lamentum

SPOILERS BTW!!!!!!!!!

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Dara is silent when the journey resumes, the procession slower now after Nesrîn’s overexertion. If it weren’t for Rozerîn’s strike and the few among Dara’s troops that were adept enough at healing magic to keep the crown stable… 

He inhales stiffly, dismissing the thought. He refuses to look back at her, despite every ache in his lungs and in the pit of his heart that wills him to do so. Yet every time he conjures an image of her in his mind to calm his feverish heart, all he can see is the steady stream of blood from her nose, the crumple of her spine as her eyes rolled back into her head.

Dara’s grip around his reigns tightens, composure fracturing. 

If he were to look back at Nesrîn now, he isn’t sure what he’d see. Or worse yet, what she would. As incriminating as it is, if she were to show even the slightest sign of fatigue, he’d stop the procession then and there, refusing to move forward until her eyes brightened again.

But Dara can’t afford that. Neither can the procession, and neither can Nesrîn.

And so he carries on, refusing to satiate his aching heart with even a glance.

To his mild relief and larger annoyance, Xelara strides forward to ride beside him, unnaturally quiet.

The only sound to be heard between them is the steady drum of hoofbeats underway, the well-trodden earth beneath them as bland as it is endless.

“Easy, uncle,” She finally says, gaze trained straight ahead. “You’ll wear your teeth down to dust if you keep your jaw that tense.”

Dara doesn’t reply, now all too conscious of the face he must be making, no doubt breaching the look of agony.

Xelara is quiet beside him, yet he can feel her emerald gaze dancing across his features, assessing. Though her stare returns to the road ahead when she speaks again.

“Nesrîn is strong. She knew what needed to be done, and did it regardless of how it would affect her.” She states, sure as stone, the slightest hint of pride in her voice.

“It was foolish.” He argues, his voice sounding rough and petulant even to his own ears.

Xelara looks at him now, and she looks less like the constant thorn in his side, and more like the Pale Sword, a leader with her own share of sacrifices, losses, and burdens on her shoulders. “How many soldiers would you have lost had she not stepped in? How many of my blades? You would do anything in your power to keep your troops alive, as would I. Allow the Crown to do the same.”

Dara’s argument dies on his tongue. Xelara is right, however much it pains him to admit it. A crown that sat idly by while her own subjects fought for her life is not a crown Dara could ever respect, regardless of the feelings he might harbor for her. What Nesrîn did was as necessary as it was honorable.

Xelara huffs out a sigh. “I know you care for her,” She starts, and Dara visibly recoils.

A grin tugs at her lips as she continues, a mirthful glint in her eyes Dara suddenly detests with all his being. “Don’t even act as though you’ve been subtle about it either.” Her grin only widens as Dara feels heat flood his face.

In the wake of all that had happened, Dara had nearly forgotten how he reacted when Nesrîn’s body went limp, dropping to his knees and holding her tightly enough to bruise. Worse yet, he distinctly remembers snapping at anyone who drew too close, including Kaja and Rozerîn.

He fights the urge to run his hands down his face to cleanse him from his embarrassment. It is without a doubt that every last soul in this travelling party knows acutely what Dara feels for their Crown.

“I merely wish to protect her. Arsur has been without a crown for so long–” He attempts, a weak excuse. Xelara shuts it down immediately.

“Don’t pretend any of this,” She gestures loosely at Dara’s flushed features. “Is for the good of Arsur.” She calls him out pointedly, to which Dara sighs. Lying to her was never going to go anywhere. 

Xelara’s expression softens minutely, and she pauses a good while before speaking again. 

“Your soldiers are sworn to secrecy,” She says slowly, as if testing the words on her tongue. “And my blades would sooner die than kiss up to some meddling noble.”

Dara catches on quickly, shutting the very notion down. “The imperial guard–”

“Both adore and respect the crown.” She counters, levelling him with a pointed stare. 

“There are far too many in our procession to be sure about loyalty–” He tries again.

“Dara.” Xelara interrupts, voice a little colder now, and despite his own better judgement, Dara listens.

“I like Nesrîn. Crown or not, she has my respect. I know it does not come easy to you to set aside titles and hierarchy,”

Dara huffs.

“But you must remember there is a person beneath all that gold. A person that deserves more than to be toyed with.” She states the matter like fact.

Dara narrows his eyes. “I would never dream of toying with the Crown.”

It’s Xelara’s turn to huff, exasperation evident. “Aren’t you? You kneel by her bedside till dawn, yet the moment she wakes you flee like a dog with his tail between his legs!” She snaps, more irritated than Dara initially thought.

He glares back before turning his gaze back to the path ahead, posture rigid. “I don’t see how this matter concerns you.”

Xelara scoffs. “You are being cruel.”

“To you?” He sneers.

“To Nesrîn.” She snaps.

Dara winces marginally. In truth, he knows Xelara’s right. This push and pull with Nesrîn can only go on so long. Either he gives in to what he wants at long last, or continues to run until she gives up. The latter would be better for them both, but is he not yet too far gone? How is he to willingly choose a life of darkness after feeling the sun against his skin?

Dara wilts. “It's safer that way.”

Still Life with Brioche - Victoria Dubourg Fantin-Latour , c. 1890. 

French, 1840-1926