Chapter 12

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The rest of Barcley's day was spent spinning aimlessly amid a hurricane of doubt. The doctor's continued to change their minds regarding how long the King had to live; Georgie continued to doubt her choices and her abilities as the King's head maid; the guards were on edge—all too aware that the culprit must have slipped past them to drug the King; and Barcley was doubting almost every choice he had ever made.

Did he have what it took to be King? Could he get past this new trauma when he was still dealing with others—primarily the Queen's assassination and his break-up? Would he topple beneath the pressure, or rise above it and lead his people like he'd dreamt of?

One thought which haunted him long into his shower, and whilst he sat at his desk, pouring over the records once again, and even as he tried—and failed—to sleep, was his father's final words before succumbing to the poison: "I thought I raised you better, Barcley. Now get out!"

Barcley rolled beneath the silk sheets, his eyes open and heart bleeding. He couldn't leave things like this ... he had to fix it. He had to make sure his father knew he loved him, that he wanted him alive and well, and that though they may fight and argue, the world was a better place with him in it. If he was gone, he would be more than dearly missed.

The tears were cool as they traced a path from his eyes to the sheets. He didn't wipe them away, nor would he have the sheets cleaned in the morning. It was soothing to find comfort in the pain.

/ END /

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