“I understand why you hold to faith so tightly,” he says. “In your darkest hours, your god did not abandon you. He offered you light when you had none.”
Yes. It is exactly how he describes. It is everything.
“I also understand why my actions hurt you. How poorly I treated you. Why your trust in me was broken.”
My throat squeezes, and I choke out, “I did trust you. I didn’t want to, but I did.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” He releases a slow exhalation. “Selfishness is a flaw in me, one I have long recognized. It is difficult for me to nurture honest relationships.”
Difficult, or impossible? “Why are you bound to the Orchid King? And I would like the truth.” If ever there was a time to be honest, let it be now.
Zephyrus holds my stare. I’m satisfied when he shies away first. “The truth has never come easily to me.”
“Sounds like a coward’s life.”
He snorts, yet the sound holds no humor. “I suppose you’re right.”
Pulling away, he returns to the opposite side of the fire, settling the cloak around him. The flames have burned low, and I appreciate the whole of his face, every ridge and curved bone, the angles more harmonious than I have seen previously.
“Will you tell me why you run?” I ask the West Wind.
Emotion tautens his features. I recognize it instantly. Am painfully familiar with the reluctance of having to claw away something rooted deep. “All right, then. I will start from the beginning.”
Easing back against the stone, Zephyrus stares into the fire and begins.
“I was born in a realm far from here called the City of Gods. My brothers and I mastered the changing seasons. Boreas, the eldest, is the North Wind, and controls the north’s brute chill. Notus, theSouth Wind, reigns over the hot summer winds. Lastly, there is Eurus, the East Wind. The storms do love him.”
Boreas, Zephyrus, Notus, Eurus. The Anemoi.
“There’s not much I can complain about in those early years. Wine flowed and our great city blossomed. I was, above all else, beloved.” His entire demeanor softens, and for a moment I can imagine the man he used to be, prior to his banishment. “And then I met Hyacinth.”
I’m appalled by the spike of jealousy that shoots through me. In all the time I’ve spent in Zephyrus’ company, I’ve never heard this quality to his voice, as if he speaks of something so precious it must be cherished, shielded from the world’s harsh winds.
“He was a prince from a neighboring realm, visiting our city to bargain with the Council of Gods. Those first few months, we spent every possible second in each other’s company. The smell of his skin, the sound of his laughter. It was overwhelming.”
My stomach twists uncomfortably, for the yearning in his gaze is plain. Yearning for someone else.
“I loved him,” Zephyrus says. “But unfortunately, I was not the only one entranced by the youth.” Strain folds the corners of his eyes, that capricious mouth. “His name is Apollo. God of music, truth, and light. One afternoon, I discovered Hyacinth and Apollo tossing a discus in the park.” He drops his gaze, takes a long breath, dredging up strength for the tale’s end. “Watching them interact, I questioned everything. The way Hyacinth looked at him… It hurt,” he says, “to think that what we had was something he could find so easily with another. It pained me to realize he would leave me for Apollo—bright, shining Apollo—and that, ultimately, I was not enough.”
I feel the sadness in him, which in turn draws me in, petals unfurling, naked heart exposed. If ever there was a time when I felt connected to Zephyrus, it is now, all walls tumbling down.
“It was my gravest mistake,” he murmurs. “The moment in time I wish I could reverse, but not even gods are all-powerful.” A beat of silence passes, and I wait.
“As Apollo released the discus, I sent a strong wind through the park. I was aiming for Apollo. But when the wind caught the discus, I lost control. It slammed into Hyacinth’s skull instead.”
Wet and torn, the breath catches in his chest. I don’t move. I can’t.
“Hyacinth fell,” Zephyrus whispers, “and did not rise.”
“You killed him.”
Zephyrus swallows, and his eyes swim with tears. “It was not my intention.”
“Then what was your intention? You claim you loved this man, yet putting someone in harm’s way is not love. To give up everything you are, to choose another’s life over your own?Thatis love.”
“You are correct,” he says dully. Shadows slither nearer to our depleting circle of light, but I’ve run out of fuel to feed the flames. “It was not love. It was possession.”
Against my better judgment, the indignation softens in me. No use beating a man already down. At least he’s aware of his wrongdoing. “There was nothing to be done? Even in the City of Gods?”
