We Promised

Chapter 2

The sun begins to set casting us in an orange glow, and the Coronation streamers begin to look like blood falling from the sky. Everything has a tint of horror to it in this sacred place, power turned to fear as the most powerful person in the world was shot before our very eyes. What will the people say? We'll be faced with so many questions and so much paperwork. My sister might die. When did this day go so wrong?

If she dies, I'm next in line. Blayne can't receive the crown because he's a man. I'm not ready to be queen. So many people would refuse me as Queen, and so many people would be against me. For the first time in years, I close my eyes and pray.

She stands in a daze, her green eyes glossy with tears. "She'll be fine, little one. You need to get to the castle so we can get everything calm and settled, okay?" I speak softly, in an attempt to soften what she has witnessed. Blayne lifts her, carrying her to the shimmering black transports that wait for us. I stay behind, my breathing out of control. Short, shallow breaths make me panic, and I hide my struggle as best as I can. My eyes find something else to look at, the sun, the grass, the stage slick with my sister's blood. Darkness replaces what I see, as I squeeze my eyes shut. "V?" My surroundings come in blurry when I open them again, and I search for the strength I had earlier to speak. "Hmm?" He glances back at the transport, before examining me. "She'll be fine, Ilvera. She's strong." I lick my lips, trying to shake the fear clawing at my throat. That's not what this is, my mind screams. "I'll be home soon. I need a bit of time," I force out. He nods in understanding, placing a kiss on my forehead. I watch as they take off, leaving me alone in a place I shouldn't. I stumble off the stage, walking down the sidewalk towards the villages.

The roads are bustling with people and shops, and banners of Evelyn's coronation hang from land posts. She looks regal, her eyes sharp with authority and focus. I grip the bricks at the opening of an alleyway, and the sounds around me are too much. Cool concrete against my forehead soothes me as my knees hit the ground. My hair sticks to my lip to suffocate me even more, and I gulp in greedy, selfish amounts of air. "Excuse me, my lady. Are you alright?" I turn my head slowly, keeping my head on the ground so I don't spiral into madness. "I can't b-breath," I whisper. The man has lines of stress set in his face, his round blue eyes bright in the lights of the city. He's forty years old, my best guess, and homeless. I can tell by the dirt on his arms, his gray hair and his shirt hanging off his shoulder in a weak attempt to keep holding on to him. He's not a surprise, not really. Homeless men litter the streets, left without a woman to care for them, shelter them, and feed them. "Sweetheart, you're having a panic attack. Take these." I hesitate, hands curled into my chest. I must be weak, because even though I could be in danger, even though these pills can be anything, I take it, desperate to get this feeling away from me.

My breathing, my racing heart, my thoughts, my trembling all come to a slow stop like the shutdown of a machine. He pats my arm and I sit back on my hands. I could take him if it comes down to it, and wrap my arms around his neck before he can react, breaking it. I could take the knife that's strapped against my leg and drive it through his heart. "Why are you helping me? I know you know who I am. We've sent you to live your final days in hell, why are you helping me?" I ask quietly. A smile makes his eyes glow, like a lighthouse in the night. "And who might 'we' be?" My lips press into a thin line, examining the man in quiet thanks. "No one. Thank you for your kind heart. On my blood, I thank you." He presses a hand on my cheek and I shrink away, uncomfortable with the physical contact. "A word of advice. Just count your breaths. Count up to a hundred and if it hasn't passed, count to two hundred." He pauses, pondering over whether he should admit something to me that he shouldn't. "My son used to suffer from what you have." Pain flickers across his face, and I no longer see his blue orbs. "What happened to him?" His face darkens for the first time, curling his hands into a fist. "They killed him." They killed him. My parents killed him.