Chapter 7.2

Her eyes moved to the left, to the person whose hand her painted self was holding. It was him, of course. And the same joy was on his face as they danced, a beautiful action shot. Their final joyful moment together, immortalised. A moment she had thought back to many times as she read the letters he sent while he was off to prove himself in the cold mountains, with a smile she no longer knew how to make.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he had had to leave her for an entire year, just because of a western tradition that his father didn't actually care for. It wasn't fair that their long-awaited reunion never had taken place, her parents' murder tearing them apart. It wasn't fair that he had left this painting out for her to find, reminding her of all they had lost.

She looked at the plaque underneath the painting. "Marquise Eirwen Verglas and Marquis Aodhán Flameheart, dancing at the royal ball." The dates were on the plaque as well. He actually had commissioned it two months before the ball, while it was completed mere weeks before her parents died. He really had given the artist plenty of time to get it right, so that it would be done just in time for his return to her.

Her eyes moved towards the floor. There was dust on the floor that stopped just before the painting, with a single set of footsteps visible. To the left and right were thick curtains, no doubt recently opened. So he had covered it beforehand, only revealing it, what, perhaps the day he killed his father?

As Eirwen wondered that, she felt the presence of Sir Caerbychan at the door. A bit more focus revealed the second visitor. "Let him through," she ordered her people. Her behated advisor entered the room, just two steps inside, not coming closer. Good. She had no idea what she would have done if he had dared approach her now. She kept her back to him. "So did you deliberately leave this for me to find, or what?"

She sensed him making a single step forward. "Eirwen..."

In an instant she turned around, rage flowing through her that she thought she had already burnt up. "You have no right to call me by that name!" She barely managed to bite back her desire to tell him he had lost that right forever. He still physically recoiled, undoing the step he had made, pain and sorrow on his face.

"Pain?! You dare feel pain?! Feel hurt?! You lost that right when you abandoned me and sided with my parents' murderer! You weren't there when I needed you, when I cried for you, when I woke screaming from nightmares! And what, now you think you can make amends for that?! While you're still leaving breadcrumbs for me, laying traps like this?!"

She gestured angrily towards the painting, while her eyes never left his face, as he looked away from her, not daring to face her. Behind him, she saw the doorguards and Caerbychan grow pale from her outburst. Normally that would have made her step back, maybe regain self-control. But right now she had burned up everything she had, only raw wounds and pain and rage remaining.

"And you even hid it behind curtains! What, you were fine facing me on the battlefield and at negotiations, but being reminded of what you had lost, what you willingly threw away, that was too much for you to bear??"

"Yes."

A single word, followed by a single look at her. That was all it took from him to halt her rage. There was resignation in his eyes, serving as a barrier, a shield behind which he locked his other emotions. This was the first time she had actively seen him do so. It terrified her to see him hide himself like that. But even scarier was the fact he had resigned himself.

His eyes moved to the painting and she saw the hurt. But that too he buried. "Yes, I was too ashamed to look at it. But no, it's not why I hid it. Because I didn't deserve to hide from it. What I had done to you, what I had thrown away. I had no right not to hurt myself with the reminder."

He looked up at the ceiling and released a sigh. "But if I had kept it visible, I fear my father would have damaged or destroyed it. He'd have seen it as an act of defiance. With it hidden behind the curtain, however, it served as a symbol of my shame. Something he could revel in. Hold over me, hurt me with. So curtains it was. And even then, I felt the shame every time I looked at it."

His desk was behind him, on the right side of the room. He would have laid eyes on the curtains every time he looked up from his paperwork. See it in the background every time he had a visitor. Be forced to face it whenever he walked towards the doors. So he had, in fact, tormented himself, the way she occasionally had hoped.

She felt guilt come up over the thought, then latched onto what he had said to distract herself from it. "Would he really have destroyed it?"

"Oh yes. He barged into this room all the time. Every time the war didn't go the way he wanted. Every time I did something that made him angry at me. Or if he thought I might be busy preparing to betray him. If I were here, he'd rage at me, occasionally throw something at me. He'd throw things more frequently whenever I wasn't here." His eyes glanced around the room. Following them, she could see what he meant. Stains on floor and walls. Dents and scratches from where heavy objects had impacted. All marks of an angry drunk.

"Sometimes he would just quietly go through my possessions, looking for proof. He thought he covered it up, but I knew whenever he had entered. He never really was the brightest, you know. But there were three things he never touched. Me, the painting, and my sword."

He held up the sheathed sword in his hand, the one he had surrendered to her. He put it on the desk, next to a decorated yet functional scabbard that was already there. "See, this sword represents all I had gone through in the mountains. Not even he would dare disgrace it. It also is the reason the painting is visible now."

An apologetic look was on his face as he turned back to her. "You see, I came here last before leaving. To take Crimson here off the wall, into a dull scabbard. And then I saw the curtains. Couldn't help myself, threw them open. A final act of defiance. His corpse in his office, our painting in mine. And then I left, rode to you, forgot about the painting, preoccupied as I was. Until I overheard you being told about it. Realised too late to prevent you from getting hurt."

A deep breath. She could see him struggle to let his shield down again, just a bit. "I know I left traps and surprises for you. That not every decision I made two days ago was the best. And I realised I was going to hurt you with the secrets I kept, with the few I'm still keeping. I am sorry for that, I really am. But I swear this wasn't meant to be one of them. I'm the only one that painting was supposed to hurt. Not you, never you. Our past should be solely my burden to bear."

He hadn't meant to. Yet she had gone berserk on him, hurt him deliberately, twisted the knife when she saw him bleeding. She turned away in shame. Yes, he deserved her blame. But not like this. She looked at the painting, understanding full well the pain it had inflicted on him the past years. Then her eyes moved to the plaque.

She had given a simple order, an understandable one. He had forfeited his name. Scratching it out was the only natural response to that. But there was no way any of her people could have ever touched this plaque, defile this painting. This was her burden to bear.

Her hand went down, pulled out a dagger. She brought it up to his name, calling forth just barely enough mana to guarantee the cut was smooth. Her hand trembled. A symbol of his love for her. Something he had prepared for her, to show her just how much she meant to him. And the very first time she laid eyes on it, she was going to defile it. Erase the last of his name left within these walls.

He stepped closer. She did nothing. Neither did the others. This wasn't a scene where they could intervene. Only he could reach her. His hands wrapped around her hand, steadying the dagger. A sad smile on his face as he slowly pulled her hand along, cutting through his name. Then a step back. Another. A third. When he spoke, it was with kindness, a shield in place to hide whatever else he was feeling.

"Once they're back from the fire, I'll inform your staff you are sleeping in here, and to bring you proper blankets and sufficient firewood and lamp oil. If you want, they can close the curtains for you. I'll make sure they arrange a light meal for you, and a mild drink. Sir Caerbychan and I will rotate duties with your doorguards so everyone can sleep well. The Vicomte will not be allowed to enter this wing of the castle. Good night, your Grace."

He walked out, the others following without a word, without even bothering to confirm her orders. Even his mental presence and senses withdrew, the first real privacy he had granted her ever since she exited the carriage this morning. For the first time in days, she was truly alone. She looked at the painting, at her smile, and for a moment wished his father had destroyed it. At least then she wouldn't have lashed out so badly at him that he couldn't even stay with her any more.

The fool. This never had been a burden he could have taken away from her. With that thought she turned towards the desk, to find something to distract herself from the pain.