Chapter 76- I love him, but I dont like him
Elias had not been exaggerating.
That realization disturbed me more than it should have.
For years, I had assumed age was finally beginning to damage whatever remained of my uncle's judgment.
It had seemed inevitable. Elias had always possessed an unfortunate relationship with reality, but time had made him bolder about it.
He accused infants of plotting against him.
Claimed Lysandra understood tax policy before she understood spoons.
Insisted children could sense moral weakness and had therefore chosen to torment him specifically.
I had dismissed most of it.
Then my son was born.
Now, watching the boy walk through the palace with his tiny hand wrapped contentedly around Elowen's finger, I was forced to acknowledge a deeply unpleasant possibility.
Elias might have been right.
Some babies did have personal enemies.
My son's was me.
He walked several paces ahead, his short legs moving with determined little steps that looked far faster from his perspective than they did from mine.
Elowen adjusted her pace to match him, allowing herself to be dragged through the corridor as though the child possessed enough strength to control her direction.
He did not.
Elowen followed because she adored him.
Everyone adored him.
That was another problem.
She had spent the morning displaying her jewelry collection to him, though collection no longer seemed an adequate word for what she had accumulated.
At eight, Elowen owned enough necklaces, bracelets, polished stones, ribbons, crystals, shells, glass beads, and glittering objects of uncertain origin to establish a small treasury.
Some pieces were the most valuable and rare things on Earth.
While others were nothing more than shiny trash.
Her brother had sat in the center of the carpet while she placed them on him one after another.
He wore three necklaces.
Four bracelets around one wrist because the other was apparently reserved for dramatic pointing.
A small silver chain around one ankle.
Then Elowen decided he looked too pale and applied glittering powder to both cheeks.
He allowed it.
Worse, he laughed.
The boy sat perfectly still while his sister dusted gold across his face, pressed kisses against his forehead, called his hands tiny and precious, and declared him the most beautiful prince born in any kingdom.
He accepted every indignity happily.
Now he held her hand while she spoke without pausing for breath, explaining something about a missing jeweled hairpin, a suspicious maid, and a crow she believed had developed expensive taste.
I could not follow the story.
My son appeared to.
He looked up at her every few steps, face serious, responding with small sounds that somehow convinced Elowen he understood everything.
He probably understood more than I did. That was not the problem. The problem was what would have happened if I attempted the same affection.
If I reached for his hand, he pulled it against his chest as though protecting it from theft. If I lifted him, he slapped my shoulder until I placed him down.
If I touched his hair, he ducked. Once, I attempted to kiss his forehead before leaving for council.
He wiped the spot with his sleeve.
Slowly.
While staring directly into my eye.
The child was not yet two.
He had already mastered insult.
I remained several steps behind him with my hands clasped at my back, observing the little traitor as he walked happily beside his sister. Elowen bent toward him, adjusted one of the necklaces resting against his chest, and continued talking.
He smiled at her.
A wide smile.
Teeth visible.
I had never received that smile.
I received suspicion.
At best, tolerance.
Usually violence.
The boy was the most irritating person inside the palace.
That was not a statement I made lightly.
Elias still lived.
Yet Elias could be removed.
Sent to council.
Assigned to inspect the borders.
Locked inside a meeting with ministers who enjoyed hearing themselves speak. I could achieve several peaceful hours before he found a way back. My son could not be removed because he possessed an army of protectors more dangerous than any court faction.
His mother.
His sisters.
Veronica.
Elias.
Even the guards had begun smiling when he passed, as though being greeted by him was a privilege. The staff considered his insults adorable. The court treated his possessiveness as proof of intelligence.
Every unpleasant trait I possessed became charming when placed inside a body barely tall enough to reach my knee. If I threatened someone for standing too close to my wife, I was called irrational.
Controlling.
Terrifying.
If my son threw grapes at a visiting child for saying Ophelia was pretty, the room dissolved into laughter. The victim had been a harmless. A boy perhaps ten years old who had complimented Ophelia's dress with complete innocence.
My son stared at him.
Frowned.
Then began throwing fruit.
One grape struck the child's forehead.
Another missed and rolled beneath a table.
