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He should be resting. He’s been awake too long, spent too long wandering the dead London. But he can’t rest yet, not with the new pressure of the thing in his head. Not with the whispers of doubt.
Holland stared in silence. Where there should have been anger or relief was only a hollow cavern. Another thing stolen from him.
The Danes are dead. He saw what was left of the bodies. Their thrones have been torn down. Astrid’s ugly stone garden will be next. The empty frame is further proof.
Stains scatter over the metal frame, blood long dried and left there. His blood and a hundred others.
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
Ink knife dragging over his chest.
Low delighted chuckles.
Fingers curling through his ribs, trailing over his heart.
"My king?"
“Not like that!” A hand guides his unwilling one. “Like this.”
Skin parts. Awful keening.
His pain or theirs.
Again and again and again.
The awful silence.
"Holland."
Ojka, he recalls distantly. The first of the would-be rebels to find him in the castle after his return. He hadn’t heard her enter.
He hadn’t noticed falling to his knees either. It takes him a moment to regain balance.
“The Danes are dead.” Her voice is cautious, like she isn’t yet sure of his state of mind; he can relate to that worry. “Should we tear the frame down?”
He should, shouldn’t he? No point in keeping it. Erase the past.
Holland shakes his head. “Not yet.”