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Beside me, Atlas seemed to shrink. His shoulders slumped, head bent forward, shaking from side to side as he moaned. “Don’t do it, Tor.”
The memory froze as Past grew to three times her normal size. “They cannot hear you. They cannot see you. They cannot even feel your presence. We are not here to change the past. Only to remember.”
“Can you stop with the creepy thing? And you couldn’t have picked a different time? This is… not my favorite. How about when I dove off a cliff even though no one else would? That’s a glorious memory.”
“This is exactly the right one,” she snapped, moving down the line of children while returning to a normal size. “I’ll stand over here beside our fearless king.” She clasped her hands in front of herself, batting her eyes at a raven-haired little boy, as if she were truly the queen and madly in love.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” I said before turning back to Torryn.
“For sure,” Atlas agreed.
Torryn’s smooth voice rang through the mountainside. “Atlas won’t be returning home. His father has decided he should stay for extra training during Solstice break.”
The white-haired boy cast his eyes to the ground, deflating with fists clenched at his side. Out of curiosity, I used magic, slipping my hand behind my back so grown-Atlas would not see the glow from the marking. Reading his face only, I would have guessed fury coursed through his veins, but no. It was dejection. And humiliation. Even as a child, he masked his feelings well. I stepped closer to the man beside me, if for no reason than to assure him he was not alone.
He didn’t notice, though; hadn’t taken his eyes off that sullen little boy.
“Who is always the first to enter the training circle and the last to leave?” Torryn asked, watching each boy’s face.
“Atlas,” they answered.
“And who was the first to volunteer for watch by himself in the woods?”
“Atlas.”
A taller boy with messy blond hair shouted above whatever their instructor had planned to say next. “And who gave me his supper when mine fell in the dirt?”
A few of the boys laughed before answering. “Atlas.”
“And who promised to show us where the girls’ camp is?” another shouted.
“Atlas,” Torryn yelled, more power in his voice than before.
The little white-haired boy’s cheeks turned red before shrugging.
Shaking his head, the little king yelled. “Raise your hand if you would like to return home and leave your shift-mate on the side of this mountain by himself over break.”
None of the children moved. Not a single damn one of them. I could have cried for them all. For the surge of pride I’d felt for a group of youthful souls I’d never even met. Because in their silent conviction, they reminded me so much of my little brother. From his messy hair to his toothless smile, he was there. Blending into Atlas’ memory as if it were my own. Though mine had met with a tragic end. One I could not find the courage to deal with.
Young-Atlas finally raised his head, staring into the faces of each one of those stoic children who would not let him suffer a holiday alone.
“You can go,” he said, tears pooling in his eyes. “You can go see your families. I’ll be fine here by myself.”
“Not on your life, Atty,” the little king, then only a prince, said, stepping out of line to bump shoulders with his friend. “All in. All out.”
“All in. All out,” the others yelled, filling the silence.
The memory faded away like a dwindling fire, leaving us standing in the same spot, though the children had all disappeared, and the moon shone down. I swallowed the lump in my throat, never realizing how moved I’d be by someone else’s history. The deep roots of where this man had come from went far beyond the comforts of a shifter’s home.
“Watch,” Past said, pointing toward the tent closest to us.
Though intrigued, I knew my presence here was invasive and wrong. My toes curled as I caught Atlas staring at me. I’d sooner crawl out of my own skin than intentionally invade his memory like this. But I had been forced into this place, just as he had, and I hoped he knew that.
Two boys emerged: the little king and another with chestnut hair and big brown eyes, rimmed with tears.
“But I’ll miss my mom,” the boy cried.
Bastian wrapped an arm over the boy’s shoulder, leading him purposefully away from the tents as he whispered, “It’s not about what you’ll miss. It’s about what you’ll give by choosing to stay. We’re all going to miss our families. But we’ll have each other.”
