As time seems to freeze, my mouth falls open, my throat growing unbearably dry as I gaze in disbelief at the woman before me. A memory resurfaces, demanding attention at the forefront of my mind. It was one of the rare occasions when Wrath felt comfortable enough to share his past with me— moments like those were scarce, so the memory remains vivid in my mind.
"What was her name?"
"Jea—"
Jeannette.
My throat tightens as I swallow hard, fighting to keep my composure amidst the shock of the revelation. It's almost too much to believe. Could this really be her? The thought seems implausible. After all, she hasn't been part of his life since he was thirteen. It feels surreal to think I'm sitting across from Wrath's mother by chance. But as I meet her gaze, a sense of connection washes over me, a familiarity that I can't deny.
They share the same eyes.
Sitting across from Jeannette, her laughter fills the room, a warm melody that dances in the air. "Oh, my dear," she exclaims, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she catches sight of my bewildered expression. "Was it something I said?"
"Your last name is Wrathton?" I inquire, needing to confirm what I've just heard.
She nods solemnly, her gaze piercing mine. "Yes. Jeannette Wrathton."
Struggling to find the right words, my question bursts out in a jumble. "A son...do you... do you have a son?" I manage to choke out, tears threatening to spill from my eyes.
She inhales sharply, a mirrored reflection of my own rising distress. Her lip trembles, mirroring the turmoil within me. I bite down on my bottom lip, a desperate attempt to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "How did you know?" Her words escape her lips in a breathless whisper, caught off guard by my question.
"Because he's alive," I stammer out hastily, inching forward within my confines to better convey the urgency of my message. "Your son, Lucius? He's alive. I know him."
Tears stream down my cheeks uncontrollably, defying any attempt to suppress them. Despite the lingering bitterness towards the man who betrayed me and shattered my heart, a different sentiment now washes over me. Empathy floods my soul for the boy who lost his mother, craving an explanation he never received. He carried the pain of her abandonment for centuries, a burden that weighed heavily upon him, when in truth, it likely wasn't her choice at all. She had been here all along, locked away just as he once was, a prisoner of circumstances beyond her control.
"He's alive?" she breaks down, her tears mingling with mine as she presses herself against the cell bars, her hand reaching out for mine.
I mimic her actions, leaning forward to bridge the gap between us, our fingers intertwining through the narrow spaces of the cell bars. "He's alive," I affirm softly. "He spoke of you. He's still every bit deserving of the nickname you bestowed upon him."
I reminisce about the moment he first opened up about her, and how he shared the origin of his nickname with me. Back then, I never imagined I would be face-to-face with the woman who brought him into this world, let alone knowing of her existence before he did.
Admittedly, this complicates things for me. If I manage to escape this place, Jeannette will undoubtedly seek to reunite with her son. I can't bring myself to ask her to keep my existence hidden from him. It wouldn't be fair, and it's not her burden to bear. That secret belongs to me alone.
I'll have to speak to them again.
It's something I never intended to do, or perhaps, was too paralyzed by fear to confront. It feels selfish, especially when it concerns Sophie, but the need to escape consumed me. The first time I realized I could flee without the constant dread of being captured, it felt like a weight had been lifted. I was exhausted, and the prospect of starting anew ignited a flicker of hope within me. But now, I can't continue this path any longer.
More than anything, the thought of facing Sophie again fills me with terror. I've undoubtedly been the worst friend imaginable, and the idea of confronting my past is daunting. However, it's a step I know I must take. When I finally leave this place, I'll summon the courage to be honest with them. It's time to face the consequences of my actions and begin to make amends.
As uncertain as I am about Sophie's capacity to forgive me, I know she deserves the truth. Frankly, I feel a sense of obligation towards Cierien and Wrath as well, though not to the same extent. They betrayed me, not her. In fact, there's a part of me that relishes the thought of seeing the hurt reflected in their eyes— the same hurt they inflicted upon me the night my life changed irrevocably.
Despite the tears staining her face, Jeannette emits a lighthearted chuckle, a gentle smile breaking through the emotional turmoil. "He's a good boy, isn't he? Is he still good?" she inquires with hope in her voice.
I cannot bring myself to relive the horrors of our tumultuous love story to her. How could I possibly recount to a mother, longing for her son, the atrocities he inflicted upon me? Instead, I choose to cherish the moments of joy and warmth he brought into my life.
