I try fighting the smile, I really do, but my teeth make a brief appearance as our eyes meet.
He shakes his head, stares out at the peaceful field with its long stalks of swaying grass. I could very well let the conversation end there, but it doesn’t seem right, considering how far we’ve come, that we can stand together in companionable silence without wanting to do the other harm.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He peers down at me. “For?”
“For what you did for Orla. And,” I continue before courage fails me, “for what I suspect you’d do for me.”
We depart Makarios mid-afternoon, when the air has warmed enough to make me wish for cotton garments as opposed to wool. The flower crown perched on my head—a gift from the villagers—bears tiny white blossoms, and I pat my hair into place as Boreas and I drift down the river in peace, sitting side by side on the bench. I could learn to love it, I realize. Just… sitting. Breathing. Here, with him.
“There is one more place I’d like to show you.” The low reverberation of his voice travels through the place where our arms meet.
“A king, a banished god, and… benevolent guide?” My mouth quirks playfully.
“Are you interested? I think you’d like it.” His smile climbs all the way to his eyes, creasing the skin there. For once, Boreas is completely relaxed. It feels earned. “They serve cake.”
Why didn’t he say so? “Lead the way.”
Back at the citadel, Boreas directs me to the north wing. This part of the fortress lies in disrepair, a dilapidated cavern shrouded in neglect. Not a home, not now, but might it have been, once? Might it one day be again?
Tapestries and curtains hang in tatters on the walls, and the stone floor is a broken mess, slabs of gray rock overgrown with old, twisting roots. The doors lining these halls are nothing but pieces of wood or metal hanging before holes in the walls, leading nowhere.
As we round the next corner, I’m met with the largest tapestry yet, woven into an image of four men standing atop a cliff, the world behind them flooded with golden light.
The Anemoi.
I recognize Boreas, the spear he carries, his long black cloak. There is Zephyrus with his bow and tumble of curls. The third brother carries a sleek curved sword. He is the shortest of the four, yet his chest and arms strain with muscle, his deep brown skin agleam in the fiery sun. Notus, the South Wind, if I were to guess.
That leaves the last figure: Eurus, the East Wind. A tall, cloaked man with broad shoulders, his face wreathed by the shadow of his hood.
“There isn’t much family resemblance,” I state. Boreas is pale-skinned. Zephyrus, golden and sun-kissed. Black eyes and black hair for Notus. I’m deeply curious of what Eurus looks like beneath the cowl.
Boreas says nothing. What does he see when he looks upon his brothers?
He pivots, continuing down the hall. I hurry to catch up, leaping over broken furniture and crippled pillars of stone. The walls are pocked with holes as though they have been torn open by two hands in a fit of unchecked rage.
“Some months are more difficult than others.” He won’t look at me. “It’s harder to control the change as time goes on.”
Clearly. “Why do you think your soul is becoming corrupt?”
“If I knew, do you think I would be in this situation?”
I rein in the retort rising to coat my tongue. Fire cannot contest fire. Only water, gentle and healing, may dampen the rage that climbs. “I may not have a corrupted soul, but I understand darkness. I understand that as long as you blame yourself for past mistakes, you’ll never move forward.”
His gait quickens. From between his teeth, he pushes out, “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
Does he not? “You blame yourself for the death of your wife and child,” I state, chasing after him. Fragmented doors flicker past. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
His hand cuts the air, pain etched in every line on his face. “I have suffered and I have grieved, but I have not forgotten. I don’t know if I will ever be able to forget.”
“Maybe the problem isn’t forgetting,” I say, pulling him to a standstill. “Maybe the problem is you haven’t forgiven yourself for something you had absolutely no control over.”
We stand chest to chest, my head tilted back so I can gaze into his face fully. “It was my duty to protect my wife and child, and I failed.”
“Was it your duty to protect them, or to love them?”
A muscle pulses in his cheek. “Both.”
