Don’t imagine King Alistair letting out a shaky breath the moment he’s behind closed doors, trying to hide the fatigue and sleepless nights from the court. Don’t imagine him reaching for his wife in the middle of the night after the nightmares have woken him up only to find her not there. Don’t imagine him spending every moment in private terrified because he can hear the song. Maker, he can hear the song and it’s so loud. And he just needs his wife, his queen, his best friend, beside him to tell him to tune it out; to not listen. That they will be fine. Because he would believe it if she was there to tell him these thing. Just don’t.
It starts out as a whisper, so quiet and so subtle that he almost can’t distinguish it from the conversation he’s having with Teagan. It lingers in his thoughts with his own voice, so cleverly entwined with them that Alistair notices it only as a slight waver in his ability to concentrate. The clamor and hubbub of the dinner with several Orlesian dignitaries gives the whisper leeway to become a murmur without becoming conspicuous.