"He still loves to read," I tell her, sensing the yearning in her eyes for insight into the man her son has become.
"He would immerse himself in them, devouring knowledge day and night. It was as if he couldn't get enough information into that brilliant mind of his," I say with a fond chuckle, gently squeezing her delicate fingers.
"And the piano...," I continue, a soft smile playing on my lips as I recall the memories. "He still loves it because of you. He played for me once, and it was truly magical. I find myself reminiscing about it more often than I care to admit. He's incredibly talented."
"He used to radiate with joy whenever I took him to play," she recalls through tears, her voice thick with emotion. She lowers her head, allowing her tears to flow freely.
"He is... he still is a sweet man," I acknowledge, feeling the weight of honesty pressing upon me. "He has his moments," I add, knowing I couldn't paint a picture of perfection. "But deep down, he has a good heart. He's just been through a lot."
"I fought tooth and nail to pull him out of that suffocating house," she confesses, her voice laced with remorse.
It takes me a moment to understand what she's trying to say, but the realization finally dawns. "He shared pieces of his past with me, but I never knew you were waging your own battle to rescue him. I'm not even sure if he realized your efforts. He thought you abandoned him."
"I did," she whispers amidst her sobs, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "I tried so desperately, but in the end, he surrendered him to be experimented on, didn't he?"
Feeling perplexed, I'm at a loss for words. I'm unsure of who she's referring to. Wrath hinted at a figure having the authority to deliver him to the Adairs, yet he never divulged any identifying details. I'm uncertain if he even knew who the man was. "He was sent to my relatives later in life, but I'm not sure who he is," I muse silently, trying to piece together the puzzle of her words.
She scoffs, disdain etching her features as she shakes her head in disbelief. Her hand slips away from mine, sending a surge of dread through me, fearing I've misspoken. But she presses on, "His father," she declares with a sharp tone.
And just when I thought I couldn't be any more baffled. She rubs at her eyes wearily, running her hand back through her hair to compose herself. "He was a Wellington, and the literal devil reincarnated," she exclaims, her frustration evident in her tone.
"A child with a Wellington?" Aren's voice slices through the air, catching me off guard.
I almost forgot he was present; he's been so silent. I turn over my shoulder, nearly jumping when I find him sitting right beside me on the other side of the bars. "Two hundred years and you never mentioned this?" he frowns, his disappointment palpable at the revelation withheld from him for so long.
"I'm sorry, Aren," she says gently, her irritation giving way to kindness in her tone. "I do my best not to think about that man."
"Why would someone turn over their own son to be experimented on– to be tortured?" I inquire, feeling a pang of guilt for prying, yet driven by the need to understand.
As the words slip from my lips, I wish I could take them back, instantly reminded of the heartlessness exhibited by Aren's own parents. The notion of condoning anyone's experimentation, let alone one's own flesh and blood, rattles me to the core. I find myself grappling with the incomprehensible depth of such cruelty, unable to reconcile any justification for subjecting an innocent soul to such torment. It's a chilling revelation that pierces through me, leaving me shaken to the core and questioning the very essence of humanity and the darkness that lurks within others.
Her gaze meets mine, a haunted expression etched into her features. I'm on the verge of urging her to spare the details, to forget it altogether, but before I can utter a word, her lips part to speak. "Wrath's origins weren't born from love. I was sixteen, barely more than a child myself when I met his father..." She pauses, drawing in a steadying breath before pressing on. "He was in his late thirties. He had a wife and children at the time, but he didn't let that get in the way of his sick desires."
My jaw clenches, tears threatening to escape once more. "In my era, it wasn't too strange for a man to want to date younger girls. Sixteen-year-old girls married grown men all the time. But I didn't know any better when one of my father's friends took a liking upon me that wasn't normal. I was too young to see the sickness. He took advantage of my naivety, always sneaking into my room late at night to talk. It started off so seemingly innocent, until one day, it wasn't. He made me believe he loved me, but if it was love then I wouldn't have feared those nightly visits. When I realized I was pregnant, I ran to my father."
My heart lurches in my chest, realizing that one day, Wrath will have to hear this painful story. But more than that, I ache for the woman sitting across from me. She was just a child.
