Wren POV
He's gone mad.
Ptolemus paces around the room throwing daggers at the wall, only to have them fly back at him and for the process to start all over again. Of course, there is no actual target on the wall except the wood which is littered with dents and scratches.
"What did the wall ever do to you, my love?" I ask trying to add a joyful chirp to my voice. It doesn't come naturally to me. But it did to Isabelle.
Ptolemus only spars a single glance my way before he throws the knife back into the wall slightly more forcefully. I can already hear him say it. Don't call me that.
I sigh and turn away from him. My eyes land on the picture he keeps by his bed. It's Isabelle, and she's smiling. Her golden hair framing her annoyingly symmetrical bright tanned features. She is naturally a beautiful person, and I don't see any makeup on her in this picture, and I hate her for it. Her bright red dress and her gold jacket. Her long lashes and plump lips.
He's been doing this for the past two and half weeks. He tortures himself of where she can be. How the Monfort people can be hurting her. I myself do not indulge on such thoughts. Good. I hope she stays there. Of course I don't want her to be in pain. Just far away. Thousands of miles.
Ptolemus hasn't come as far as I would have hoped after Isabelle's departure. By now, I would have hoped he would spend more time in my arms, in my sights, while quietly grieving for his lost lover away from me.
I kick myself for being so naive. For dwelling into a little girl's childish fantasy. But I am not a child. I glance up at Ptolemus who has stopped pacing but instead grips the hilt of his dagger in a bone white fist, glaring at the carpet under his booted feet, grinding his teeth. His large arms flex tightly as he thinks. I feel my stomach curl. No. Definitely not a child.
Ptolemus does find comfort in me. For a few hours. Or a tense conversation. Or for a night, if he falls asleep or finds his own body too heavy to move. Move away from me.
He is careful to not say her name, but I can see it in his eyes when we speak. Which is why most of our time spent together is not spent using words. Disappointment layers in his eyes when I fail to meet his expectations in conversation. In attitude. In dress. Eyes ticking back and forth looking for someone in me who does not dwell. Looking for her.
When we started this I thought could handle it. I thought no strings attached would be easy. But I find myself wanting him to look at me. To see me. To want me because that is what people who love each other do. Do I love him? I think so. Does me love me?
I glance back up at Ptolemus who is still staring at the floor, arms crossed. Maybe on day he will.
______
I sit perched in my regular spot in the healers section of the training arena. Something I do more often now that I'm with Ptolemus.
I can't seem to keep my eyes off of him today, or anyday I suppose as I watch him spar with his father. Something he has been voluntarily doing now that Isabelle doesn't waste all his time. He has improved so much now that she is gone.
I let my eyes run over the way his arms move, noticing his flexing muscles or how the way he clenches his jaw. Or how his hands flow with precise movements. His hands.
His hands aren't soft, nor rough. They usually verge on being somewhere between cold and warm. Large. Not exactly gentle, but not aggressive either. I recall the day Isabelle caught us in bed together, and I inwardly flinch, my hand raising to touch my arm where he had grabbed me practically throwing me out of his room. The bruise lasted only a few days, and I know he didn't do it on purpose. He may be aggressive and prone to be confrontation, but he isn't like that.
I blink, pulling myself from my thoughts. Volo talks to his son sternly, as he demonstrates something far beyond my understanding and I find it almost impossible to see Volo without his simple robes and crown. It seems so much like his element. Although, I suppose the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree and I have to remind myself that even Volo Samos was Ptolemus' age once. As hard as it is to believe.
Ptolemus nods listening intently to his father. I watch, hoping he'll flick his eyes up towards me. Just once, just for a split second. He pulls back from his father, raising his head, and I feel my chest expand with hope. He steps back and getting into a fighting stance. I feel my shoulders drop with disappointment and my previous hope deflate.
"Hey," a familar voice says. One of my kin sits next to me, brushing his dark hair out of his dark eyes. He tilts his head to the side and sniffs folding his arms over his chest. He purses his lips. "I myself would prefer to watch Evangeline train."
I scoff, "Did I ask?"
He ignores my retort. "I doubt he knows you're up here stalking him."
"Of course he knows," I answer. "He invited me."
My cousin lifts his brow slightly but does not pull his gaze off the floor. "Sure."
"He did," I retort. I'm lying and he knows it.
He shrugs, "Ok."
I angle my body towards his. "Why do you care?"
"I don't," he replies nonchalantly. I stare at him, and with a sigh he gives in. "He doesn't love you, Wren."
I gap at his bluntness, "The hell do you know?"
He keeps his calm composure and I want nothing more than the strangle him. "More than you, clearly."
"Why would you say that!"
He finally turns his eyes towards me, and I notice his eyes are lit. "He is just mourning the pretty Nornus girl-,"
"Don't call her that," I spit. "Don't say anything about her."
"Your time will pass," he says smoothly completely unmoved my my trembling rage.
"It won't."
"It will, and he will return to Isabelle like he always does." He narrows his eyes at me. "Did you know?"
I inhale, shame creeping up my throat. I don't even have to ask about what he is referring to. "I suspected."
"And you said nothing."
"It wasn't my place to say anything," I quickly counter. "Why didn't you?"
He smirks, "She scares me."
I imagine Isabelle's face. Her soft features. "Isabelle entertains children and likes to collect shiny things." I mock with a sneer. "What exactly is so scary about her?"
"Plenty."
I roll my eyes and turn my attentions back to Ptolemus. He still has his eyes and focus on his father. Completely oblivious to my circumstances. If I were Isabelle, he would have sensed her unease. He wouldn't have to look up here to see it. I feel the familar boil of rage and jealousy mix in me and I close my eyes and will it to fade.
