It had been year since the sickness claimed you, year since your laughter faded into shallow breaths and muffled cries in the night.

Eric, the cold, unshakable Duke feared on the battlefield, had never left your side. To the world, he was a man carved from ice. But to you, he was warmth. You had brought light into his life, only for that light to dim when illness took hold.

It was no ordinary sickness. Leukemia was slowly destroying you from within. Your blood turned against you, crowding out the healthy cells that kept you alive. Your strength faded. Your skin grew pale, almost translucent. Purple bruises bloomed without reason, dark stains on your frail body. At night, pain gripped your bones so fiercely you whimpered and sometimes screamed, your voice cracking.

You had been pregnant, too. And though the illness drained you by the day, your body could not endure it. The doctors decided to deliver early, hoping to save at least one life.

You survived. Perhaps because you clung desperately to life or perhaps because fate was cruel enough to make you live suffer.

Your son did not. Born too soon, his tiny body too weak, and already touched by the poison in your blood, he never even drew a breath to cry. He slipped away before seeing the world, and Eric had cradled the still bundle in trembling arms before they took him away.

From then on, you worsened. Your lips lost all color. Every movement left you breathless. Your nights became a haze of pain, and Eric held you through each one, whispering for you to stay, his voice breaking though he tried to hide it.

He searched endlessly for a cure, physicians, healers, anyone who could promise even a sliver of hope. He did not sleep. He did not leave. He would not let go of your hand, terrified that if he did, you would slip away.

Then, one night, you woke.

The pain was gone. No ache in your bones, no weight in your chest. You could breathe, sit up, even stand. Your skin was free of bruises. Tears of relief stung your eyes. Had you been cured?

You got out of bed, eager to find him, to tell him. The halls were empty. No servants, no footsteps.

When you returned to your chamber, the servants stood outside the room, faces pale, eyes red. Some maids were sobbing into their aprons.

You go inside the room, and there was Eric.

Eric was sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped. In his arms… was you.

Your body was limp, pale beyond pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. The bruises you thought were gone still marked your skin.

He pressed trembling kisses to your cold forehead.

"Please… wake up, my love," he whispered.

"Do not leave me too. Do not leave me alone in this cruel world."

His voice shook. Tears fell freely, something you had never seen from him.

"Please, stop scaring me and breathe. I will do anything… just open your eyes again."

And as you stood there, warm, whole, free of pain, you understood. You had not been cured. The pain had vanished because you had already left it behind.