The Lonely Ones

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Bed's Temptation

A frown stains Wren's face. He retreats two steps. Marches forward, lips spread into a scowl. Then retreats once more, snarling, teeth bared and forehead wrinkled.

"How does that constitute as a gift?" Wren hisses, pacing. The grass beneath his boots withers and dies. The chill spreads further, consuming nearby trees that frost over. He ceases to point accusingly at Artemis. "How often did you come to me wishing for a loving mother? How often did I hear you wail about wanting her returned? Did I not give you that?!"

"You didn't," Artemis states decisively, holding his ground when the air around Wren picks up. The wind tears leaves from trees, sending them soaring into the evening sky. "Love cannot be forced or coerced. You should know better than that."

Wren's muscles tense, then loosen until his arms dangle lifelessly at his side. Even his expression goes lax, confounded to the point of an almost out-of-body experience. Then he laughs, discouraging to the core, echoing through the woods that creak and groan as if to cry in fear.

"I should know better?" Wren echoes, appearing in front of Artemis in less than a second. Artemis retrieves his sword, resting the blade between them as a threat that Wren doesn't so much as flinch at. He steps forward, letting the blade press against his doublet, centimeters from his neck.

"I gave you what you wanted," Wren repeats. "You asked for a mother. I gave you one. You did not ask for true love. We both know she isn't capable of that, otherwise she never would have abandoned you as she did, but you claim I should have known better. How?"

"What do you mean, how? It simply isn't right."

"Putting one who is beneath you under a spell is natural," Wren states, a horrifying reminder worsened by his extended speech. "Artemis, you seem to have me confused with one of your mortals. I said before, your laws mean nothing to me. Your standards baffle me. You baffle me and..." Wren halts.

"And what?" Artemis challenges, viewing an emotion slip over Wren's eyes as vast as the open ocean. Then the emotion's gone.

"And I am not mortal therefore you cannot hold me to such ludicrous standards and ridiculous expectations," he replies, although it feels he cut a vital portion out. One that had to do with that look.

Artemis can't argue against that though. Wren said where he came from, if you wanted something, you took it, and if someone hurt you, you hurt them back. That's what he learned from childhood, besieged by others like him in a world of entirely separate rules. But that didn't mean he would let Wren run amok, especially with those in his life.

"Fine, I won't deny that you're right to an extent," Artemis says, lowering his sword. Wren watches the iron carefully, returning his gaze to Artemis' after he sheathes his sword. Artemis crosses his arms then asks, "How would you feel if someone put me under a spell?"

Wren's eyes grow pure white. The wind whistles in their ears, gnawing cold. In a growl, he replies, "I'd never allow it."

That shouldn't excite me, Artemis berates himself. He draws a sharp breath, collecting himself enough to say, "I didn't ask if you'd allow it. I asked how you would feel."

Visible confusion etches itself into Wren's face. He backs away, crossing his arms, then resting a hand against his chin in heavy thought. Artemis would laugh at how little Wren understands his own emotions if he didn't understand why Wren doesn't. As he said, fae leave emotions to mortals. Until now, Artemis believed that was wholly true. But as he looks upon Wren seriously contemplating, he considers; perhaps fae feel in their own way. Different and unique to them. Perhaps it takes more for them to act.

"I'd be infuriated," Wren finally admits. He peers at Artemis, fury in his eyes. "I'd make them beg for mercy and never grant them the peace of death."