out the window.
You feel uneasy at her lack of expression. Seeing your sister in so much pain hurts you, as well. It hurts because you can't stop her hurt.
You've seen this reaction in people before. People react to different things differently. It's just human nature. Some people weep with grief, others scream and thrash, while others go deathly still.
Sometimes the grief is just too overwhelming, and they shut down. Other times, it just leaves the person numb. Not the emotional deadness you feel, but a complete inability to think, react, or process. The loss is too great to think about, so they just… don't.
"Don't," Elya says coldly. "Just tell me why you're here."
The coldness, coming from Elya of all people, stings. You're accustomed to Mira's hate. But not Elya's cold.
"Please," you practically beg, "just talk to me."
A tension builds up in her shoulders. She slowly rises from her bed, eyes still blankly staring out the window, then she turns to you, eyes watering.
Elya, in a flurry of action, rushes toward you. You tense up, instinctively preparing for an attack. Before you can do something dangerous, she throws her arms around you.
And hugs you.
Next
Great sobs tear through Elya's body. She trembles in your arms. You fall down onto your knees, causing her to fall with you. Her smaller body presses into yours, arms wrapping around your back.
You don't know how long you stay like this. Elya lets out ugly sobs, tears streaming onto you, wetting your clothing. But you stay there, allowing her to empty her grief.
Finally, she pulls away slightly, though she still clutches your hands tightly within hers. After a few breaths, she manages to steady herself enough to speak. With difficulty, Elya says, "I—I've been trying so hard to stay strong. Like you. I tried… not to cry. But… I can't stop myself. I'm just… not strong enough."