Good night, Patrick repeats over and over in his head. Good night, Lena whispered as she tucked her face into his neck, ready to go to bed. Good night, she said, like it wasn't the last thing he was ever going to hear her say. Good night.

Patrick stays in the room Lena used, tucked up in her bed. She hadn't used this room much recently, preferring to sneak into Patrick's, but all her clothes are in here and it was still hers, for all it's worth. Her bed isn't warm and it doesn't smell like her, but she was here, once. Now, she's out on the fountain- a new statue for Rozenn's courtyard- collecting piles of snow on her lap and shoulders. Her soul, somewhere in the Below, maybe free- hopefully free.

He buries his face in her pillow and thinks, I've failed her.

The weight of the blankets on top of him is heavy, but he doesn't want to move and doesn't want to come out of the cave he made for himself. The sporadic bursts of tears have stopped coming so often, but every once and a while his eyes water and he has to breath slowly until he can blink the tears away.

He hears the creak of the hinges as the door opens slowly and the thud as it closes, but doesn't feel like getting up to see who it is. He knows it's Aodhan as soon as the bed dips under his weight and a hand cups his cheek and runs through his hair once before settling on his side.

"I brought you some food," Aodhan says. "Care to have some?"

"Not really," Patrick mutters.

"I wasn't actually giving you an option. Up you get."

Aodhan tugs lightly at his hair and, seeing his not going to win this, Patrick sits up and leans against the headboard, rubbing his raw eyes as a plate of beans, bread, and spiced meat is set in his lap. Aodhan presses a fork into his hand and he begins eating out of necessity. The food doesn't taste that good, anyway.

"That help some?" Aodhan asks.

No, Patrick thinks, but responds with a noncommittal shrug.

He's glad that when he finishes the food, Aodhan doesn't try dragging him out of the room. He'd rather sleep, and if Aodhan wants to watch him, then fine. He pulls the coverlet around him and ducks back into bed without another word. Aodhan sits with him, fingers scratching along his scalp.

When he wakes up, Aodhan is gone. Instead, he's replaced by Signe, who sits in the chair by the window, quietly sketching something in her drawing book. She looks over when he stirs and comes to sit next to him. She quirks a strained smile and moves to sit by him.

"Want to see some drawings?" she asks hesitantly.

"Sure."

He pushes himself up and Signe sets her book in his lap and flips through the pages to show him all the new sketches she's done. She skips over a few pages, saying she's only going to show him the good ones and the finished ones. He nods along to her words, barely hearing them.

Patrick tries his best to give her his complete attention, but his mind wanders to Lena. Rationally, he knows that Signe can't bring her back. Not only is her body ruined, but it's already been a day. She's long gone and he knows it, yet that doesn't quell the urge to ask. Everytime he opens his mouth to say something, the words die in his throat and he shrinks further into his throne of blankets.

Signe does quick sketches of various objects in the room to show to him and he tells her that they're very good and she does some more until Aodhan brings in more food which could be either lunch or dinner- Patrick doesn't know or care either way. He eats mindlessly until they leave him alone and then goes back to sleep.

Patrick spends the next few days in bed, for the most part, only leaving to go to the bathroom. Signe and Aodhan come by bearing food and offers to go do things and he sees nothing of William, though Patrick isn't sure he even wants to see him right now. He's fine staying in bed.

It isn't until the morning of the third day when he's rudely awoken by his blankets being ripped off him that he feels anything but numbing sadness. The sudden cool air startles him and he jerks awake, glaring daggers at Brynjar, who stares back at him, armed crossed, an unfazed look on his face.

"What the hell?" Patrick exclaims. "Get out."

"You've been in here too long," Brynjar rumbles. "Get up or I'll toss you out of this room."

Just then, the door slams open, flying back and hitting the wall. Isla drags a metal tub of water inside the room with the help of another servant, who quickly scurries off. A third person deposits a basket of clothes on the bed before leaving and shutting the door behind them.

Isla points to the wash bin and says, no nonsense present in her voice, "Get in."

"I'm not really in the mood for this," Patrick growls out. "Can you just leave me alone?"

"We're on orders, kid," Brynjar answers with a shrug. "It's easier for you and us if you just get on with it."

Isla gestures to the tub and Patrick hisses a sigh before stripping and getting into the bath. He yelps when Isla pours water over his head and scrubs a bar of soap over his hair.

"I can do this myself," Patrick snaps.

"Shut it," she retorts, batting the side of his head. "And quit it with the attitude. If you could have done it yourself, you would have done it as soon as your hair got greasy."

"It's not that bad."

