Perhaps I have been waiting for this question. There was a time I would have responded with lies of every possible shape and shade. But in this moment, I trust that I will not be brushed aside. “I wish for company, even if we do not speak.”
“Then I will sit here with you for as long as you need me to.”
And that is exactly what he does. This, too, heals me. To expose some deep-seated wound, and to be welcomed for it, to feel seen. “Will you tell me of your family?”
I asked him about his family multiple times during our previous relationship. Notus never deigned to answer with any depth. It frustrated me, for I only wished to know more of this unknowable god. I wished to know all that he could give me and more.
“If you’re looking for some tale of comfort and familial love,” he warns, “you won’t find it in the story I’m about to tell you.”
I wasn’t, as a matter of fact. I was looking for something real.
Gently, I squeeze his hand. His eyes leap to mine, swirling with vulnerability, the fear of being seen. I understand him. I see him. I know him, as I know myself.
“I was never close with my father,” the South Wind begins. “Boreas was the eldest, the favored child. Zephyrus was cunning, too clever by half. He often meddled in others’ affairs—not that he was ever punished for it. Eurus was… troublesome. He loathed our father anddid everything in his power to make his life as difficult as possible. Of the four of us, Eurus received the most abuse.”
At this, the South Wind falls quiet. If I’m not mistaken, he appears unsettled, perhaps guilty, though I cannot imagine why. “I, however, am not like my brothers. A god who chose to spend his time with books rather than in combat?” His mouth curves bitingly. “They called me weak. Soft.”
Notus is the last person I would ever consider weak. There are soft parts of him, as there are soft parts of us all. I appreciate those pieces, for they are the most stable and secure. “You are a superb swordsman,” I assure him. “A protector in every sense of the word. There is no one stronger, no one else I would wish to guard Ammara.” Or my heart.
His head is bent, but his eyes crease in a way that suggests he is touched by the sentiment.
“I didn’t take up the sword for glory,” he says. “I took it up out of necessity. Without a weapon in my hand, I would be looked down upon, ostracized. As a result, I fell into the trap of changing myself to fit the persona others had created for me. This is why I struggled so greatly throughout my childhood. I never felt true belonging in the City of Gods.
“When I was banished to Ammara, I wandered for many a year. But one day, I heard of the sacrifice that would be made to the beast in the labyrinth. Seven men sent to die. And I thought, if I could kill the beast, perhaps I could prove to my father how great a leader I was. I’m not sure why I did it, exactly. Following the coup, my father was bound to the Chasm and would never again be free. But a part of me still sought his approval, even then.”
“I never understood why you stayed,” I say. “You’re immortal, more powerful than the most powerful mortal man. Why kneel before a king that wasn’t yours?”
He studies me for a time. “Maybe he wasn’t my king initially, but I came to respect your father. He was fair, just, if exceptionally hard on his children.” He sighs. “But to answer your question, I believed your fatherwanted a man like Eurus, or Boreas—a born fighter. I told him I wasn’t interested in shedding blood. I wished to help the people of Ammara. Your father respected my stance. He did not seek to change me.”
I had no idea Notus struggled so. Here I was writing my sad, sad story, having failed to share it with someone who might truly understand.
“And you brothers?” I ask. “What happened to them?”
“I admit, we lost touch a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Many centuries,” he says.
I nod, feeling terribly sad for him. It means something to me, that he has opened himself in this way, and shared these shadowed pieces of himself. I wish to know Notus wholly, deeply. I wish to touch his heart as he has touched mine.
“Do you miss your brothers?” I ask him.
“To tell you the truth, it’s hard to miss them without ever having truly known them. Of course I knew my brothers to a certain depth, but it never went beyond that. They never wished it to.”
Sometimes I think of these things. I know of my brothers only what they show me. I wish Amir and I were closer. I wish Fahim had trusted me enough to share his struggles.
Lifting pained, tear-filled eyes, I whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me Fahim sent you away?”
A sharp, driving inhalation cuts the air. At first, I don’t believe Notus will respond, but then he says, “Your father told you?”
I nod.
Notus grips both my hands. “Because,” he says, voice so quiet it’s nearly lost to the fountain spray, “I knew you still grieved him. I didn’t want to taint your image of him. He was a good man who was only doing what he thought was best for you.”
But Fahim must have realized the mistake he’d made. Is that what drove him to kill himself? Did the guilt of my despair eat at him? Or was it another burden he carried: the pressure of our father, the impossible pursuit of perfection?
“He didn’t know what was best for me,” I say, “and neither did you.”
