Long before he had sat upon the throne, before he had given way to the grief that others called madness, before he had married his true love and brought light back into his world with the birth of his twins, Antony Vitello had made a mistake. He had been young, barely nineteen years when his father pointed to the woods, yelling harsh words of attack, of traitors, of monsters in the woods. He had been young, but he knew it had been wrong.
One thing Antony Vitello had always been was cowardly. He attacked. He closed his eyes as he swung his sword at the innocent, pointed his men, his people, to the mob of running feet, of cries in the dark. They called themselves the free folk, the people who called the deep dark northern woods home were no friend to the crown, but they had yet to do anything wrong, and although Antony doubted they would, he had no want for their land as they had no want for his, he was a Vitello, and in that he was a coward.
He could never stand up to his father, not until the King was long dead, deep in the crypts with his forefathers, with Antony’s own son, would he be able to look his father in the eye and take a stand.
And even then he flinched. Each movement was as bad as a strike, each touch in those moments was the same as the cold damp stone floor he found his face pressed against as a young man. Every drink felt like wine, coursing through his veins like a shock, bringing the courage he could not find on his own.
( Being a coward did not mean he was not guilty. )
Antony fell to his knees before his own fate, eyes clouded with tears that he would not dare let fall. He looked at the green green grass and closed his eyes, letting himself fall back, back, back into his memories, just for his last moments.
He remembered his Alycia, the softness of her hands when they walked through the dark crypts, before there had been a thought in his mind of love, of his Alycia asleep, curled against him like something new and fresh and innocent, a side of her that no one but him got to treasure. He thought of his daughter, his Peyton, his light, with her golden curls and brown eyes that knew his soul better than any other, her brother, his little boy, his son.
He’d be seeing his Dimitri again.
Looking up once more, he looked to his bride, his rock, his Alycia. Even now she was brave. Even when he was not.
His head fell, and he closed his eyes and waited no more.