Winter

Chapter Seven: Seperation

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, hands folded together so hard your fingers might accidentally break under the pressure. Anger bubbles through your body, growing, morphing, simmering as you glare a hole into one spot in the wall. There are a lot of reasons why you feel this unbridled rage, and as you wait for the Sinner to walk his fine but infuriating ass into the room, you try to precisely pinpoint the exact ways you are going to unleash all hell on him.

And, when it all comes down to it, you're mad at yourself for caring enough to be mad in the first place, because you are supposed to be away and gone. All this time, trapped in this house, trying to outsmart a Fae, you've worked so hard to think of it as a blessing. The last things that could be traced back to you, the car, the phone, simply burnt to a crisp, the remains probably found by now. If you are exceptionally lucky, you will be presumed dead by now. In this day and age, being entirely off the radar is so goddamn challenging to accomplish, that you might have even briefly entertained the thought of staying longer to guarantee your legal death.

If worse comes to worst, though, it would be really, really easy to spin the truth in your favor. You were abducted by a cult, a crazy fucking lunatic who wanted to indoctrinate you into his 'court.' He kept you locked in his house, made you wear homespun victorian clothes, all the while claiming that the heart of the land is trapped and the only way to free it is if you, his soulmate, would love him dearly.

The door swings open, the Sinner stepping through the threshold. He must have immediately noticed you in the dark, staring at him in the shadows, because he doesn't dare take another step further after shutting the door.

"Tonight we are having a banquet," the Sinner says, "though tomorrow there is going to be a more adequate celebration. I've already arranged for a seamstress to-"

"Sit down, Tristan."

At first, you don't think he realizes the implication of your statement, after all, any of his staff could have told you his real name. But he hears the anger and impatience in your voice, so without a word of argument, he walks over and sits on the far side of the bed.

"Do you want to tell me about who cursed you, and maybe why?" This is his last out, the last branch you are extending to him in friendship. The Sinner cannot lie, no, but withholding some critical information, especially when it could affect you negatively, is just as bad.

"I don't see why it matters, it's all water under the bridge now." He sounds confident in his statement, giving you a smile you can barely see from the fading moonlight.

"Well, I say it matters, and I would like to hear it from you."

The Sinner turns his head from you, a gentle aura of bitterness wafting off of him through the bond. "It's over now," he says quietly, "really, we should just continue on without looking back."

The sharp prick of the needle digs deeper into your finger than usual, an unsteady wave of rage flushing through your blood. You just have to think the words now for the light to appear, the glow bright enough to light the entire room. In your other hand, the most recent letter from the king, of which you had been comparing to the others you had found, scattering them around the bed in an almost organized, but more importantly, dramatic manner.

"I beg to fucking differ," you say, trying your best to remain calm. The light on your finger fizzles, sensing the anger burning inside your chest.

At first, you don't think he realizes what the papers are, a blank, glassy stare overtaking his face, but you can pinpoint the moment everything clicks in his brain. His eyes narrow, his jaw sets, and he glares up at you with an indignant air, obviously upset that you would dare go through his things, but you are beyond the point of feeling any semblance of guilt at the invasion of privacy. A long moment of silence reigns over the room, the Sinner trying to scrounge together something to say in response, an excuse, maybe a misleading statement, growing more and more furious with every passing second. You let him flounder, though as soon as he opens his mouth, you beat him to the punch.