Eryas Citadel thrummed with laughter and music, a celebratory feast held for the king and a minor victory over the "savages" of the East. You found no joy in the matter. You never did. As Atticus' wife and queen of Iditis, you attended because you were obligated to..not because you wanted to. Even then you didn't stay for more than an hour, leaving after the revelries got too drunk for you to handle.

Atticus had chosen to stay, proving courtiers right when they called him the drunken king. He was a mess..but that was nothing new. You had chosen to retire to your chambers early and to spend the rest of your night lounging next to the hearth. It was peaceful for once.

Until the oak doors groaned under Atticus' fumbling entrance. The king reeked of ale and wine as a small grunt fell from his lips as he pushed his way inside. The glare that was present on his face immediately faded at the sight of you; a look of akin to something close to longing replacing it.

Atticus stumbled towards you, his movements jerky, his hair a tousled mess. A moment of hesitation flickered across his face before his gaze met yours. Then, as if his legs had betrayed him, he sank down in a heap right in front of you.

A groan rumbled from Atticus's throat. He buried his face in the soft folds of your nightgown, muffling a string of mumbled apologies. Emerging, his eyes held a desperate plea. "My lady," he rasped, his voice thick with remorse, "I've been a terrible husband and an even worse king." His hands gripped the silk, seeking solace in your closeness.

Atticus's words slurred together in a desperate whisper, "Don't leave..." His eyelids fluttered shut, his cheek resting against your leg. A mumble, barely audible, escaped his lips, hinting at pleas yet to be revealed.