Then there can be only one explanation. He’s trying to punish me. I will not accept it.
“Have you considered the possibility that I drink because I was stolen from my home, forced to marry someone against my will?”
“You drank before ever arriving here.”
My lips tighten, compress into the thinnest, whitest line. He’s right. I drank long before ever stepping foot into the Deadlands. It has been my greatest need, my greatest shame. “It’s not that bad,” I argue, though some of my urgency has been depleted. “I can control my intake. It’s not as though I spend the day drinking myself into oblivion.”
“So you only drink yourself into oblivion on the nights you’re forced to dine with me, is that it?”
The first few instances, yes. Now I just… drink. My hand reaches for the glass before my mind is aware of it. A completely involuntary gesture.
“You don’t understand.” And neither did Elora.
“You’re sick,” Boreas rumbles, though not unkindly. “Don’t you see how the drink ravages your body? You believe it gives you strengthand clarity, but it weakens you, drop by drop. Wine is the liar. Wine is the thief.”
I cross my arms over my stomach, fingers curling into the sides of my tunic. “I’m not…”
The moment he rests his palms on my shoulders, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to halt the flood of emotion. He touches me, and against my will, I soften.
“Just one glass,” I whisper. “One more. It will be the last time. I promise.”
“Wren.” His voice is gentle. “I can’t let you do that. Whether you believe it or not, I’m trying to help you.”
A sharp inhalation drives the air deeper into my lungs, but I feel like I’m suffocating.
“The worst of your withdrawal symptoms have passed,” he says. “I’ve spoken with Alba, and she’s agreed to help you these next few months. There are ways to help manage the cravings.”
“I do not have a choice in this?” Prickly words.
“No.”
To be denied the one thing I cannot live without? I cannot accept this. I must accept this. He is convinced this will help me. I’m not sure I believe him.
“I used it sometimes,” I whisper, “to cope after my parents passed. It wasn’t often. Every few weeks, maybe, when the grief became too much. Then I drank to pass the time. I drank to feel alive again. I drank because, if I did not, I was afraid I might float away.” It gave me clarity. It cured me, pain and all. It cured all the parts of myself that I hated.
The irony is, the more I drank, the more ashamed I felt over my destructive behavior, my failure to provide Elora emotional stability. It was the most awful feedback loop. I wasn’t able to break free of it.
Boreas clears his throat. “I suppose isolating myself isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, either.” He doesn’t mention the reason for his self-isolation, but I know. “It will be a difficult road. You’re strong, though.” With that, he removes his hands from my shoulders, giving me space.
The ache in my throat does not relent. I don’t agree with him, but… perhaps it is time for a change. Sobriety will bring freedom, comfort, ease to my life. This I know. This I hunger for desperately, and welcome with outstretched hands. But I fear that I will fail, and spiral down into the dark, my self-loathing too great a weight to shed. Boreas claims I am strong? I suppose we will see just how strong I am in the coming weeks.
Pulling out a chair from the table, I lower myself into it, then gather my courage. This is, after all, why I came. “I’m sorry. For everything. For… hurting you.”
Boreas doesn’t interrupt. He’s listening.
“I didn’t know about your son,” I whisper. It takes every bit of strength to maintain eye contact, but he deserves that much. “It wasn’t my business. I should have respected your privacy. My actions were selfish and rude and completely unacceptable. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
The king takes his time wiping the remainder of the dirt from his palms. Then he tosses the cloth into a bucket, looking out through the glass. “Orla told you.”
“Please don’t blame her. I begged her to tell me.”
He shakes his head. “You are uniquely persuasive when you want to be.”
Do I detect a note of grudging admiration in his tone?
“Thank you for the apology.” He does not look at me as he speaks, and I wish he would. It feels as though I’ve ruined something but I’m not even sure what is damaged.
Enough time passes that I grow uncomfortable enough to fill it. “I really am sorry. Really. I’m absolutely appalled by my behavior and—”
