The Weight of Grief

The night was long and cold, the palace still, save for the soft whispers of the wind outside. Prince Erle sat in a chair beside Lady Eileen's bed, his eyes never leaving her fragile form. He had barely slept, his heart a constant ache as he watched over her, waiting for a miracle that he knew would never come. The scent of medicine still lingered in the air, but it did nothing to ease the overwhelming sense of helplessness that gripped him.

Then, in the stillness of the night, a faint cough broke the silence. Erle's eyes snapped open, his pulse racing.

"Eileen?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. His heart surged with hope. He leaned closer to her, his eyes searching her face as her eyelids fluttered.

"Eileen, you're awake," he murmured, unable to contain the relief that washed over him.

A weak voice barely rose above a breath. "Erle, is that you?"

Tears welled in his eyes, but he forced them back, unable to let himself break just yet. "Yes, it's me," he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

Eileen's gaze fluttered, her violet eyes, once so bright, now clouded with a faraway look. She seemed to be gathering strength for her next words, but they came out slow, fragile.

"Erle," she whispered, a tremor in her voice. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you behind in this world."

The words sliced through him like a knife. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn't speak.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice tight with fear, a desperate plea hidden in his words.

"I h... hope we m... meet again in a... another life," she continued, the words spilling from her lips in a slow, broken cadence.

"No, Eileen, don't say that." Erle leaned closer, his hand finding hers, clutching it desperately. "You won't leave me. Not like this."

Her hand was cold, her fingers weak in his grip, but she managed a faint, sad smile. "Erle, don't... don't cry."

"I— I love you," She whispered.

But Eileen's hand grew limp in his grasp, her breath shallow, her chest stilling. A hollow silence filled the room, and Erle's heart stopped in his chest.

"EILEEN!" His voice shattered the quiet as he leaned over her, shaking her gently, but there was no response. Her face was pale, her body still.

"EILEEN!" he shouted again, his voice desperate, but the truth was already sinking in—he had lost her.

"DOCTOR! DOCTOR!" he cried, his voice raw with panic.

The physician rushed into the room, his expression grim as he assessed the scene. He moved swiftly, checking her pulse and breathing, but there was nothing he could do.

"I'm sorry, Prince," the doctor said softly, his eyes filled with sorrow. "She didn't make it."

The world seemed to tilt beneath Erle's feet, and the room spun. He could barely comprehend the words. He stood there for a long moment, unable to move, as if the loss was too vast to take in. His hands trembled as he gently gathered Eileen's lifeless form into his arms.

"No..." he whispered, but his voice betrayed him, cracking under the weight of the pain. He held her close, as if somehow, in that moment, she could return to him.

He carried her from the room, the loss consuming him, his steps heavy as he moved through the halls of the palace. The grand doors to the chapel swung open, and he laid her body to rest. He couldn't bear to let go, couldn't face the world without her.

The funeral was a blur. High-ranking nobles and dignitaries filed into the hall, their faces etched with grief and solemnity. The air was thick with sorrow, the murmurs of condolences muted against the weight of the tragedy.

"Eileen, my daughter," Viscount Regis wept, his voice breaking as he stood beside his daughter's coffin, clutching his chest in agony. "My sweet, precious daughter."

Susan, the maid who had served Eileen with unwavering loyalty, stood in the corner, tears streaming down her face. "Lady Eileen, I'll always remember you," she whispered, her voice soft but filled with love.

"Eileen, you are everything to me. It feels like a piece of me is broken. Without you, I don't know how to live." Erle voice wavered.

Other nobles gathered around, offering their condolences, but Erle barely heard them. His eyes were fixed on Eileen's still form, his mind struggling to make sense of the gaping hole she had left in his world.

"Suddenly, you're gone. I just can't believe it," he murmured.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Prince Erle," Claudia said, her voice soft, almost uncertain.

Erle didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the coffin. His heart was numb, and the world outside seemed to move in slow motion.

Claudia stepped closer, her voice gentler this time. "I don't know how you're feeling right now, but I hope you heal from it."

Erle sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion and sorrow, but he didn't speak. The words felt hollow.

As time passed, the crowd began to thin, the mourners trickling out one by one, leaving only Erle alone with his thoughts. His hands, still holding Eileen's framed picture, trembled. It felt as though a part of him had been ripped away, leaving him empty.