The third he held up while announcing, with complete outrage
"My mama."
Everyone had called it precious. I called it assault. Ophelia said I was being dramatic.
The boy reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner.
Then stopped.
His entire body went still.
Several guards stood farther down the hall, gathered around Elias while he described something with unnecessarily broad hand movements. Elias held a stack of documents under one arm and appeared to be giving instructions.
My son saw him.
His face transformed.
Joy entered it with such force that I found it offensive.
He released Elowen's hand.
Then shrieked.
Not cried.
Not called his name.
Shrieked with delight loud enough to startle every guard in the corridor.
Elias turned.
The child began running.
Calling it running was generous.
His legs moved as quickly as they could, feet striking the floor in small uneven steps while his arms lifted at his sides for balance. He traveled at approximately the speed of a determined snail.
Elias reacted as though a cavalry charge approached. His documents were shoved into the nearest guard's arms. He opened both hands and crouched.
"My favorite child."
My son squealed louder.
I rolled my eye.
The boy reached Elias eventually and threw himself forward. Elias caught him beneath the arms and lifted him high enough that the child laughed into the vaulted ceiling. The boy placed both hands against Elias's face.
"Elias." He said the name clearly.
Perfectly.
Elias looked toward me with insufferable satisfaction.
"He knows who matters."
I said nothing.
Mostly because every possible answer sounded defensive.
Elias settled him against one hip. My son immediately began touching the tattoos visible above his collar, tracing the dark lines with one glitter-covered finger.
The guards watched with softened expressions.
One smiled openly.
Another offered the boy the polished clasp from his glove because it reflected the light.
My son accepted it.
Of course he did.
He had inherited Elowen's interest in shiny objects whenever they came from someone other than me.
"Why are you glaring at your son?"
The voice came from beside me.
I stiffened.
Not because I had been caught.
Because Ophelia had once again appeared without making any sound.
I turned toward her.
She stood close enough that the sleeve of her gown nearly touched my arm.
Her dark hair had been braided loosely over one shoulder.
No crown. No formal jewelry beyond her ring.
She looked comfortable, which meant she had likely been following us for several minutes while I remained too distracted by betrayal to notice.
I groaned.
"Gods, woman." Her brows lifted. "One day, I am putting a bell around your neck."
Ophelia laughed. The sound remained warm even after nearly ten years of marriage.
She slipped one arm through mine and wrapped both hands around my bicep.
"You say that every time I surprise you."
"One day, I will mean it."
"No, you will not."
"You know i found this great school for boys in the northern mountains."
"No."
I looked down at her.
"I did not finish."
"I know what you were going to say."
"You cannot know that."
"You were going to suggest sending our son away because he hurt your feelings."
"He did not hurt my feelings."
"You are glaring at a toddler."
"I am assessing his behavior."
"He is hugging Elias."
"That is concerning behavior."
Ophelia's mouth curved. "He loves Elias."
"He has poor judgment."
"He is not even two."
"Then there is still time to correct it."
She leaned against my arm.
"You are not sending our son away."
"I never said I would."
"You mentioned a school."
"For educational purposes."
"In the northern mountains."
"The air is excellent."
"He can barely speak."
"Exactly he can learn there."
Ophelia laughed again.
I kept my face stern.
That was difficult when she looked at me that way.
She had always found my conflict with our son far more entertaining than it deserved.
Perhaps because she knew the truth beneath it.
I loved the child. Entirely. Without reservation.
If anyone outside this family touched him with harmful intent, there would not be enough remains left to identify.
That did not mean I liked him.
Love and enjoyment were separate matters.
Our son pointed toward us from Elias's arms.
His face changed when he noticed Ophelia.
"Mama."
His entire body leaned toward her.
Elias began walking closer.
The boy stretched both arms out.
For her.
Only her.
Ophelia released my arm and went toward them.
I followed.
"I have no issue with him," I said.
"You have been glaring at him for the length of the western corridor."
"He has an issue with me."
Ophelia glanced back.
"You are beginning to sound like Elias."
"I am nothing like Elias." From several steps away, Elias spoke without looking toward us.
"That is exactly what someone like me would say."
I ignored him.