2.III :

“Yes, it is true.” 

Tristan’s face twisted till his lips curved upward in a smirk that hardly reached his eyes. He set his knife on the table. “I see.”

 “Would you like to know the truth so you can drop this act? It’s sickening!” He spat.

The final straw had snapped, and the last piece of the puzzle laid bare—I didn’t need to hear the truth. For this to be considered an act, Albert must have all but abandoned his child. No. . . what if it was worse than that? A stranger would not be able to stir a heart brimming with strife. What could he have done to this child? Slander him? Shun him? Beat him? No! I shouldn’t be pessimistic like this! I shouldn’t intermix my experiences with Tristan’s. 

“No. I’m. . . sorry.” 

Tristan's eyes widened before they crinkled as he began to cackle. Sorry was not a magical bandaid. In a perfect world, as I had done many times before with my brothers, I would pull this boy towards me, wrap my arms around him, and hold him for dear life, squeezing every drop of pain from his small frame. 

But I was trapped in Albert’s skin. My life did not have many perks, but I—naive, hypocritical—had a heart! If only, now, I could be Gabrielle. I understood this child’s plights!

The hysterical laughter perished as Tristan splayed his hand over his face. He covered his eyes.

“Sorry!? Don’t say that! You’ll remember eventually, and what then? Will you be sorry then!? Or will you throw me to the side again!” He screamed. Behind his hand, tears ran down his cheek. They splattered on the table one by one like gems shattering on the ground. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t born with your hair or your eyes. I’m sorry. . .” He mumbled. 

“Tristan⸻”

“Sir. An urgent letter—” Tristan’s chair skimmed across the floor, toppling over after he sprang up. He barged through the open door and rammed into the maid. 

“Insolent brat! Get—” 

“Not another word! Let him be.” 

At the command, the maid stiffened. I scrutinized her. My face dared her—say another word, and I will cut you down. 

“Give me the letter. I will look at it.”

As soon as I finished, she bowed her head, again and again, and, once she handed the letter, she scampered out of the room like a scared mouse. 

I clutched the letter, nearly crumpling the paper—cream-colored with a silver seal stamped onto it. Whose seal was this? With my luck, it was probably a letter declaring war. I set it on the table. My appetite had perished alongside my optimism. An easy life fit with everything I wanted?—I was a fool! I sunk into my chair, rested my head in my hands, and tugged at my bangs. Why did I believe Albert to be a universally loved man, his life exempt from flaws? I should’ve realized the moment Tristan spoke when I woke, but I. . . 

A bitter laugh tore through my chest. What should I do to live as Albert? Someone, tell me what to do. . .

I lifted my head and stared at the letter. Urgent, she said. I should tend to Tristan or rest as recommended, yet I reached for the letter. Curiosity grasped me, choked me. 

In my hands, I held the note—and a gift? The sender sent a ring, too, inside the envelope. The band was thin, made of gold, and on it was one small diamond. I brought the ring to my mouth before breathing on it. Real, not that I expected a King’s gift—if it was that— to be a knockoff. 

I read: Dearest, have you been well? Today, I was going to visit the palace, but then I heard about the parade. I was in the crowd. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you smile like that. It seems you made your decision, so, please, take back this ring, allow me one more wish. Place it with yours—our matrimony has ended long already. By the time you receive this letter, I will have already left Avalon and begun the long trek to Neve. Perhaps, shortly, I will see you again, face to face. 

P.S—tell Walter I have no association with that criminal. He will accuse me, but I am not so nefarious as to kill a King in front of his people. Sincerely, Catherine. 

The letter fell from my hands, gliding onto the floor. Catherine was Albert’s wife—no, she had been Albert’s wife! And she must’ve been Tristan’s mother—unless Albert had mistresses. In historical romantic books, mistresses were always at the heart of the conflict, and, at the climax, there would be a big fight between the two opposing females. But this was not a book—this was a man’s life. What had ended the marriage between Albert and Catherine?