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He was only a child, Orpheus wanted to say. But he knew what kind of forge was necessary to create steel of Fenrir’s caliber. He’d gone through a similar process himself.

And, perhaps, so had the world.

But that didn’t mean there weren’t consequences.

“And what? You think you can help him make those choices? I don’t think either Fenrir or I need a lecture on the morality of prioritizing the greater good,” Orpheus snapped. “But you can’t ignore that every choice you make comes with both a positive and negative reaction. What benefits some inevitably hurts another.” Look at him, for example. “And you can only accept the fallout from that choice. If Fenrir doesn’t want to risk growing close to you again, that’s his own decision to make. I won’t try to convince him otherwise.”

Vera opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, face a mask Orpheus couldn’t read—her silence a story he didn’t understand.

“I believe in him to make the right choice,” he whispered, unable to let the quiet stand. “I believe in him even more when he changes his mind, and he hasn’t—not about you.”

For all the words Vera might have spoken, she said, “I suppose I deserve that, but he’s wrong. I care. I always have, about all of my children.”

From the open expanse of the barn below, laughter drifted upwards. Astrid’s giggle commingled with the lilting voices of her cousins, the deeper balm of one of Fenrir’s younger brothers ushering the children onwards to bed. Footsteps creaked atop the hand-hewn floorboards, another set of voices rising gently up through the stairwell, the whole barn coming alive with a story Orpheus both felt a part of and completely removed from. Because Vera didn’t have to use words to make her point.

Not when her family would make it for her.

“He’ll need support,” was the closest Vera came to saying what she wanted.

If I can’t help, will you be enough?

Orpheus couldn’t meet her eyes as the rest of the Rawkner household made their way into the loft. Vera slipped from the cushion beside him, drawing the apron over her head while making her way to where Fenrir’s father—Eric—stood tinkering with a large metal contraption that had been another gift from the Labs. Bodies filled the couches around him, adults and the older children filing into the loft in small groups, twilight’s fire easing into the cold glow of night.

Orpheus didn’t dare meet their eyes. He sat alone on his couch until a familiar shadow fell over him. Even then, he barely glanced up.

“What did mum want?” Fenrir asked, voice hushed, eyes narrowed.

Orpheus looked away and sank deeper into the cushions. “Nothing important.”

“Right.” Fenrir dropped beside him, weight bouncing Orpheus where he sat. He fully expected Fenrir to sulk into the opposite side of the couch but, instead, he inched closer. Behind them, the click whir of the mechanical machine was overshadowed by Eric’s triumphant hah!

Light flickered in his peripheral, then the far wall illuminated into a bright white square. Black blots blossomed and receded, empty space filling with the passage of time before a recorded memory emerged. Figures appeared within the square, followed by blocky words and a long sequence of names for people long dead.

A film, Eric explained.

A movie, the children reverently whispered.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” came quietly over the tinny whine of Eric’s surrounded by sound speakers.

Something tight inside Orpheus unraveled. “I’m sorry for snapping back.”

An arm came around his shoulders in a welcome weight. Orpheus closed his eyes when Fenrir drew him closer, turning his face into the warm scent of leather to breathe.

“We’ll be home soon enough,” Fenrir murmured into his hair. “Then everything will be back to normal.”

It won’t, the voice inside him said. It never will be again.

But for one more night...couldn’t he pretend?

All around, the chatter droned on, laughter and conversation, joy and camaraderie, while the ghost of a world long lost to them played out like a memory. But here, alone on their little couch, Orpheus hoarded what he could—while he could.

Because in the next days and weeks and months everything would change.

Again.

Chapter III

Promises