Chapter 92: Of Quiet Waters and Unspoken Burdens
Chapter 91: Of Quiet Waters and Unspoken Burdens
Lyria’s POV
I stared at him.
For a moment longer than was proper.
It was only when I realised it—when the awareness settled—that I lowered my gaze at once, the faintest frown pulling at my lips.
"M-my eyes are n-not empty, Your Grace," I said.
It came out more firmly than I had intended.
The Duke of Blackmere laughed.
It was not loud, nor was it cruel, but there was something in it—something certain, something that suggested he found my insistence... predictable.
"They are," he said simply.
I looked at him again before I could stop myself.
"T-they are not," I repeated, quieter this time.
His pale green eyes held mine with a steadiness that was almost disconcerting.
"I have seen that look before," he said. "More times than I care to count."
His tone was measured.
"People believe emptiness to be the absence of feeling," he continued. "It is not. It is what remains when feeling has been... exhausted."
I said nothing.
"Your eyes," he added, "are not devoid of anything. They are simply... tired of holding too much."
The words settled somewhere I did not wish to examine.
I turned my gaze away again.
"T-that is not t-true," I said, though there was less certainty in it now.
He did not argue.
He merely hummed, a low sound that suggested he would not waste effort pressing a point I was not prepared to accept.
After a moment, he sighed.
"I will not insist upon seeing your injuries," he said.
I blinked, slightly surprised.
"That is... m-most considerate of Y-your Grace," I said.
"I am capable of restraint," he replied. "Sometimes."
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice again.
"But I will say this," he continued, his tone shifting—quieting, settling into something far more deliberate. "Whatever it is you are enduring... you would do well not to think too much upon it."
I let out a small, incredulous breath.
"And how," I asked, turning back toward him despite myself, "a-am I to a-achieve that?"
He said nothing.
"How," I repeated, my voice tightening, "does one s-simply choose not to think on something t-that stands before them at e-e-e-every hour?"
My fingers curled slightly at my sides.
"I-I experience it daily," I said. "T-the words. The... t-treatment. The c-constant r-r-reminder of what I am permitted t-to be a-and w-what I am not."
I paused.
"A-and what I am n-not allowed t-to f-forget."
The silence that followed was different. It was heavier.
The Duke did not interrupt.
He did not offer some immediate, polished answer as most would.
Instead, he watched me.
And waited.
It was disconcerting.
More so than any reprimand.
Because it meant he had heard me.
And I did not know what to do with that.
"With the manner in which you have just expressed yourself," he said slowly, "I am quite certain of one thing. You are enduring more than you permit others to see."
My breath caught faintly.
"And," he added, "you are holding on."
I stilled at his words.
He tilted his head, staring at me. "What?" he asked. "Are you not?"
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words seemed unable to come out. They felt lodged in my throat with no way out.
The Duke did not push me, though. He just continued staring, and after a while, he spoke again.
"I will not ask what it is that helps you hold on," he said. "Nor will I presume to name it for you. I have no right, and it is something that is wholly yours."
His gaze shifted slightly, though it did not leave me entirely.
"But there is always something," he continued. "Some tether. Some reason that prevents a person from... letting go."
My throat tightened.
I thought of my mother.
Of her weak breaths. Of how she looked in that room.
I thought of her sacrifices when I was younger. How she ensured that I was okay, how she ensured that I was well taken care of. That I was fed well. How she had taken the courage to escape with me.
I thought of her smile, which I yearned to see again. Her voice whispering in my ears. Her hands over mine as we painted together.
I thought of Patricia, who never turned me away even when she was tired. I thought of her warm eyes and her warm smile.
I could not leave them, no matter how much I suffered. I could not leave them. I... I couldn’t, but it was hard. It was hard fighting to stay when the people around me just enjoyed the threats on my life, seeing it as a sport.
"Whatever it is," the Duke said, "it is the reason you remain standing."
His voice was steady, like he knew that I had a reason for standing. I had a reason for not backing down.
"You would do well to hold on to it," he told me.
I drew in a breath.
"A-and what if it is n-not enough?" I asked quietly. "W-what if t-the things I’m holding to are not e-enough t-to keep me going?"
His gaze sharpened, just slightly.
"But it is enough, isn’t it?" he asked softly.
I shook my head faintly.
"Y-you do not u-understand," I said. "I-I don’t think i-it’s enough anymore. I d-don’t... I want it t-to end. All of it. I want to be f-free of everything. I don’t want to be t-t..."
I had no idea what I was about to say. I just knew I was tired. I doubted I could continue coping at this point.
The Duke was quiet for a long moment.
The water around him shifted slightly as he moved, though he did not approach.
"I understand that desire," he said at last.
His voice had changed.
There was something in it now—something quieter, something that carried the weight of familiarity.
"But there is a danger in it," he continued.
I looked at him.
"When one becomes too eager for an end," he said, "one is prone to making... unwise decisions."
I frowned slightly.
"W-what sort of d-decisions?"
He exhaled slowly.
"The sort one does not survive," he said.
I stared directly at him now, all rules forgotten.
"You speak as though you are one step away from making a decision you will regret," he told me. "One you may not survive."
I understood the implication, but I doubted I had gotten to that point. The only feeling I had was one that sought to be free. One that wanted... I paused.
Perhaps the Duke was not far off. What better way to make things end than to not exist anymore?
But my mother... Patricia... even as intense as this feeling was, I could not leave them behind.
And why did the Duke sound like he was acquainted with issues like this?
"Pardon me, y-your Grace," I said, "but you speak as t-though you have experienced s-something similar."
It was bold of me, but I was genuinely curious.
His lips curved faintly.
"I am."
There was no hesitation in his answer.
"It was not my own experience alone," he added. "Though I have had my share of... unwise inclinations."
His gaze drifted, just briefly, toward the far edge of the lake.
"There were others," he continued. "People who believed, quite firmly, that an end—any end—was preferable to endurance."
His jaw tightened, though only slightly.
"Some of them were... close to me. Some I considered family."
The words felt heavier this time.
As though each one carried something behind it.
Something he was not saying.
"It is no news that Blackmere is a territory that opens its doors to anyone who is willing to step within it and become one with it," he said.
I nodded. It was for that exact reason my mother wanted to go there, though there were many other territories we could go to as well.
"It is a place for those who have been cast aside," he said. "Rogues. Strays. Those who no longer belong where they once did."
For that reason, many frowned upon the territory. They wondered why one that was filled with rogues—one that had been ruled by a pirate turned nobleman—could be the richest in the kingdom.
"Many who come there," he continued, "arrive with questions they cannot answer."
He glanced at me again.
"They ask why."
The word lingered.
"Why they were treated as they were. Why they were abandoned. Why their lives took the shape they did."
His expression did not change.
"But there are no answers," he said. "Or none that satisfy them."
The water lapped faintly at the edge of the bank.
"And some," he added quietly, "do not endure that absence of answers well."
"The majority of deaths recorded in Blackmere," he said, "are not the result of conflict. I do not know if it is known here."
He paused and shook his head.
"They are self-inflicted," he told me. "People who could no longer hold on after what had been done to them. People who regret their choices, people who cannot adapt... they take the easy way out most times... death... self-inflicted."
