—C
The letter arrived at dusk.
The sky was bruised purple, the sea below restless with a tide that snarled against the cliffs. Aerion had been standing in the west tower for near an hour, staring into that endless gray, as though he could bend it to his will—call a ship from the horizon, conjure a shadow from memory.
When the hawk came, he almost didn’t notice. The flutter of wings against the high stone was softer than the sea’s roar. It was Heston who entered, steady as ever, a small cylinder clutched in his careful hands.
“My lord,” the butler said quietly. He did not meet Aerion’s eyes, only offered the parchment and bowed himself out before Aerion could speak. His restraint, his composure, only tightened the coil inside Aerion’s chest.
Aerion’s fingers shook as he broke the seal.
He read.
And the fury came, fast and merciless.
“Five years,” he spat into the silence, pacing the chamber like a beast that had been too long caged. The parchment crushed in his hand, the inked words digging into his palm. “Five years of silence. Five years of burning myself hollow, and now—now—you write of gardens? Of sunflowers?”
His voice rose until it cracked against the stone walls, sharp as glass. He hurled the parchment, watching it strike the wall and fall, useless, to the marble floor. His chest heaved, his breath jagged, his eyes wild with the sting of tears he refused to let fall.
“I hate you,” he whispered. The words were thin, desperate. “Gods help me, I hate you.”
But hate collapsed under its own weight. The words cracked, then splintered, then broke apart into something weaker—something rawer. He staggered back to his chair and collapsed, his body folding in on itself as he dragged both hands over his face.
And then the sobs came. First low, stifled, as though he could keep them secret even from himself. Then harder. Shaking. Wracking. His breath came sharp and uneven as he pressed his forehead into his palm, shoulders bowed.
“Why did you wait so long?” His voice fractured into the empty chamber, too small to fill it. “Why did you make me wait?”
The silence answered him. Heavy. Mocking.
Until—
Small footsteps, soft against the stone.
“Papa?”
Aerion’s head snapped up, vision blurred. His daughter stood in the doorway, framed by the glow of the hall sconces. Isolde. She clutched a wooden doll against her chest, the hem of her nightdress brushing her ankles. Her hair caught the dim light like pale gold; her eyes, impossibly blue, shone with quiet worry.
Too much of him. And just enough of her mother.
He tried to summon a smile for her, that sharp, careless twist of lips that usually came so easily. But it faltered. It broke.
So he opened his arms instead.
Isolde ran to him without hesitation, clambering into his lap with the certainty of a child who never doubted his love. She pressed her cheek against his chest, small hands gripping his tunic.
“Why are you crying?” she whispered, voice small and steady.
Aerion swallowed hard, his throat burning. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as though she might vanish if he loosened his grip. His hand trembled as it threaded through her hair.
“Because someone I love is far away,” he whispered into the crown of her head. “And I am very, very tired of waiting.”
She considered this in silence, with that solemn gravity only children could summon. Then, as if deciding it was the simplestthing in the world, she lifted his hand from where it lay against her shoulder and pressed her doll into his palm.
The painted wooden face stared up at him, blank and smiling.
Isolde closed his fingers around it. As though to say:You’re not alone.
Something broke inside him anew, a softer break than rage, deeper than grief. His chest tightened until he thought he might choke. He kissed her hair, long and lingering, breathing in the warmth of her.
