Chapter 147 Unseen Wounds
The couple lay side by side, unmoving, unflinching for unspeakable durations. Some thought this was their deathbed, their coffins already crafted, and the mourners ready to shed tears. Yet, the people who loved them the most refused to give up despite their unconventional methods. Finally, the first to wake up was Killorn. Scarred and sliced by battle, but rippling with strength, Killorn woke up to a comatose wife. People expected his fury and wrath at her state, but were instead met with composure and solitude. He seldom spoke much of her, and instead, focused his energy on rebuilding his pack. He visited the makeshift hospitals, personally saw to the restoration of the damaged buildings, and was present during all of the crucial meetings.
It was only during the dead of the night did the powerful man broke down. He'd smash everything as if that'd bring back his beloved wife. As if that'd reverse the stained dress that haunted him in his study. An office he couldn't bring himself to face. A cloth that he vowed to burn, but didn't dare.
"Her external injuries are good as healed," Reagan said on the fourteenth day that Ophelia hadn't opened her eyes. He worked with what he had, crafting various pastes and wrapping bandages around her wounds, but it was taking forever to properly heal. "I see." Killorn patrolled the grounds, watching over the renovation of a few of his people's houses. They've made great progress restoring the enormous walls that kept the Dukedom safe. Many of the wounded soldiers were already on their feet, aiding in chopping down wood, transporting materials, and locating the resources needed to restore the pack to its original state.
"We've done all that we could," Reagan reminded Killorn. "Your lack of reaction only frightens me."
"My people need me," Killorn said without fail, despite the dark circles under his eyes, and his sunken cheeks. "I must remain strong."
"So this is how you'll be from here on out," Reagan realized with a disappointed sigh and shake of his head. He turned at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.
"Alpha!" Janette gasped out, her eyes wide and frantic. She placed a hand on her chest, heaving for air after running all the way from the mansion to the foot of the village. "Well, spit it out!" Reagan grumbled, irritated by her lack of timely speech.
Janette presented a bright, relieved smile as tears spilled from her cheeks, warm with pure joy. "My lady… my lady is awake!"
- - - - -
The distant echoes of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors of the mansion. Killorn rushed towards his chamber, his speed a mixture of desperation and hope. His heart pounded in sync with the urgency of his fevered steps, each beat pouncing with unspoken fear and an indescribable yearning to see her again.
Ophelia swallowed. "Does… does that mean I-I am no longer a target?"
"Yes, my dear," Reagan's voice softened. "Vampires and werewolves are no longer attracted to your scent and flesh. Your blood has no more healing properties. Killorn was pardoned for his crimes, as both his people and the opposing sides have been killed and slaughtered."
"So… it's all over now?" Ophelia exhaled, holding onto her hope.
"Yes," Killorn reassured immediately. "The war is over. You and I will live out the rest of our lives in peace. Nothing will ever come for you again, Ophelia. I promise."
Ophelia released a soft sigh of relief, gasping with excitement. She had never felt so light and airy in this moment, where everything seemed to finally be alright. Her happy ending was growing closer by the second. Unable to contain her happiness, Ophelia peered upon her husband.
Ophelia took one of Killorn's hands and smiled up at him as she rested her freed palm sliding over her womb. "T-then, Killorn, I have something t-to tell you." But her happiness was short-lived as she felt an inherent coldness from beneath her fingertips. An unmistakable feeling of dread weighed her down, splashing her in the face, as she began to grow dizzy with the realization long before he said it. "N-no…!" Ophelia dropped his hand immediately, grabbing her stomach in fear.
Killorn pulled her into his arms again, holding his wife, as she trembled and released a heart-shattering wail upon his final words.
"I'm sorry," Killorn whispered. "You've miscarried, Ophelia." The revelation hung in the air, a haunting veil over the unsmiling couple. The truth was heavy as a mountain. For Ophelia to have summoned such a powerful spell, she had sucked up almost all life forms in the arena—including the one within herself. It wasn't just the essence of her Direct Descendant properties, but a life that had begun to weave into the fabric of their lives.
As the realization hit Ophelia, she succumbed to the weight of grief, falling onto her knees. A primary cy clawed its way from the depths of her chest, from the abyss of her soul, tearing through her composure. The echoes of her pain filled the chamber, each sob and gasp for her even more heartbreaking than the last.
Killon gathered her in his arms, tight was his embrace, and reassuring was his words. "It's not your fault, Ophelia. You didn't mean it."
Tears blurred her vision as Ophelia surrendered to the sorrow that seeped from her bones and heart. The room tasted bitter of loss and understanding. With a tenderness that hid the storm raging inside of him, Killorn held her tightly. He sought to shield her from the relentless agony she must've felt towards Reagan's explanation. "We can always have more children," Killorn encouraged. "The two of us are young and able, we will be alright."
Killorn's words and comfort offered a solace unlike any other. She wrapped herself against him, face buried into the crook of his neck, wondering how he could maintain his strength during a time like this. He was always the stronger one of the duo with a tighter leash on his emotions. A haunting silence fell upon the husband and wife as melancholy trickled by the second. Only time would heal unseen wounds.
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