"When did you start liking after him anyway?"
I shrug, not really in the mood to discuss my love life with him. "I don't know."
"When he seduced you into his bed." My cousin states knowingly.
I close my eyes and I can still hear his voice that night. Isabelle. "He did not seduce me. And how do you even know-,"
"Everyone knows," he chuckles. "You gleamed brighter than the sun for days. Ptolemus sulked and Isabelle hid away in her rooms. Everyone knows."
I recall seeing Belle's face that morning and the surprise on Ptolemus' face when he turned over to look at me. I lick my lips and can still taste the alcohol on his breath. That hadn't exactly been something to beam about.
I huff, "Stop telling me this. Stop talking to me."
Someone on the floor waves at us and my cousin rises. "Just thought you should know. You're family after all." He walks towards the floor without another word and leaves me to my own thoughts. Finally.
_________
I'm not invited to dinner. Ptolemus doesn't even have to say so, as he quickly occupies himself with showering and changing into lighter, casual clothes. I sit there on the edge of bed, my fingers aching from clenching the pressed sheets.
I don't want to go anyway. It has been a long day, and I'm not even hungry. I already ate about 30 minutes ago. He'll only be gone for an hour at the most.
"How long will you be gone?" I hear myself ask.
He glances at me through the mirror and I feel my heat quicken. "Does it matter?" Usually I find comfort in the deep tone of his voice.
I'm on my feet before I can stop myself reaching for the door. I close my eyes, pushing back the tears as my heart sinks into my throat, when I don't hear him call out for me to stop as I close the door behind me.
_________
"No, Wren. I want to be alone." Ptolemus says standing in the doorway. He leans against the frame, his eyes looking truly black in the lack of lighting.
I sigh, "It's not healthy for you to spend so much time alone." I notice the growing dark circles under his eyes and wish he would let me touch him so I could heal them away.
He scoffs, "Alone? You've been following me around all day."
A mix of both ice, embarrassment, and glee stir through me. So he has noticed. "I just wanted to be sure your okay."
He smirks unkindly. "I can take care of myself."
"I know," I start hesitating, "I also know that you have been drinking a lot and I know that you miss Isabelle and all, but I was thinking that-,"
I look up to see that his eyes are squeezed shut and his head his dipped down.
I reach out to him, "Hey-,"
He jerks, dodging my hand. He looks back at me, embers in his eyes. "Look Wren, I don't need you to look after me, especially if your definition of helping me is following me around. We both know," he gestures between us. "What this is ok. Don't try to make it anything more."
Pain shoots through me. I feel numb and at a loss for words. I feel stupid. But I force myself to push it back. I tell myself that he will come around, that it will only take time.
"I know. I just want to spend the night."
He shakes his head, stepping back. "You know why that isn't happening."
Yes, I do. From the small space that his body doesn't block I can see red sheets and gold detailing. This is Isabelle's room. He creeps away here at least twice a week. Nothing is touched here, everything here is untouched, everything is how she left it. I have never been invited inside, and I never will. Here is his sanctuary, where he is free to mourn.
I give him my best puppy eyed look that doesn't have to be faked. If it worked for her. But Ptolmeus only purses his lips. "Goodnight." He closes the door in my face before he can even finish the word.
I creak open the door to his room, the dark welcoming me, the open curtains casting in the moonlight glow. I suppose his room is my own refuge. Here, I can at least pretend he will walk in.
I lay down on the cold sheets and feel a few tears glid down my temple. What am I doing with myself? I roll over and hear a crinkle of paper.
I sit up and wipe my face off before searching under the sheets. A letter.
Dear Samos,
I want to start off with an apology. I know my absence has probably caused you a lot of confusion and stress, and I want to tell you that my choice not to return to the Rift was not fueled by any sort of negative feeling towards you or your family. If it were up to me, I would be back at your side by now. We would be together and...our family would be together. Yes, my love, our family. The night I was due to return to you, I unexpectedly gave birth. You have a son. We have a son. His name is Dasarious (Darcy). His arrival into this world was most definitely unexpected but I cannot be happier that he is here and that you are his father. Ptolemus, you are a father. Unfortunately, due to my ignorance Darcy was born early and underdeveloped. But, the Premier has been so gracious as to let Darcy and I stay until he is at complete health, providing full shelter and food. It shouldn't be long before we return. Be sure to thank him for his hospitality, I know how you are.
I know this is a lot to drop on you, especially now. Especially in a letter. I wish this moment could have been shared together. But I must also, painfully acknowledge that you may not want anything to do with Darcy. We are young and unprepared and I do not wish to force anything upon you. I feel as if it I am at fault for the situation that I have found myself in. So, my dear I want to offer you a choice. Write me back with your response as soon as you can. I don't mean to pressure you into anything, but I pray for your swift response.
With love always,
Isabelle Annalise Nornus
I feel red burn at the edges of my vision as I grip the paper. My assumptions were correct. She was pregnant the whole time. I can barely see as I pull two pictures out of the envelope. One is of Isabelle in Monfort provided green. Evidence that she is unharmed. Tired, but unharmed.
The other. My breath catches in my throat, the baby. Darcy. His son. Her son. He is sleeping, his little head covered in a grey cap and he wears nothing but a white diaper. His skin is milky white and slightly flushed. His eyes are closed and his toes are curled. But the child definitely belongs to Ptolemus. I can already see the resemblance.
I catch a sob, my mind already made up.
_______
I watch with unblinking dry eyes as heat carcasses my face. As the fire curls the edges of the letter and bores black holes into the faces of Isabelle and Darcy.