Tied to the Throne

chapter forty seven

Arabella P.O.V

I was never scared of dying, I actually thought about it quite often. The thought of the world finally going quiet, never scared to think about how the world would continue to spin and change without me there. Maybe my dad would finally miss me, or maybe not. Maybe Camille would beg to move into my old room at the castle, she did always talk about how much bigger the bed in that room is. Maybe my mum would stop sending letters with different recipes on them, urging me to try a new baked good she conjured up. I was never scared of closing my eyes for the last time. I was never scared to finally have my mind go silent.

I was never scared, until I had someone to be scared for.

I was never scared until I had someone who was relying on me being alive.

Nikolai.

Nikolai P.O.V

One week.

One week I've been next to her side, night and day, praying she'd wake up, praying Salvatore didn't actually kill my wife. Praying the doctors here were good enough. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours, and the hours into days, each second a slow, relentless ache. Every breath I took felt heavy, laden with the weight of my fears and guilt.

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the room, mingling with the faint hum of medical equipment. I softly reach out for her hand, making sure my hands are not too cold before doing so, as if the warmth of my touch might offer some solace, some hint of life. Another empty tear rolls down my hollow cheeks, falling onto the crisp white sheets. My eyes, rimmed with dark circles, reflect a deep, endless weariness. I can hardly recognize myself in the mirror—eyes hollow, cheeks gaunt, a shadow of the man I used to be.

My head drops, the weight of my grief too much to bear, and a sob escapes my lips. We were finally home at Athline again. The war was over. We had won. But in this victory, I found no joy, only a crushing emptiness. I felt like a murderer, like I had failed in the most fundamental way. I had let my wife be killed. I had let my child be killed.

The baby.

The thought of that tiny thing—innocent and vulnerable—lost forever because of the cruel twist of fate, tore at my soul. The stab wound had been directly to her lower abdomen, and despite everyone's desperate efforts, it had been nearly impossible to save the small, growing fetus. My heart ached for the life that could have been, the future we would never get to see.

"Come on, princess, please wake up. Everyone is so worried. I'm so scared..." My voice trembles, barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might make the pain more real, more unbearable.

An expectant silence lingers across the medical ward. It's the same silence that I had received over the past seven days. The days that seemed to blend into each other, a constant cycle of hope and despair. I've spoken to her countless times, my voice a thread in the tapestry of her unconsciousness. I've talked about the world outside, our home, and the future we had planned. Each word felt like a plea to fate, a desperate hope that somehow my love could bridge the chasm between life and death.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Bell, I love you, and I always will. Princess."

The words seemed to hang in the air, suspended in the charged stillness of the room. It was the same plea I had repeated over and over, a mantra of love and regret. The room's silence was thick, oppressive, almost tangible. I could feel it pressing against me, a weight I couldn't shake off, as if the very walls were holding their breath along with me.

Then, amidst the profound quiet, a sound—barely audible, just a murmur—cut through the oppressive silence. It was faint, a fragile whisper that seemed to come from somewhere far away, but unmistakably present.

"It's Queen."

The words, though barely more than a breath, were like a lighthouse in the storm. My heart skipped a beat, hope igniting within me like a flickering flame in the dark. The room, filled with the weight of anxious anticipation, seemed to come alive. The eyes fluttered open slowly, revealing a gaze that was both tired and determined. The figure on the bed, once so still and lifeless, began to stir, her awareness gradually returning.

My breath caught in my throat as she—my Bell—looked around with a mix of confusion and recognition. I could see the effort it took for her to focus, her eyes struggling to make sense of the world after days of darkness. The sight of her, though weak, was like a balm to my wounded soul.

The voice, still barely more than a whisper but now filled with a palpable emotion, continued, "I'm so sorry—"

Before she could finish, the overwhelming surge of relief and joy broke free from me. I could no longer hold back the flood of emotion. "Oh my God! Oh, thank you so much, I love you," I choked out, my voice cracking as I squeezed her hand tightly. The touch of her hand against mine was like a lifeline, grounding me to the reality that she was, indeed, still here.

"I thought you were dead," I continued, my voice breaking into small, broken pieces. Each word felt like a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between the pain I had endured and the miraculous moment unfolding before me. "I thought I'd lost you forever."

Her eyes softened, and a faint, weary smile touched her lips. "I love you too, Nikolai," she whispered, her voice tender despite its weakness.

Her words were a balm to my fractured heart, a gentle reassurance that in the midst of all the horror and heartache, there was still something left—something worth fighting for. As she lay there, weak but alive, I had never been so grateful.

The room seemed to exhale collectively, the silence breaking into murmurs of relief and cautious hope. I sat by her side, my hand still holding hers, as if afraid to let go lest the fragile miracle slip away.

"It's all over Bell, I killed him. The wars done, we won — kind of," I tell her quickly.

"How long was I out?" she asks wincing slightly at a sudden move on her part.

"A week."

"And the baby?" she asks, knowing the answer but questioning still, hoping for another miracle of life.

"It's not your fault,"

Her eyes almost immediately gloss over as her hand clenches around mine. Weakly nodding, I tell her more about how greatful I am she's here, about how upset everyone was - especially Cam.

The war was over, and though the victory felt bittersweet, my wife was here - alive, and that's all that matters.

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if anyone knows what poem i was referring to at the start lmk 🤭
thank you for reading :)
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