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“Is it ever going to be safe, Zavian?”

His name lacked the love-infused way she used to pronounce it. It sounded like a pain in her mouth, something she wanted out of her body.

“It’s only for your own good,” Zavian said softly.

Neera sighed. She looked around the room, and if in search of something. When her eyes returned back to meet Zavian’s, they were the same two empty orbs.

“Have you ever owned a potted plant in here?” Neera asked, taking Zavian by surprise.

“No.”

“You should, and keep it away from the windows because bees and flies might come for it. Keep it safe in your favorite vase, or the most expensive one, and give it water, extra nutrients, all of that. Watch over it, be sure it is okay,” Neera said. “Don’t plant it in the garden at all, just let it grow in here, tucked in your favorite little corner.”

Zavian didn’t say anything to that.

.....

“And do you know what will happen to that flower despite everything you did for it?” Neera asked. She raised to her tiptoes, close enough to Zavian’s ear. “It dies, Zavian. Everything you did to it was for nothing.”

She returned back to the heel of her feet. “Let the flower free, let it live among those in the garden, and watch it bloom.”

“You can’t compare the life of a flower to the life of a demon, Neera.”

Neera shrugged. “They are both lives, and once it is lost, it is lost for good. So, you certainly do not want me wilting in here. I would have a meltdown, and you can’t blame me for what I will do.”

It was a lost battle, and Zavian could only submit to her request.

“I’ll have ten guards following you...”

“...but...”

“...no buts,” Zavian said.

Neera’s lips set in a hard, grim line. “Fine, I’ll be in the garden, waiting.”

She stomped out just before Zavian could make another complaint, and this time about her dressing. But it was for the best, he thought. Neera would probably throw a fit, and he couldn’t handle that, not with his sister on his mind.

He summoned the guards to follow Neera, and they fell into command, hurrying to the Queen as the King instructed. In the now quiet room, Zavian could steal a few hours of sleep, hopefully without the guilt of Freya’s condition weighing down on him.

He couldn’t help it, the voice, his own, in his head, repeating over and over again, it is your fault, it is your fault, it is your fault. He had been too hard on her, gone loggerheads over small matters, and let her detest her comfort zone so much so she sought comfort in a far off part of town.

His mind flitted off to the times Freya had always been there for him. During Lilah’s death, the battle against his father and brother, the rebuilding of a Kingdom after the war, seeing to the balance of ruling, and many more that he couldn’t quantify.

He needed her, more than he would ever know. He needed her as a sister, present, solid.

Alive.

He cradled his head in his palms, the onset of a headache knocking until it became audible. Frowning, he raised his head and realized the knock was coming from the door.

Zavian went to open it, and he was met by the helpless face of one of his guards.

“Your Majesty,” the guard said between pants. “We can’t find the Queen anywhere.”

Zavian did all he can to keep his anger at bay, because Neera might have the powers of a demon, but she had the power to make him mad as well.

....

Neera walked with the carefreeness of the people, swallowing in the hundreds of voices of people that passed, different conversations fleeting around her. She got a lot of curious and interesting stares, and some eyes widened in recognition, but tapered down with the absurdity of their Queen walking the streets unprotected, and in such hideously scandalous outfits.

Neera paused in front of a store, and stared at the awning with a wooden board pinned above it. Gordon’s best shoes, the board said, swinging with a slight push of the wind and iron hinges creaking drowned by the people’s voices.

Neera pushed open the heavy wooden door, wondering why someone would willingly choose to put their customers through such an exercise to visit their store.

An older man was behind the counter. His eyes focused on the pile of money he was counting in his hands. His thick mustache blocked his mouth, and it sat like a hairy caterpillar.

“Welcome to Gordon’s shoe store, where you can get the best shoe wares your money can buy,” he said in a bland tone, words worn out from overuse for customers. He glanced up then, and his eyes snapped back up in place, money forgotten.

Neera smiled. “I would like a pair of your finest heels.”

The man looked Neera up and down, his eyes resting briefly on the neckline before returning back to her face, his displeasure unhidden.

“And on whose gentleman’s tab should I put it?” He asked.

Not only was he a classist, but a sexist. His mind must be a closed chamber, keys long forgotten and rotting with stale, archaic knowledge.

“There is no man,” Neera smiled sweetly. “I am here to shop for myself.”

“Hmm,” the man didn’t seem convinced, but moved. He was a short, round man, and he moved fast, reaching out to bring a box of shoes and placing them before Neera. She noted he was a lesser demon as well. No amount of fancy clothes could cover that.

“The best, and the most expensive,” he said the last part like a challenge, as if telling her she could not afford it.