Loreen's POV
Loreen had been sitting in the chair for what felt like a very long time.
His legs were crossed on top of the table, his arms folded across his chest, and he was watching his husband move back and forth into his closet, with the focused patience of a man who had already decided that saying something was going to cost him and was calculating whether the cost was worth it yet.
It was getting there.
The past few weeks had been heavy. The council sessions alone had been enough to drain a person, long and loud and circular, lords talking over each other, the same arguments dressed in different words, Huron's face across the table day after day.
Loreen had handled it. He always handled it. But he had looked forward to today being different.
A funeral was solemn. Quiet. People stood where they were told to stand and spoke when they were told to speak and for a few hours the world followed a simple and predictable order.
He had been looking forward to that.
