Even so, none of it stopped Rowan from writing.
He continued sending letters, writing about Eryndor, the council, matters within the palace, and sometimes even how he was feeling.
He kept asking about her, writing everyday despite receiving nothing in return.
Most of the time, he buried himself beneath endless duties and work, pushing himself from one responsibility to another in the hope that exhaustion would keep her out of his thoughts.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes an entire day would pass without him dwelling on her.
But nights were different.
Whenever he was finally alone and lying in bed, his thoughts always drifted back to Rosalind. He would think about her until sleep eventually claimed him.
What a pathetic man he had become.
The realization always left a bitter taste in his mouth.
At the moment, Rowan was seated outside, feeding corn to the white bird that had become his companion. He carefully divided the grains into two separate piles.
