27 February, 1369. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
The day of her departure dawned cloudy but dry. Under lead coloured skies, Celia stood in the palace's grand entry courtyard and watched the activity before her. Servants were loading her many trunks and travel provisions into the wagons.
Up until the very last moment, she'd been convinced King Aaron would come to his senses and change his mind about placing the success of negotiating with another kingdom, on her slim shoulders.
But he hadn't. And so she'd go.
Celia wasn't sure if she was more elated or exhausted to finally be on her way. The latter, probably.
The fatigue and general apathy caused by her pregnancy wasn't improving. She still woke up every morning feeling so tired, it was a struggle to open her eyes. Even Tobin had commented once or twice that she seemed utterly flat.
