Cruel Mercy~ Matthew Fairchild {2}

Three

For Amelia, words were her weapon. She was a decent fighter, but she always preferred the pen to the sword. She had always been eloquent to some extent, able to write poetry and prose and come up with witty remarks.

At the darkest moments in her life, Amelia's writing was her deliverance. After all, what was she without the castle of words she had always retreated to in her time of need?

But now, as she wrote, there was no inspiration. Gone were the muses that normally guided her hand, whispering ideas into her ears.

Amelia always had her writing. It was her way of processing things; she'd write poem after poem, savoring the satisfying feeling she got when she finished one.

So she'd decided that was how she'd confess her love to Matthew. It seemed like the best way to go about it. But she couldn't find the right words.

She had spent months drafting and redrafting a letter she never sent, writing and rewriting poems that would never see the light of day. No letter, no poem, no words could express the love Amelia felt for Matthew.

The page was full of ink, but Amelia had crossed out many of the words she'd written, unhappy with how they sounded when strung together. What was the point of being a writer when nothing you wrote made any sense?

It was nearing midnight when Thomas came knocking at her door. She called for him to come in, sending him a small smile from behind a small stack of papers.

"Dear Lord," he said once he saw the disastrous state of her writing desk. "You're such a slob."

She let out a chuckle before returning to the paper she was writing on. Thomas sat down on the foot of her bed, watching her carefully. "This is awful," he said after a few moments of awkward silence.

"Whatever do you mean?" She asked innocently, not moving her eyes from her poem.

"We fought. That's not— that's not like us."

"Siblings fight, Tom. Even parabatai have their quarrels."

"I suppose so," he said, though he didn't sound very convinced. "I have a question."

"And I hopefully have an answer."

"Would you forgive Samuel Montclaire?"

Amelia bit the inside of her cheek, pausing to think for a moment. Samuel had threatened her into leaving the Academy, shaming her for writing poetry.

Now she was just angry at herself for letting him push her around like that. It was embarrassing that Amelia was so scared of her poetry being discovered that she abandoned the school she'd begged her parents to let her go to.

She still felt that shame, to some extent. But now, she accepted that her poetry was hers in every way, something she created with nothing but a pen and her brain. And that wasn't something to be ashamed of. Now she was able to share that with her friends and family. She had a way to show people what she felt, and it was freeing.

And whether she liked it or not, she never would have gotten that without Samuel Montclaire.

"Yes, I would," Amelia said finally, meeting his eyes for just a moment before scribbling more words on the page.

"But he—"

"I know what he did. And I know what Alastair did, too. But everyone is born with the ability to be kind. Always. If I ever saw him again and he asked for my forgiveness, I would give it to him."

Thomas paused to think for a moment. Then, the corners of his mouth curved up in a smile. "It seems we've switched places. I was always the voice of hope, and you were —"