"Prince Erle," Claudia's voice cut through the silence. She stood by the door, her figure framed in the dim light of the hall. "Everyone has left already. You must be tired. Please, go and get some rest," she said, her tone more insistent than before.

Erle didn't look up, his fingers tightening around the frame. "Go ahead, Claudia," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm staying here."

Claudia's gaze hardened for a moment, and she glared at him, the sharpness in her eyes betraying something else beneath the surface. But she didn't argue. With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him alone in the heavy silence of the chapel.

Erle remained there, his heart heavy with grief, clinging to the memory of the woman he had loved—and lost—forever.

Two Months Later

The faint clatter of papers and the scratch of a quill pen were the only sounds in the dimly lit study. Erle sat hunched over his desk, surrounded by piles of unfinished work, his eyes unfocused, the lines of sorrow carved deep into his face. It had been two months since Eileen's death, and the grief had never loosened its grip on him. His once regal demeanor was now shrouded in an aura of misery, and even the most mundane tasks seemed insurmountable.

Brenner, his ever-loyal servant, stepped into the room. "Your Highness, Lady Claudia is here to see you," he said gently.

Erle barely reacted, his hand hovering over a sheet of paper but not moving to write.

Claudia entered without waiting for further invitation, her eyes immediately landing on the broken figure of the prince. She hesitated for a moment, then let out a small sigh.

"It's been two months, and you're still like this," she said, her voice tinged with both concern and frustration. She glanced at the piles of paperwork scattered around him. "You're not even trying to move on, Erle."

Erle didn't look up. "I can't. Not without her," he murmured, his voice hollow.

Claudia's patience thinned. She walked briskly over to his desk, pulling the papers away from his hands with a firm motion. "Your Highness, you need to stop this. It's unhealthy, and frankly, it's getting old. Come on, let's go somewhere that doesn't feel like a funeral home." Her words were sharp, but behind them, there was a glimmer of affection. She truly wanted to help him, but it was clear that he was shutting everyone out.

Erle finally lifted his gaze, his eyes heavy with unspoken pain. "Claudia, I said I'm not in the mood. Please, just leave me alone."

"But—" Claudia began, trying to meet his eyes, "I'm not asking you to forget her. I just want to see you breathe again. It's been two months! You can't stay like this forever!"

Erle's patience snapped. His voice, low but commanding, was edged with anger. "I said no. Leave me."

Claudia's face darkened, frustration boiling over. She turned on her heel, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "Fine," she spat, her voice filled with bitterness, "You want to wallow in your grief? Then do it alone." She stormed toward the door, her footsteps sharp against the floor.

The door slammed behind her.

Alone in the study once more, Erle's shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes, the silence enveloping him. But outside, Claudia's anger had not yet cooled.

A scream tore itself from her throat as she stormed down the hallway, her emotions a tangled mess. She wasn't angry with Erle, not really. She was angry at the situation, at the memory of Eileen that haunted them both. She was angry at herself for feeling invisible, for knowing she could never replace the woman Erle had loved so deeply.

With a fierce determination, she found herself in the art gallery, where portraits of the royal family hung in somber grandeur. She stormed past them, her eyes locking onto a particular painting—the last portrait of Lady Eileen. Claudia's breath came in shallow bursts, her fists trembling as she reached for the scissors resting on a nearby table.

Without thinking, she grabbed the blades and began to slash at the canvas, the elegant strokes of Eileen's painted face destroyed with each furious cut. "You think you can take him away from me, don't you?" Claudia hissed through clenched teeth. The image of Eileen became a chaos of black streaks and ruined colors as she shredded it.

"I hate you!" she screamed. "I hate you! I hate you!"

She wasn't sure if the words were directed at the woman in the painting or at herself. Maybe both. All she knew was that she had to destroy something—anything—before the weight of her emotions crushed her completely.

And yet, even as the last shred of fabric was torn away, a sick feeling gnawed at her insides. She wasn't angry at Eileen, nor at Erle. She was angry at her own helplessness—her inability to fix him, to make him see her, to make him choose her. But deep down, she knew that no matter how much she hated the ghost of Eileen, it wasn't her love that Erle needed. It was time, and time alone, that could heal him.

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