Ptolemus Pov
I twist my hands in front of me as I watch the mail boy makes his rounds. Guards scramble over each other, clutching their mail like a lifeline. He stops by me, looking through his stack. "Sorry man." He says looking up at me. "Got nothing for you."
He begins to walk away when I stop him. "No that can't be right." I take the letters from his hands. He doesn't even protest, probably dealt with situations like this before. I shuffle through them reading over the names. All unfamiliar. "No." I mutter handing them back. "You must have lost it in transport."
The mail boy nods, "Its a possibility."
I let him go. Not even a letter for her brothers. Maybe she ran out of time and it slipped her mind. I let myself be optimistic, and yet something tells me that is not the case. Christian walks over to me, but slows his pace when he notices my hands are empty.
"Nothing?" he asks and I shake my head.
The door opens and the warden walks in. "Make yourselves look presentable, we're expecting the Queen and King's arrival."
"When are they arriving?" One man asks.
"The Queen will be here in the hour. His Majesty we will be expecting in the following days. I expect every one of you to be on your best behavior and I need Corros Prison to be at its very best conditions." He makes sure to look at all of us before stepping out.
"The Queen." Another man says to fill the silence, "I wonder what she has to do here."
"Most likely to check on the conditions of the prison herself." I answer standing up. I stretch my arms over my head. "We should do rounds," I say. "Partner up."
They move, but they move sluggishly. I don't have the energy to tell them to move faster, because I know how they feel. Despite handling metal all our lives, the cold does eventually begin to set in. The echo of the empty darkness of the hallways.
The press of the silent stone is suffocating, and I feel its power creep up on my throat, and press on my chest. I pass by the people I used to grow up with, some the people my father undoubtedly grew up around every day and I will admit I feel a tug of guilt when their souless eyes meet mine.
I can only hope the king sends for us all back home soon. I have begun to miss the warm embrace of cotton and silk sheets. The sights of Isabelle purring beside me, her legs tucked close. I miss Eve. I can only wonder the turmoil Maven and his mother has brought upon everyone, and my sister is right next to it.
Belle Pov
The days go by in a haze and my memory of them are mostly a blur. I feel jaded everyday, yet I know there really is so much going on in the kingdom. I feel my shoulders sag every time I arise from the warmth of my bed. Lucky for me, I do have one small thing to look forward to. Garrett does look forward to me coming over and babysitting when the family, which is usually most of them is at court. Nobody is going to notice one missing girl, I tell myself.
As I pull my hair up, I stare at the blank paper sitting on my desk. It taunts me. The call to write growing stronger with every sunrise. I can't bring myself to do it. I can't. Part of me is realived though. As much as I like being with Ptolemus, his sister is more then bitter company when I have to hand them over to her. My gut tell me she reads them. Logic tells me she gave that piece of Ptolemus' engagment to me on purpose. I want to hate her. I do.
I try to keep that from my head as much as possible. When I do, it stirs up unfamiliar emotions and a fidget uncomfortably in my seat. It's reason I can't bring myself to write back. Not even to my own brothers. If I do, I feel like everything would spill out. I would make a mess of things. And I would rather things be handled in a ogranized and simple fashion. But again, something tells me life won't be that easy.
As time passes, I recieve more of Ptolemus' letters. Only this time, a guard comes to my door letter in hand. No more trips to the palace, to my utter happiness. I leave them on my desk, the first few. I tuck them away after a while, when the lur to open them becomes to much. My pride, my anger, won't let me. I do recieve some from Kane and Chris, and I take my time as night covers the land to read them. I leave those open on my desk.
One night Father calls me into his study. I walked in, my heart thundering in my chest. I had expected the worst. I knew the worst. Every nerve of mine was shot, and every hightened sense I developed in training, was an alert.
I push open the polished thick mohagany door. I expect to see him sitting behind his desk, but the leather chair is empty. The room is warm. It blankets my body as I enter, closing the door behind me with a gentle thunk. In the large windows the sun sets on the horizion, turning the sky a bright magnificent flaming orange.
"Isabelle," Father says his voice low. He sits to the far left of the room in a large plush chair. The other angled perfectly across from him empty.
I breath out deeply moving towards him, my footsteps silent on the soft carpets. He watches my every step and I watch him. Blood rushes in my ears. What does he need to say to me? How bad is it?
Any other person would have taken the chair across from him. I don't. I settle by his legs. I sit on my legs my ankles crossed under me. Father doesn't object, and simply strokes my head like he used to do when I was a child.
That oblivious girl who worried if her brothers had stuck a spider under her sheets or cut her hair in her sleep. Who stuck close to her parents other then kids her own age because that was when she had felt a peace. That girl who matured quicker then her peers and couldn't connect the way she wished she could have.
"What's wrong?" I ask my fingers coiling up my shirt.
"Why must there be something wrong to have a conversation with my only daughter?" He asks the corner of his mouth lifting.
I feel pressure release from my shoulders. "So nothing is wrong?"
He shakes his head, "Not at the moment."
I bit my lip, "Then why did you call me in?"
"I told you," he says. "To have a conversation with my daughter."
We haven't spoken like this in a long time. Not since mother got sick. And I was a teenager then. I feel my chest bubble. "What did you want to talk about?"
He shrugs sitting back smoothly. "How about that boy of yours?"
I feel my skin burn with the mention of Ptolemus. "Uh."
He chuckles, "Ok fine. Not that."
I sigh. "Good. I don't want to talk about him."
He lifts an eyebrow, "Trouble?"
I feel my fingers tighten. "No." I look up him and I his face is says that he doesn't believe me in the slightest. "Nothing I can't handle."
He hums pressing two fingers to his lips. He stares ahead in thought before smiling to himself. "Me and your mother," he starts, "We always tried to keep our voices at an even level when we argured. Didn't want to disturb you kids, or the house."
I furrow my eyebrows, "You and Mom fight?"
He chuckles nodding his head. "Yes, yes we do. Here is some advice Belle. What's best is to tell him everything. Don't hold back. And if he cares, he'll listen and try to make right whatever went down between you two."
My heart sinks as I take in his words. It shouldn't have. But it does. I grip his hand in my own. Its warm and soft. "And if he doesn't?"
Father presses his lips together. "Then you," he taps my nose, again like he used to when I was a small girl, "my daughter, deserve so much better."
I push a lock of my hair behind my ear, "What am I supposed to say to him when he gets back?" I ask. "I mean, when I think about it," I clench my jaw. "I make me so angry."
Father laughs to himself. "I don't believe I've ever seen you angry, Isabelle. But what you say if true, then I would love to see what goes down."
"Father," I whine.
"Just tell him how you feel. If you're angry, show him. If your hurt, show it. Don't hesitate."
I sigh nodding. Confrontation makes me nervous, which really is a new feeling. Facing someone has never been a problem, until now. Ptolemus makes me nervous.
"You'll do great, Belle." Father says with a reassuring smile and another pat on my head.
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