Ethan wants answers.

And so we talk. About everything from soul-mates to his dead sister to long-gone English nobles to the purpose of the Guard. It takes my mind off Isabel, but as soon as he leaves my pain comes crashing back accompanied by a need to throw up the alcohol imbibed to help me calm down.

I cannot help but feel betrayed. By Isabel or by fate, it really does not matter. I am aware of the fact that I cannot be with her, but her love for Ethan wrecks me nonetheless. Soul-mates are supposed to be attracted to each other, I hear.

I go to a bathroom, a hall of mirrors and mosaic and porcelain, and clutch the edge of a glass countertop for stability. My reflection sneers at me, eyes bloodshot and crazed. The intense blueness of my hair gives my skin a sickly greenish tinge. I wonder what Isabel would think now, if she would still find my pallor and my amethyst irises appealing now that they make me look like the living dead.

I have seen her thoughts, every private pulse of boldness that crossed her mind in front of me. She finds my eyes and hair exotic, my face beautiful, my body fit and sensuous. Oh, she thinks about me, the gentlest and most pleasant of meditations. She believes I am kind and wise, a fucking kind wise asexual ageless mystic. It is Ethan who she loves, her hero and her mentor, savior and protector. No strand of blue or flash of violet can compete against that.

My eyes hurt even though the light is relatively dim. The urge to vomit is gone, and I contemplate drinking some more. After all, I have not acted like myself the entire night, so why start now? A bottle appears in my hand, invoked almost unconsciously, and I stare at the amber liquid in bemusement. This is stupid.

I sigh, straightening up, and send the liquor back to the Citadel's bar. My fingers are covered with droplets of condensation from the chilled glass, and the largest globule rolls down my palm, turning my attention to the blood dried on it. The blood from the heart of my soul-mate. With this morbid notion circling in my head, I sit down.

The floor is cool and uncomfortable, but I don't move. A strange languor has taken over my body. My anguish resolves into apathy, my inebriety into a dull headache. I am forcing myself to accept that it is utterly irrelevant who Isabel has feelings for as she can't be with me either way; my mind agrees completely and I don't give my heart a say, so that is settled. I sink to the tessellated floor, pressing my burning forehead against a cold hand. Trusting the Citadel will hide this room from the rest of the world as long as I am in it, I let myself drift off to sleep.