“So, that's it, really? You're just giving up?”He moved around to the side of my bed. “Leaving? Abandoning everything?”

“That’s what I said.” I flicked my fingers. “Pass me that sock?”

“No.”

“No, you won't pass me my sock?”

“No, you can't leave.”

“Can’t I?”

“No!”

“Do tell then, sir,” I grabbed the sock myself and shoved it into my pack, squishing it next to the small leather book. “Why can't I?”

“Because... Because you can't!”

“Oh ho! What a great answer, professor. You should write a book. Hold a seminar. Spread your wisdom among the people.” I patted his cheek, and he flinched. “Good job... Not.”

“Don’t go, ple... Please.” He picked at a loose thread dangling from my pack, unravelling a few more loops. “All you need to do is say a few words to raise morale. Make them proud and get them ready. It's not that hard.”

I jabbed a finger to the door of my chamber. “You do it then! For crying out loud, you do it!”

I could picture all the people in the Great Hall. The strength that they held. The love that would inevitably be lost.

Guilt squirmed, a wriggle, coiling worm in my gut.

“Go! Go help them. Save them, whatever. Be there for them! Just don't... Just don't make me do something I don't want to do, please. Something that I can't.”

“But you can. That's what I don't get! You can.”

“Can I?”

“Yes!” He shoved the heels of his hand into his eyes and spun around. “My, you're so infuriating!”

Sun slithered in through the crack in the window and caught the dull sheen of my armour. Deep, cavernous scratches tarnished the silver metal, remnants of the blood that had been tirelessly scrubbed away.

My chest heaved. I stared at the back of his head. Maybe this would be easier to say when he wasn't watching.

“Maybe I can do it...” I ran a finger lightly over the spine of the leather book. “Maybe... Perhaps I already have the words scribbled down, ready. But I don't want to, I— It's not what I wanted, and I don't want to be the one who sends them off—the one who sends them to their deaths. I can't.”

The bed groaned, sinking beneath my weight, and one of the red velvet curtains slipped from its tie. “I can't do it. Not... Not again.”

Silence, a dust, thick and choking settled.

What would my father say if he could see me now?

What words would strike and match the vigour and sting of his fists?

An invalid?

A spoiled brat?

A waste?

A disappointment?

Maybe he'd laugh, spit in my face, smite me down with grandfather's sword.

The kingdoms bane, he'd call me. It's what everyone called—

“They don't blame the war on you.”

The silence broke, and he shooed my father away. Cleared the air. Allowed me to breathe.

“They won't blame the war on you. They love you, adore you. They,” He sat beside me, shoving away the fallen curtain. “They would follow you to the end. As will I. We believe in this kingdom and equally despise the unpleasant Eof.” He shivered. “But... But they need their young King. To show them he respects them and his kingdom just as much as they do. They would fight this battle without you, but that doesn't mean they still don't need you.”

I met his eyes and nudged his shoulder. “You should be King. Write that book.”

“King? Well, I suppose. I've often said it.”

“You haven't...”

“I have, but the crown is much too plain for me. It suits you far better.”

“That’s kind.”

He plucked the leather book from my pack and positioned it on my lap. “So...?”

I ignored his question, the implications of it. “Why am I such a coward?”

“Coward? I wouldn't say that. Stubborn, possibly. Cranky and irritating, yes. But a coward? No. Not that.”

“No?”

“No. I just think you care.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“I will do it—my duty.” I stood and crushed the book to my chest. “But only if you're there too, Pat.”