The kingdom was still in chaos. Even though Tiara had retreated, her presence lingered like a storm on the horizon. No one knew when or where she would strike next, and that uncertainty loomed heavy over everyone. The Tower, now the heart of defense, was surrounded by Eric's group. Their orders were clear: protect it at all costs. Every sound, every flicker of movement, felt like the start of another battle.
But for Poll, there was another battle to fight—one he couldn't face with swords or magic. He glanced toward Elowen, who sat near the window, her figure framed by the soft glow of the mana lamp. She looked so still, yet the tension in her clenched fists and the way her shoulders sagged spoke volumes.
Poll hesitated, unsure of what to say. Elowen had been the pillar of strength for their family since the funeral. She had arranged everything with a quiet determination, ensuring every tradition was followed. She had spoken with the priests, gathered the necessary items, and even comforted their father, who now seemed lost in a world of darkness, consumed by his desire for revenge. But who had comforted her?
As Poll took a step closer, he noticed her hands trembling ever so slightly. She was holding herself together, but the cracks were beginning to show.
He cleared his throat softly. "Hey, how's it going?"
Elowen startled, wiping her face quickly as though hiding tears. "Poll? What do you want?" she asked, her voice tired and wary.
"I need your help with something," he said, keeping his tone light.
She raised an eyebrow, confused. "Help? With what?"
Instead of answering, Poll gently took her hand. "Just come with me," he said, pulling her to her feet before she could protest.
"Poll, what's this about?" she demanded, but he didn't answer. He led her down the hall to a quiet room, dimly lit and peaceful.
"Here," he said, gesturing to the bed. "Sit down."
She crossed her arms, clearly suspicious. "What are you up to?"
Poll held up a book, its cover worn and faded. "I found this earlier. It's got poems in it, but I'm having a hard time understanding them. Can you help me read it?"
Elowen blinked, taken aback. "You want me to read poetry? Right now?"
"Please?" Poll said, his voice soft and earnest.
She let out a long sigh, shaking her head. "Fine. Let me see it."
Poll handed her the book, sitting down beside her as she opened it. The pages were yellowed with age, the words written in flowing, elegant script. She began to read aloud, her voice low but steady.
Detachment
The hands that toil, the seeds that grow,
Let not your heart with yearning sow.
The fruits may fall, the winds may shift,
Release the grasp, and find your gift.
For labor's joy is in the deed,
Not in the harvest, not in the greed.
Let go, let flow, the soul takes flight,
Unbound by chains of fleeting might.
Her voice wavered slightly as she finished the first poem. She glanced at Poll, who was watching her closely. "What does this have to do with anything?" she asked, her tone sharp but tinged with curiosity.
"Keep going," Poll said gently. "There's more."
Elowen hesitated, then turned the page and continued.
Acceptance of Death
The shadow falls, the day does wane,
Yet life begins in death's refrain.
A door swings wide, a path anew,
A bridge to realms beyond the view.
Fear not the end, for it's not demise,
But a gentle shift to clearer skies.
Embrace the cycle, life's sacred art,
For every ending sparks a start.
As she read, her voice softened, the meaning of the words beginning to sink in. Her hands stopped trembling, but tears welled in her eyes. She closed the book carefully and placed it on her lap, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"You don't care about the poems, do you?" she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Poll smiled faintly. "I care about you," he said. "You've been holding everything together, Elowen. You've done so much for all of us. But you can't keep doing this if you don't take care of yourself."
Her lips quivered, and she shook her head. "I… I don't have a choice, Poll. If I stop…"
"You won't stop," Poll interrupted gently. "You'll rest. Just for a little while. And then you'll get back up, like you always do. But right now, you need this. Please."
Elowen's tears finally spilled over, her quiet sobs breaking the silence. Poll didn't say anything more. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and then gently pulled her into a hug.
"It's okay," he whispered. "You don't have to carry this alone."
She leaned into him, her tears soaking his shirt. For the first time in days, she let herself let go.
Poll stayed by her side until her breathing slowed and she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. He gently placed a blanket over her and stood, his mind heavy with thoughts.
There was still so much he didn't understand—so many questions about Luna's words, his family's past, and the growing darkness in their father's eyes. But those mysteries could wait. For now, at least, Elowen could find a moment of peace.
And perhaps, Poll thought, that was enough.