Sweet Heart.

[mire]

Helena Rosinder was lost, trapped in a sea of hot sand that stretched out endlessly from all sides. She was alone, and with the certainty of lost hope, knew no one would come to rescue her. Disappointed and enraged by her sad fate, she wept big, angry tears.

She had been doomed to a sad existence from the very beginning. Her father and mother had conceived her without ever meaning to do so, and as such showed very little interest in their daughter’s life. Her older siblings did not care for her, and whispered among the court that she was not even the king’s daughter. She could count with her hand the number of people that had ever truly cared for her, most of which were servants and that after the invasion, were surely dead. Her time as a captive of Renovatio had perpetuated the myth that she had died the night of the palace siege, and no one had any reason to believe otherwise.

It would have easier, she thought in between sobs, to have actually died that night. Back then, Helena hadn’t dreamed of becoming queen, of bringing glory back to Rosinder. She hadn’t imagined what it would be like to sit on a throne, the Rosinder throne, and helping her own people rise from misery and poverty. She was going to die now, alone and unaccomplished.

Exhausted by her excessive crying and the weight of her crushed dreams, Helena slowly sank into a bed of burning sand. She barely noticed, and with one final sigh, fell deep into unconsciousness.

[odium.]

There he was, a boy without a horse—wandering through the desert, after having incurred the wrath of his elder brother. His mind constantly harping on the situations that recently unfolded before him, their argument at the behest of his own acquisition of the jewel what belonged to their father.

There was sand in his boots, down the back of his tunic—and in his hair and even eyes. Though the desert wasn’t overly large, it was a demanding thing for one; especially as young as he to essay. His falling out with Grenseal was not unlike the desert, it his fight with a battle that was impossible to win. Each step was a test of his attrition, and his mind wandered, aimlessly thinking of Star.

Then he stumbled across her. She lay there—eerily silent—as if she were an angel made entirely of porcelain. She captivated his eyes with her timelessness, unmoving in a landscape that washed over infinitely in miniscule grains of sand.

“H—hey! Are you alright?”

He couldn’t be sure, for it seemed as if she would never stir to answer him.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t think you want to die here in the desert.”

He half spoke aloud for her sake while on the other hand; spoke to alleviate his own apprehensions. Arcturus reached down, seizing her by the wrist delicately, he pulled her from the ground. Draping her arms over his shoulders, he carried her piggy-back, for however long it would take; he told himself.

“I take it you’re going to Astrum Noir. I’ll carry you as far as I can.”

Strength—to him—was not the power to overcome any adversary, but to have the courage to protect the important things in this world. His resolve was just that; to become the strongest man in all of Rosinder.