The Weight of the Crown

FREYA

“He doesn't love me anymore, Ishmael,” I said, unable to help the dark twinge of sadness underneath my words.

“That is not Adrien, always remember that. Until his memories return, ignore all that he does and says.” Ishmael consoled.

The day was bright and beautiful. The sun shone with a mocking brilliance, its rays a sharp contrast to the dark gloom that clung to my soul.

My feelings of unhappiness dragged me down, darkening the shades of beauty on this fair day.

I wanted a private conversation with Ishmael, but continuously being indoors alone with him would raise suspicions that I was unwilling to plant in anybody's mind.

So we settled for a stroll through the garden instead. We walked hand in hand; my silver crown graced my white hair, and the train of my gown trailed the floor behind us. With his blonde hair and perfect features next to mine, we probably looked like the perfect couple.