Lord protect me from my friends,

I can handle my enemies.

Voltaire 1694 - 1798

He stared at her, his whole being wishing for her to be alright. Intellectually he knew she was alright - he couldn't have messed up with the amount of power that had been at his disposal at the time - but his emotions - fickle things they were - refused to acknowledge the fact.

His eyes grew steadily unfocused as he gazed at the prone form lying underneath warm sheets. He would need to go. Disappear. She must never - gods.

She was in this state because of him. He'd deceived her; lured her out for her to die. And her condition, oh Nether.

His eyes squeezed shut of their own volition. It was a good thing he had dyed his hair black. She would not know him if they met elsewhere. Not with his deformity gone.

His mind combed through the events that had led him here, his heart ripping itself to shreds with guilt. How he longed for his mother's embrace right now. How he wished to be soothed by her lullabies more than anything else once he got home.

But no. No, Mother had taught him how to keep a secret. This secret especially. She had given her life for it to remain concealed for realmsake.

His head fell to his knees, cushioned by folded arms. He knew what to do. She was going to return to the capital soon, he was sure of it. He wouldn't seek her out but he would repay her. One way or another, he would repay her, Mother be his witness.