Torran trailed his hand across one of the boxes near the center of the room, where a man and woman lay on their sides facing each other. They looked like they could have stepped off the street a moment ago and just settled in for a nap on their caved cushion.

"My father and mother," he explained. "Prince and princess of Wynherst, former Duke and Duchess of Bradcombe."

Idelle looked at them with as much reverence as she could conjure up for a couple she had never met before. The man looked nothing much like Torran, with sharp and long features that were the opposite of Torran's softer curves. His mother, though, held the curls and cheerfulness that her son had inherited. She smiled in her endless sleep, a dimple softening her cheek like a spot of sunshine. Looking at her, Idelle suddenly felt like crying.

"Aengus is back here," Torran said, his gaze flicking over to the other end of the room that lay mostly empty. The death of kings and queens and their families had not yet filled the tower room, and Aengus' grave sat alone in an empty corner. As they approached it, a chill filled the air and Idelle had to wrap her arms around herself. Torran didn't seem to notice.

King Aengus's statue lay in state, his tunic and trousers the height of fashion, along with his tall boots and slit sleeves. His hair brushed his collar with curls, and his beard was trimmed neatly. He was not what she had expected the king to look like. For one, he was very young and looked full of life that did not belong in this dark place. His face had the same thin lines of Torran's father, with a straight nose and mouth that might have looked too long on someone else, but somehow made him look handsome and wise. His carved eyes were closed and someone had placed snowdrops, the fist flowers at the end of winter, on his hands which lay folded over his breast.

Torran lifted one of the flowers and held it as he stared at the dead king's face. Idelle stayed back, unsure of what to do or where to stand. Her hands felt awkward at her sides.

"His statue is so white. But, he had red hair, you know," Torran whispered, though if he was talking to her or to the air, Idelle wasn't sure. His nostrils flared and then he leaned against the stone coffin, his head sinking beneath his shoulders. It wasn't until she heard the quiet intake of his breath that she realized he was crying. His back shook and he lifted a hand to cover his face.

Drawn between leaving him to process his grief on his own or staying as a small bit of comfort, Idelle only could stare at the statue of King Aengus. She had never met him, had never even seen him until looking on this carving of his face, but even she felt a pang in her chest at his stillness. It seemed wrong that such a young face should never move again.

Torran's bad leg buckled under him and he let himself slide to the floor, turning so his back pressed against the final resting place of his cousin. His good knee up, he buried his face in his arms wrapped around it.

Idelle knew what she had to do. She raced to his side, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around his shoulders from the side. She pulled him to her, feeling the racks of his tears shudder through his body, and rested her cheek against his blonde waves. He stiffened at first, almost pulling away from her, but as she whispered soothing nonsense to him, running a hand down his hair and neck, he leaned into her. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her tight, and she felt his tears soak through the top of her shirt. Her own tears threatened, and she looked up at the ceiling, blinking to stop them. He needed her to be strong, not cave while he was so weak. She had lost her king, but he had lost his family. For now, she was his mother, sister, comfort, safe place, all in one. With her eyes closed, she held him tightly, daring the world to try and harm him while she was there.

########

The monk arrived an hour later, after Torran had gotten back to his feet and wiped his face with his sleeves until it looked like he'd never shed a tear. Idelle noticed his arrival before Torran, and she stepped back to let him stand on the other side of King Aengus' tomb.

After a moment of silence, Torran looked up at him, his eyes bright with something hard and angry, though it didn't seem directed at the monk. "What happened to him?"

The monk sighed, his eyes never leaving the softened expression of the statue. "We do not know. It seemed as if he was here with us one day, and the next he became a wraith. His energy drained away overnight, and by midday on the morrow, he was gone completely. The healers hadn't even time to begin any treatments."

Torran's fingers slid across the surface of the stone coffin until they formed fists on the edge. "Someone did this," he said, low and too calm. "He wouldn't have died like that on his own. It was done by someone's hand. Who?"

The monk looked down at the floor, not answering, but it seemed Torran didn't need him to. He spun on his heel, leaving the monk behind, and Idelle had to race to catch up with him as he walked back up the stairs and into the tower chapel. He marched outside and crossed the long swaths of grass and stone to the identical tower on the right. As he wrenched open the door, he turned to face Idelle. Though she knew nothing of the palace politics or what was going on, he seemed to not care.

"We'll find out who did this, Idelle," he said, full of fury and justice. But underneath it all, Idelle saw the uncertainty in his eyes and the way his hand shook on the door. She drew in a breath and slowly let it out.

"Of course we will, sir," she answered, hoping that she was right. 

########

The next morning, a page boy appeared at Idelle's door a few hours after sunrise and her morning meal. She'd been glad for the extra sleep, and had been secretly reveling in the luxury of not having to fetch and cook her own meal at the supply tents. Having someone bring piping hot porridge, with canned fruit and nuts sprinkled on top, was about as heavenly as Idelle could imagine. 

She'd even been enjoying the sight of the back of her eyelids, sprawled out on a long couch in her room, when the page boy had entered. She didn't begrudge him his intrusion, even if the silence and stillness was long needed after a year in crowded trenches. His appearance meant Torran wanted to see her, and perhaps she could get her supplies to head back to the front lines.

The page boy led her out of the room and down the hall and stairs that lined the edges of the tower. Of course, it had been night the last time she'd traveled here, and even in the daylight she had little feel for what the other rooms were meant for. She assumed it was some sort of auxiliary living quarters, probably for servants who didn't need to be in the main building or for guests who did not quite merit a place near the queen. Visiting traders, mayors of small towns, knights, or someone like Idelle-- a guest, but of no consequence. Torran had been given a room in this tower, too, but she had a feeling it was more to do with his being barred from awakening the queen than it did with how his rank was viewed by the servants.

He waited for her now, at the front door to the tower. He wore different clothes, not stained with blood and sweat, though they were not much different from what he'd worn on the battlefield. This tunic was blue, and that about summed up the differences. In fact, the most notable change was the splint and brace now wrapping around his right leg. When he saw her looking at it, he grimaced.

"I called a healer early this morning," he said. "Turns out the 'specialists' really do know what they're doing."

Idelle returned his grimace with a wince. "I didn't ruin anything, did I?"

"Well, I'll spare you the colorful language they used to describe your handiwork, but they did say that the cauterization kept me alive." He shrugged. "So you don't get any points for artistry, but I find myself once again indebted to you for my life and safety."

Idelle shuffled her feet and then pointed to the door. "Are we heading out?"

Nodding, Torran pushed out into the sunlight and a lovely morning.