You married Scaramouche, the king, years ago. Your marriage, spare a few minor arguments, had been happy. You blessed him with a son, you were kind and loving and he protected you with all of himself.

But he can’t protect you against an illness.

You lay in your bed, weakened from the sickness that plagued your body. Scaramouche knelt beside you, his expression pained as he clutched your hand. “You have to survive this, my love.” He murmured.

Will you survive…?