"WWA had already been thriving for quite some time, its success undeniable. My father and him were close friends, despite my father being a decade older. When my parents discovered the truth, they attempted to sever ties with him, to erase any trace of his involvement in WWA. But it wasn't that simple. He was a co-founder, just as they were, but his influence and wealth surpassed theirs. The Wellingtons had always wielded more power than the others. He managed to strip them of their title, compelling them to operate under his name. With time, my family's lineage dwindled, leaving only me," she concludes, tears trickling down her cheeks, though she swiftly brushes them away.
Witnessing the opulence of the Wellingtons firsthand, I had already surmised that they wielded more power than the other families. However, learning that their influence stretches back four hundred years— that they've held sway for such an extensive period— is truly unsettling.
"What became of you after that?" Aren whispers, his voice barely audible.
"Well, I gave birth. That despicable man took my son from me, and I was forced to live apart from him. Not even his own father lived with him," she scoffs, before continuing, "He would never compromise the facade of his picture-perfect family. No, he had a reputation to maintain. No one knew about me, and more importantly, they didn't know about Wrath."
"But he allowed visits?" I ask, remembering how Wrath mentioned seeing her occasionally, only for those visits to cease when he turned thirteen.
"Yes," she breathes out, releasing a heavy sigh. "I was allowed to visit a few times each month. By the time I reached thirty years old, almost the same age he was when it all began, I made the decision to speak out. I wanted the world to know what he did to me— what he was doing to my son, keeping him locked away from society, but—" she cuts off, lifting her head to blink back the tears.
"But what?" Aren questions, urging her to continue.
"But he turned you over to be experimented on," I finish for her, the pieces clicking into place.
I don't need any more details to understand the kind of man Wrath's father is. "Wrath was constantly relocated after age fourteen, but he eventually met the same fate at twenty-one," I add, a sense of anger and sadness washing over me.
Her attempts to blink away the tears fail, a sob breaking through her body. "I failed him," she admits, her voice choked with emotion.
"You did everything you could," I speak firmly, offering what little comfort I can in the face of such pain.
The woman across from me is a victim; there's no other way to put it. At sixteen years old, she was preyed upon by a man who should have known better, while she was just half his age. Forced into a situation she never planned for, she endured the pain of childbirth only to be kept away from her own child— never allowed to be the present mother she wanted to be. Despite her circumstances, she did the best she could. I wish, more than anything, she could see that. And I know, without a doubt, Wrath would see it too.
I don't hesitate to voice this to her. "Wrath would never blame you. Please know that, above anything else. He loves you."
While Wrath has undoubtedly been deeply affected by his mother's absence, it's abundantly clear that he loved her. As he himself confessed, he never allowed himself to grow close to anyone besides her and Cierien. Forgiving her wouldn't even be a question for him, especially if he were to hear what really happened.
"Do you really think that?" she stammers out, her words muffled by her cries.
"I know so. He's never loved anyone as much as he's loved you," I affirm.
She nods, using her other hand to wipe away her tears. "You must know him well," she states, more as an observation than a question.
"I do. I love him very much" I confess, the admission slipping out before I can suppress it.
Flushed with embarrassment, I'm hit with a wave of vulnerability. It's something I haven't even admitted to myself since I left— that I still love them. I hadn't intended to reveal the depth of my feelings, but there it is, laid bare. And while I hadn't planned on delving into the intricacies of our relationship, it seems the moment demands it. More importantly, I hadn't meant to imply ongoing contact between us. Still, perhaps she deserves to know as much as I'm willing to share. After all, she hasn't seen her son in ages, and it feels like the least I can do to offer her some insight into his life.
"Oh, how lovely," she smiles through her tears. "You seem like a sweet girl, Avalyn. I'm glad he has someone as caring as you. Can you tell me about him? Anything... everything? Whatever you're willing to share?"
Her words warm my heart, and I feel a sense of gratitude for her kindness despite the circumstances. Taking a deep breath, I begin to paint a picture of Wrath for her, recounting memories, quirks, and anecdotes that I've cherished over our time together. With each word, I hope to bring her a glimpse of the son she has missed for so long.
I recount the story of how I found him, the twists and turns that led me to him, and the moment I realized I was in love with him— sitting beside him on the piano bench, the very instrument she had taught him how to play. I share with her the bond between Wrath and Cierien, their inseparable relationship, and the unbreakable love that defines them. However, I omit the ending, choosing instead to read her the love story without revealing its tragic conclusion. After all, love stories are supposed to have a happily ever after.
Why couldn't it have had a happily ever after?
//
I'm critical of the last chapter🤨🤨
so here's another :)