Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 43: Dear Cal

The pile of envelopes Elowen had given him rested on the edge of Callan's desk, burning a hole through the wood with their weight.

Just a stack of papers tied together with ribbon, yet Callan hadn't been able to stop staring at them as if they held the answers to the universe. It might as well have been the same thing, for him.

Yet, he'd held back from reading them just yet. An exercise in self-restraint. Or, as his brother would have said, a taste for self-inflicted punishment.

As it was, Callan was holding it off because he knew that once he grabbed those letters, he would become consumed by them. And he was a king, he had duties.

He'd just waved off Aedion after his little escapade with Elowen—which Callan was still deeply irked about. Demonic attacks and mass murder. Lovely. Just what everyone needed.

Callan now had to grapple with this new information and see where it fit into his plans. He needed to consider his alliances, his next moves, and how to best hedge his bets.

He had the issue with Lord Berwyn and his rebellion to figure out, as well as increasingly insistent invitations from Ardwen's newest King, Ciaran Eagan, who likely wanted to convince Callan to join forces. Not to mention, the regular day-to-day tasks of the Kingdom.

And yet, Callan only had eyes for Minna's letters.

Ironic, he thought. She'd taken up his every thought when she was here, and even now, years and miles away, she continued to hold all his attention.

Callan made a valiant effort to rein his attention back to his duties, and he managed it for all of a half hour, before inevitably, he dropped it all in favour of Minna.

He couldn't help it like he couldn't help the slight tremble in his hands when he took the stack in his hold. Somewhere in his throat, his heart marked an unsteady pattern as he traced a hand over Minna's curly handwriting.

Callan, the envelopes said, innocuous yet so weighty.

She'd written him, and even if she'd never sent those letters, the idea that she'd never stopped thinking about him all those years made his chest constrict. It almost made his constant yearning seem less pathetic, less painful.

He opened the first envelope at the top of the pile, marked with a small date at the corner. It contained a handful of letters, each one dated just a few months after Minna had left.

Dear Cal,

I am a few months along now, and our baby girl kicked for the first time! I woke up a few hours ago when she jammed her little foot in my rib cage. At least I think it was a foot. Could be an elbow or even a fist. It hurt like hell, but I was so happy to finally feel her, that I almost cried with joy.

Then, I looked beside me, hoping to see you and tell you about it, and I cried in earnest then. Sometimes, I wake up and for a brief moment, I think it was all a bad dream. I reach for you, looking to hug you, and all there is is a cold bed. Lately, it hurts more than ever.

But that is not why I am writing this. Or maybe it is. I just wish so desperately you could feel her. I wish you could lay your hand on my belly and feel her kick and move around. I can almost imagine the way you'd smile as I write this.

I don't know if that will ever be the case, but I write this in the hopes that perhaps someday you will read it. Perhaps it will be enough to make you a part of this journey that should have been ours. Our little family.

If you do, I want you to know that despite it all, we are well. As well as we can be. We are safe and the baby is growing stronger every day. She kicks and moves around like a little fishy, and I just know she'll be a spirited little fighter.