He laughed then—a short, broken sound that tasted of salt and irony. "But you're Dying, I have to Bury you," he repeated under his breath, the words cracking like dry earth. "I've only just found you… and already I would have to bury you."
Tears slipped free again, hot tracks down his cheeks.
She had been right here all this time—within arm's reach, within breath's distance—yet he had never truly seen her until the moment she began to fade.
She answered him, her voice now choked with the tears she no longer tried to hide.
"Your Highness… I have never been too greedy. That is why—even if you never smiled at me, even if you never looked my way—I was always content… as long as you were happy. Even if that happiness was built on my pain." She paused, drawing a ragged breath as fresh sobs rose in her chest. "I was no more than air to you. Invisible. Unnoticed. And yet… it was okay. Washing my face in tears every day—it was okay. You being able to live… and me dying… is still okay."
At this point they were both a crying mess—shoulders shaking, breaths hitching, the room filled with the quiet, wet sounds of grief neither could contain.
He felt madness creeping in, regret so sharp it bordered on delirium.
If only he could have a redo.
One chance to unmake every cruel moment, every indifferent glance.
He raised her chin with gentle fingers until their eyes met—red-rimmed, glistening, raw. Slowly, reverently, he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.
Then he leaned in and kissed her forehead—soft, lingering. Her closed eyelids next, tasting salt. The tip of her small, perfect nose. And finally, her lips.
So soft.
The first real kiss she had ever known.
She shuddered beneath him, a small, involuntary sound escaping as her body registered the tenderness it had never been offered before.
He hadn't truly believed she would ask for this—make love to me—and he hadn't truly believed he could give it without pain.
But now, with her trembling in his arms, he wanted only to make it gentle. Right. Worth something.
He sucked softly on her lower lip; she hesitated, then tried to respond, parting for him.
When their mouths opened fully, he slipped his tongue inside—slow, careful—exploring the warmth of her as though she were something sacred and fragile.
She sighed into the kiss, hands rising tentatively to clutch his shoulders.
Time blurred.
The blanket fell away. He peeled it from her body with hands that shook—not from lust alone, but from the overwhelming need to cherish what he had so nearly destroyed.
Naked now, skin against skin, he held her close, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against his chest.
A feeling of longing appeared then—sharp, almost painful—and never disappeared.
He cupped her chin again, tilting her face up as he kissed her deeper, sweeping his tongue against hers while his other hand slid down her back, holding her tight.
They both tasted of tears and need.
His fingers traced lower—over the curve of her breast, teasing the already-peaked nipple until she arched and moaned softly into his mouth.
He swallowed the sound, then trailed kisses down her throat, her collarbone, until his lips closed over the sensitive peak.
She gasped, fingers threading into his hair.
Lower still.
He parted her thighs with careful hands, settling between them.
His touch was reverent—fingers circling, teasing, then slipping inside her warmth.
She was wet, ready despite everything, and the realization made his throat tighten.
He stroked slowly, coaxing soft whimpers from her lips, until her hips began to move in helpless rhythm.
When he finally entered her, it was inch by agonizing inch—gentle, watchful for any sign of pain.
There was none this time; only a deep, trembling sigh as she welcomed him.
He moved slowly at first—long, measured thrusts that let her feel every part of him—then deeper, steadier, until their bodies found a shared cadence.
Her legs wrapped around his waist; his arms cradled her like something infinitely precious.
Pleasure built quietly, steadily.
Her breaths came faster, broken moans filling the space between them.
He kissed her through it all—lips, jaw, throat—whispering her name like a prayer.
When she shattered, it was with a soft cry, body clenching around him in waves that pulled him over the edge with her.
He buried his face in her neck, spilling inside her with a low groan, holding her so tightly it felt as though they might merge into one.
Afterward, he didn't pull away.
He stayed inside her, softening slowly, stroking her hair as their breathing evened.
She curled against him, small and spent, and for the first time in days, she slept peacefully.
But the dawn brought no reprieve.
He dressed her in the simple gown again, kissed her forehead once more, and carried her back to her own room.
He laid her down gently, brushed damp strands from her face, and left before anyone could see the tears still streaming down his cheeks.
For the next few days she grew worse.
Pale skin, cracked and broken lips, shallow breaths.
She tossed and turned in fevered pain, barely able to speak.
He went to the priest that very day, after leaving her side, desperation clawing at him.
"There has to be something you can do," he pleaded.
"You found a solution for me—why can't you find one for her? She doesn't deserve this. This isn't fair."
The priest laughed—a dry, mirthless sound laced with schadenfreude.
"Fair? Look who's talking about fair. You, of all people, have the least right to speak on fairness. She did this because she loved you. It was her choice. There is nothing I can do. Go home. Reflect on your past mistakes. Don't repeat them. Leave."
The words struck like blows, but he left anyway—numb, hollow.
Three days passed in agony. He returned to her bedside every night, kneeling, weeping, begging forgiveness for everything he had done.
