Chapter 185: What Is Home?
Chapter 184: What Is Home?
Lyria’s POV
I would have liked to be the one to read it.
That was the truth of it, and I could admit it to myself even if I could not say it aloud.
I had watched the Duke pick up his parchment and begin walking, and something in me had wanted to be the one he came to.
But I looked away.
Because wanting it and being able to do it were two entirely different things, and I knew that better than anyone in this hall. Whatever the Duke had written, there was every possibility that the words on that parchment would be beyond what Patricia had managed to teach me in stolen hours and careful repetition. And if I stumbled — if I stood before the court and the kingdom and lost the thread of a single line — then everything I had managed to hold together since sitting down in this chair would come undone in a moment.
So I looked away.
I fixed my gaze on a point slightly past Jacinta and kept it there, and I told myself it did not matter.
The footsteps crossed the hall.
And then they stopped.
Directly in front of me.
I looked up before I could stop myself.
Duke Valenridge stood there.
He held the parchment out to me. His expression was composed, and he looked at me with one brow raised in a question that his mouth had not yet bothered to ask.
Then it did.
I simply stared, startled.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice low, "you would prefer not to read it?"
My eyes had gone wide before I could school them otherwise.
I recovered quickly.
"That is n-not it," I said.
My voice came out steadier than I expected.
I glanced briefly, as discreetly as I could manage, toward Jacinta.
And I noticed she was watching me.
Her expression had not changed, but her eyes were on the Duke’s parchment and then on me, and I knew without needing to examine it further that she was annoyed he had given it to me and not to her.
I looked at the Duke again.
He had followed the direction of my glance, and when his gaze returned to mine, one brow had risen a fraction higher.
I reached out and took the parchment from his hand.
He straightened.
I looked down at what he had written, and the first thing I noticed — before I had even begun to read — was the handwriting itself.
I had seen Duke Thorncrest’s parchment when it had been given to me, and his writing had been beautiful. Clean lines, even spacing; the letters were elegant.
Duke Valenridge’s was different.
It was beautiful in a different way entirely. Each letter was deliberate, considered, as though every word had been placed on the page with the same quiet attention he seemed to give most things. It was neat in a way that felt personal rather than trained.
I did not have long to observe it.
"Your Highness."
The Queen spoke up.
"We do not have the entirety of the day at our disposal," she said. "If you would be so kind as to read what has been written."
I swallowed and then straightened as I began reading.
What is home?
Is it the place one seeks at close of day?
The walls that keep familiar voices near,
A sister, certain she is always right,
And kind enough to prove it, year by year?
A brother moved to tears at trifling tales,
Whether they merit sorrow, none can say.
A cousin prone to breaking all he meets,
And like to break a fourth someday.
A pet of uncertain temperament,
Who claims the finest chair as rightful throne,
And will not yield it, not for love nor food,
Nor any plea that dares to call its own.
Is that home?
It may be so.
And yet, what truth lies deeper still?
Is it the place where sorrow may be hid,
Or rather where one need not hide it at all?
Where wounds are shown without the fear of scorn,
And no one turns away, nor lets them fall.
It is a comfort, quiet, soft, and sure.
A peace that asks for nothing in return.
A room wherein no mask need be maintained,
And hearts may rest, and weary spirits learn.
It is a calm that does not beg display,
Nor call for effort, nor demand a guise.
A stillness rare enough to be held dear,
And known at once, and never much disguised.
But is home a place alone?
Or is it found within a living soul?
Or might it be a thing we scarcely name,
Yet feel its presence, quiet, making whole?
Consider then the chamber of the ill,
An unlikely place, by common thought.
Yet some would name it home, in earnest truth,
For care and gentle tending it has brought.
Not for its walls, nor what it seems to be,
But for the solace quietly bestowed,
For hands that tend, and eyes that truly see,
And hearts that ease another’s weary load.
And what of smaller things we come to keep?
A bed that knows the measure of one’s rest,
A simple bead worn smooth by passing time,
A cherished toy held close unto the chest.
Such things may bear a meaning all their own,
For in their presence something stills inside,
A sense that one is known, and yet remains,
With nothing there that need be turned aside.
For home is not the thing itself alone,
Nor bound to form, nor fixed in shape or place.
It is the meaning we ourselves bestow,
The quiet truth we choose, and then embrace.
It is the call that draws us back again
When all the world grows loud beyond its due,
When burdens press, when strength begins to fade,
And something whispers softly; come back through.
It is the place where all may be set down,
Where nothing more is asked of what we bear,
Where even pain may find a place to rest,
And be acknowledged, gently, resting there.
Where what is good is welcomed as it comes,
And what is not is not at once denied,
Where laughter rises freely, unrestrained,
And truth need never once be set aside.
Home is the thing we fashion for ourselves.
The place or soul or memory we claim.
The quiet pull that bids us not depart,
The steady voice that softly speaks our name.
It is the thread that binds us when we fray,
The hope that lingers through the longest night,
The reason one will rise to greet the dawn,
Though dawn has given little cause for light.
It is the refuge found when all is weight,
When all the world grows far too much to bear,
The thing we seek without a second thought,
Because we know, at last, we shall find care.
That comfort.
That gentle, constant claim.
That quiet thread that bids the heart remain.
And says, stay.
Not by force, nor yet command,
But for the simple truth you understand.
That something here is worth the choosing still.
So...What is your home?
