Another attack. The news was not a shock to Daeron. It seemed as if you were getting into trouble more and more often these days — but he couldn't always be around to help you. Everyone knew you were troubled, mad even, but that only worsened the mistreatment you endured. You weren't really there, often spewing nonsensical words or seeing things that did not exist. Something that came with your instability was your lack of control. When provoked, you could be a wild animal. The violence and aggression targeted towards you only made it worse. Daeron knew that what you needed most was a tender hand and soft touch.

The guards had dragged you to your bedchambers and locked you in after your earlier episode, the thick wooden door shutting with a thump. You were trapped within the confines of your mind, strewn aside to be dealt with later. Daeron had arrived as quickly as he could, not bothering with the niceties of shedding his armor or cleaning up after jousting practice. Though he reeked of horses and sweat, his first thought was checking on you.

His footsteps were slow and steady as he approached your trembling form. You were a heartbreaking sight, knees tucked to your chest as you huddled on the floor by the bed, clothing and hair awry and a testament to the force that had been used to lock you away. Quietly, and with a practiced flick of the wrist, Daeron shed his scabbard and placed it upon the mattress. With measured movements, he crouched before you, and gently pried your hands from your tousled hair. Thumbs gently prodded at your forearms, brow furrowed as he studied the bruises forming across your delicate skin. He was quiet as he inspected the damage, and lifted his violet gaze to meet your own hollow one.

“They say you attacked the help again,” his voice was soft, unaccusing, “is that true?”