A Million Roads to Nowhere

Try to Settle, Rest

It's an innately horrible feeling to know you can't be sure of your fate.

Stop being dramatic, Patrick tells himself. You're acting as if you're in prison, or the like.

He undresses himself and steps into the bath, relief flooding over his muscles. He massages his freckled skin thoroughly to get the knots and aches out as much as possible before scrubbing himself down with the scratchy cloth provided for him.

His body relaxes and he feels as if he could stay in this position forever, but he forces himself to keep moving. He scrubs the grease out of his hair with a bar of milk soap and washes his face. When the water begins to get filthy and cold, he steps out and dries himself off with a rag. It's nice to be this clean again.

Patrick slips on the cotton trousers left out for him and finds that they're too big. He has to loop the strings twice around his waist in order to keep them up. The shirt is too small, although it fits him. The fabric is uncomfortably tight around his biceps, but when he thinks on it, he realizes that it's just because he's actually got more muscle on him than he's ever had before.

How strange, he thinks, prodding at his arms.

He grew up on a farm, so he's always been fit, but it's odd to be put in this perspective. Patrick pulls himself out of his thoughts and slides shoes and socks over his feet. He combs his fingers through his wet hair, peering out the uncovered window. It's still early; the sun isn't at high noon yet.

Patrick doesn't know what to do, so he wanders around his bedchamber aimlessly searching every nook and cranny. There aren't any drapes covering the window, so it's a good thing the bed is set with down comforters and woolen blankets. He's heard it gets quite cold by the sea, but he figures it can't be much worse than the snow.

The chest of drawers is filled with similar clothing, all greys and browns and creams. The other colors are muted. When Patrick looks at the stuff inside, he's reminded of clothes he would have worn back home. Given, this stuff is new and of better quality, but it's not fancy by any means.

A stack of books sits on the bedside table. Patrick reads the titles and recognizes none of the words. When he flips them open, they're all written in Belasethi.

Patrick glances out the window, where he has a direct view of the ocean. He leans out over the ledge, tasting salt in his nose. He tries to see around the stone pillar to his left, but to no avail. He hears shouting in Belasethi from that direction.

Those must be Rozenn's soldiers, he assumes.

Once there's nothing to look at, Patrick reluctantly goes to the door. He looks out the keyhole to check outside, finding no one in his line of sight out in the hall. He turns the knob and steps outside, looking around.

What do I do now?

He feels his nerves start to catch up to him, the moment of peacefulness shattered. He calls Ivo to his side, who instantly scales his body and settles across his shoulders, curling around his neck. Patrick reaches a hand up to scratch him.

"Where to?" he quietly asks.

Ivo rubs his head against Patrick's chin and blinks up at him.

Suddenly, the door to Clementine's chambers opens and she steps out, looking pristine. She wears a flattering silky black gown which her hair blends in to. Rozenn definitely didn't leave that out for her, and Patrick can only assume she magicked it somehow.

"You look like a lost duck," Clementine says.

She waves away Sir Alexei, who followed her out. He goes down the hall and vanishes to who-knows-where.