"I wouldn't argue with her if I were you," Brynjar tells him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Patrick obediently shuts his trap and grabs a cloth and a bar of soap. He scrubs his body down and Isla washes his hair. The water is cold and by the end of the bath, he's shivering and properly awake. The only upside is he gets clean in record time.

"Right, now get dressed," Isla demands, as if he didn't know to do that himself.

He dries himself off and tosses on the clothes they brought for him. Isla roughly sits him down so she can brush out his hair, then both she and Brynjar bodily drag him out of the room and down to the dining hall.

"How nice of you to join us," Lady Clementine greets as Isla shoves him down onto the bench.

Patrick doesn't work up the nerve to glare at her, but he does send the plate of eggs and greens before him to an early grave. Erikur and Ewan mutter under their breaths to each other, which he politely ignores. Brynjar claps him on the shoulder before sitting down and digging into his breakfast.

"Patrick, we're going to pay Leif a visit soon, perhaps tomorrow," Clementine announces. He opens his mouth to protest and she scoffs before he can get a word out. "It's not like you have anything better to do."

She's not wrong, but he seeths a little bit as he shoves a bite of egg into his mouth. He doesn't pay attention to the conversation around him. He tries for a bit, but everyone's voices sound garbled and it's easier to zone out while they talk than to try to understand them. He rests his head on his fist once he's done eating, brought out of his reverie by a sharp call of his name.

"I need to write some letters," Clementine says. "You can help me seal them."

Patrick nods and follows her to her room. She sits at her desk and dips her quill in ink, laying out a fresh sheet of parchment before her. He watches her write and focuses on the sound of her quill scratching against the paper. Her movements are slow and loopy, each word chosen carefully.

He seals the letter once she finishes the first one and sets it aside to start the pile of letters that need sending. Normally, it's a rather large pile, but today she only adds four or five more before setting her quill in the cup and closing the top of the ink bottle.

"It is a pity, what happened to your friend," Clementine tells him once she's sent off the letters. "If fixing a problem like that was easy, it wouldn't be a problem in the first place."

You're glad she's gone, Patrick thinks. She killed Alexei.

"It's not fair," he says weakly.

"Nothing is fair. Ever. You can't let that consume you or you'll never do anything. Let yourself feel it and then let it go. Nothing can hurt you once you've let it talk. Your sadness isn't useful to you anymore."

"You don't understand."

"I don't understand? Just because I don't feel the way you do about her doesn't mean I don't understand. I've lived hundreds of years. You don't go that long without heartbreak." She looks at him, steady. "You don't have as long as I do. You've mourned her. Keep living."

Patrick's eyes start watering and when he speaks, his voice is choked, "I've always had her."

"I suppose you'll have to learn how to live without her, then."

"How?"

"Practice."

"It's h-hard."

"I never claimed it would be an easy thing."

Patrick wipes his eyes and Clementine doesn't mention it. She stands, skirts swishing around her legs and stretches her back out.

"I have to go speak with Rozenn, unfortunately. Go do something that's not laying in bed."

Patrick leaves Clementine's room and watches her saunter down the hallway, biting down on his tongue to keep from crying. He leans against her door and collects himself for a few minutes. The only thing he wants to do is go sleep, but he was ordered not to do that, so he's at a loss for what to do.

There's not many places to go on walks in Chourmondeley. There's the courtyard, which isn't even up for consideration. The garden is too close to the courtyard and the rest of the land here is just grassland. The forest is too far away for a leisurely walk and so that leaves the beach, unless he wants to go find Signe or Aodhan, which he doesn't. Walking seems like the least taxing thing to do. He doesn't feel like trying to draw or read or sword fight or anything else. So, walking the beach it is.

He trudges his way to the rocks and walks through the sand, but the sand gets everywhere and that's annoying, so he finds a rock to sit on and just stares out at the ocean. The wind whips at his face and salt stings his eyes. It's not very good sitting weather, but he has nothing else to do, so he wraps himself up in his coat and calls for Ivo, who obediently sits in his lap to be petted like a real cat.

"Patrick?"

William.

"Um, could I- uh, sit?"

Patrick shrugs. He squeezes Ivo tighter as a sudden bolt of rage shoots through him, but the intensity of the emotion is too exhausting to keep up and he slumps back into fatigue, barely noticing William take a seat next to him.

"I'm sorry," William whispers. "About- I didn't mean for-"

"I don't want to talk about this," Patrick says wearily.

"Okay. Sorry."

Patrick's vision blurs. Out here, he can pretend it's the wind. He struggles on a breath and his breathing hitches more than once and tears make their way down his face. He scratches Ivo's head and the familiar makes a questioning echo of a noise.

This is never going to stop, he thinks. I want it to stop.