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The dawn, Percival decides, is both a blessing and a curse.
It’s a blessing because it signals the beginning of a new day. Another day to live, another day to fight. The Sun Tree, however charred, still stands. Whitestone still stands even if she and her people are limping in order to do so.
But it all still feels like a curse because the weak sunlight lays bare all of his mistakes and regrets. He swore to honor his family’s memory by taking up the responsibility that he was never actually meant to inherit, and he’s failed so spectacularly at it. He hates that he wasn’t here, because he should have been. His people are decimated and his city is in ruins and there’s still so much smoke lingering in the air.
(Why must he always choke on smoke, suffocate under its weight?)
He turns away from the main square, away from the piles of dead being gathered, and looks for his sister. When he does find Cassandra, his stomach twists even further as he watches her direct scattered members of the Pale Guard, never mind how much pain she must be in, how many bandages she’s wrapped in. She’s doing so much— has done so much—for Whitestone while he’s been away.
(He wasn’t here. Not when it mattered.)
He tries to swallow down the guilt and approaches her just as she falls back onto the nearest piece of debris that seems sturdy enough to bear her weight and isn’t actively smoldering.
“Cass—” he begins, voice cracking in a way he so desperately hoped it wouldn’t, but she fixes him with a startlingly sharp look.
“I know that tone and I don’t need pity right now, brother.”
“It’s not… I wasn’t…” he flounders, certainly not expecting that to have been her response. “No, I wanted to apologize.”
“Why?”
He blinks, taken even more aback by that, because there’s an entire list he can pick from.
(And he’s so tired of lists.)
“I should have been here,” he settles on, because that is what currently sits at the forefront of his mind.
Cassandra falls silent as she studies him, her expression unreadable as she does so, before she eventually sighs and shakes her head. “You got here when you could. I think the consequences would have been far more dire if you arrived any later than you did.”
Percy frowns—she should be more upset with him, should hate him when this isn’t even the first time he’s abandoned her when she needed him most—but sighs and nods in acknowledgement. Rather than continue arguing, he asks, “Is there anything you need help with at the moment?”
“Keeper Yennen and I have it handled, I think.”
“Of course,” he replies. He pauses and hesitantly adds, “You’re doing a good job, Cassandra. I hope you know that.”
“I’m certainly trying,” she says wryly.
“I suppose that’s all any of us can do at the moment.”
Cassandra nods her agreement and lets out a small sigh, turning her head a little to look up at the castle in the distance. “...I’m tired of losing our home,” she admits in a small voice.
Percy follows her gaze, feels the guilt rise up acidic in his throat, twist like a knife in his gut, as he watches plumes of smoke curl up the towers. “As am I.”
He let Ripley go. He should have been here, protected Cassandra, protected the people of Whitestone. He saw his city rebuild and even begin to flourish again and he was so sure everything would be all right. He thought Gilmore’s wards would be enough. He led Raishan to Whitestone. He let Ripley go again —
“Percival?”
He blinks and looks at Cassandra, notices the way her brow is furrowed with concern.
“It’s been a long night,” he says weakly and leaves it at that so he doesn’t have to try to articulate his spiraling thoughts.
She lets out a single, sharp laugh. “It truly has.” She sighs and pushes herself to her feet, wobbling a little when she’s upright, but managing to maintain her composure. “And I’m afraid it will be an even longer day.”