She held his hand through the worst of it, whispering that she bore him no grudge.
On the morning of the fourth day, she seemed clearer. Weaker, but lucid.
She even smiled—faintly—at his clumsy attempts to joke, laughed softly once or twice despite the pain squeezing her chest.
But he knew.
Her heart was already failing.
And in the quiet moments between her labored breaths, she looked at him with eyes full of something gentle and final.
"You really won't have sex with many women ever again, will you?" she teased weakly, a ghost of her old smile flickering.
He shook his head, throat too tight to speak.
She reached up, brushed a tear from his cheek.
Her voice was barely more than a thread now, frayed and fading, yet she forced the words out with the last of her strength.
"Your Highness… if you could put down all those unnecessary things… I can guarantee you would be a good leader."
She struggled for breath between each phrase, her chest rising and falling in shallow, painful waves.
"When you find the woman you would truly love… please hold on to her. Sometimes love comes only once. I hope… I won't be seeing you in the underworld soon. Goodbye… and live well."
The final words left her in a whisper, each one heavier than the last.
Her eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay open, but the light in them dimmed like a candle starved of air.
Her body grew strangely warm against his arms—too warm at first, then slowly cooling as though life itself were slipping away drop by drop.
Denric let out a heart-rending cry that tore through the room.
He clutched her tighter, rocking her limp form as sobs wracked him.
Tears streamed unchecked, swelling his eyes until they were red and raw, the whites bloodshot and glistening.
His brothers stood frozen at the bedside—Drucia among them—patting his shoulder helplessly, murmuring useless comforts, their own eyes wet.
They thought she was gone. They all did.
But she wasn't.
The priest pushed through the doorway with sudden urgency, his robes sweeping the floor.
"Move aside, lad. She isn't dead—yet."
The words struck like lightning.
Every head snapped toward him, shock rippling through the room.
Denric's tear-streaked face lifted, disbelief warring with desperate hope.
The family parted anxiously. The priest knelt beside the bed, producing two small vials from the folds of his sleeve—one filled with a deep, crimson liquid that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, the other dark and viscous.
He uncorked the red one first, tilting Kathlahn's head gently and pouring the contents between her parted lips.
She swallowed reflexively, a faint tremor running through her. The priest watched intently, then set the second vial aside—unopened for now—keeping it close.
Minutes passed in tense silence.
Then her chest rose more steadily.
Color crept back into her cheeks. Her fingers twitched. A soft breath escaped her—stronger now.
The magic poison's grip had broken.
She was unconscious, not dead. And with the antidote coursing through her veins, everything might yet be all right.
The priest rose, brushing his knees. "She'll wake when her body is ready. The prophecy spoke true: the one who truly loves him deserves to live. She proved it. Now leave her to rest."
The royal family withdrew slowly, whispering among themselves.
Deric refused to move. He stayed by her side through the night, holding her hand, murmuring apologies into the quiet.
Two days passed in watchful vigil.
On the third, the palace buzzed with hushed relief—she had stirred.
Servants carried word that the young woman who had saved the prince was awake.
News spread quickly.
In her chamber, Kahlan had bathed, dressed in a simple silk robe, and sat by the window, staring at the gardens below. She felt happy—fragile, but happy—and a little worried.
How would she face him now? After everything. After loving him so completely, after nearly dying for it.
She decided, finally, to simply move with the flow of things.
Whatever came, she would meet it.
A soft knock. The door opened.
She turned.
It was Deric.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Their eyes met. He smiled—small, tentative, full of everything he hadn't known how to say before.
She smiled back, cheeks warming with a blush she couldn't hide.
He crossed the room in quick strides.
No bow, no formal greeting. He simply pulled her into his arms, one hand at her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. She stiffened for half a heartbeat—surprise, uncertainty—then melted against him.
He bent and kissed her.
Soft at first, almost questioning. She didn't pull away. Instead she parted her lips, letting him in.
The kiss deepened—slow, hungry, full of all the words they hadn't spoken. When they finally parted, both breathing hard, foreheads resting together, he whispered against her mouth:
"I'm sorry. I made you suffer. I'll correct every mistake. Give me a chance, Kahlan. Let me take care of you. Let me love you. I think… I was born for that."
She looked up at him, eyes shimmering. "Well… suffering," she said softly, a faint, wry smile touching her lips, "I think I was born for that sort of relationship between us. But you know… you're a prince. I'm nothing. No status, no family, no home. A slave. You can't love me."
"I thought you said you.... don't you love me anymore," he murmured, voice rough with emotion.
"Of course I do," she answered immediately. "And I always will. But this… us… is it possible?"
He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. "It's more than possible. It's necessary. I won't let you go again. Not ever."
She searched his eyes—dark, deadly still, but softer now, unguarded.
He kissed her again—this time slower, deeper, like sealing a promise between them.
No more words were needed.
Outside, the palace carried on.
Inside that quiet room, two broken souls began, finally, to heal.