Brittle Hearts and Wanderlust Souls
Pt. I
“Talk to him.”
“And say what?”
“He’s a little boy, Detra—our little boy—and he wants your approval.”
“He does not act it.”
“He feels it. And he wants you to approve of the things he
loves to do, not earn your approval by cowing and doing everything your way…and he’s a child. He’s good with his magic. You should give him credit for that.”
“I don’t want him depending solely on it.”
“He may be more inclined to listen if you encourage him to love both…and if you show that you are willing to listen to him first.”
A pause.
“And what am I to do during this…‘talk?’”
“Take him for a walk. Let him show you the spells he’s been practicing. Ask him questions, Detraeus, it’s not all that hard…and tell him that you love him.”
“He knows I love him.”
“You do not always…show it in the most conventional ways.”
“He must know I love him…Ara, he has to know—”
“I’m sure he does. But tell him anyway.”•••
Detraeus rose from a kneel.
Late spring in the Terra Expanse, even high in the mountain peaks, meant warm, dry air — hot on many days — and near perpetual breezes shimmying between the valleys and bringing with them the wild scents of all that which grew and made its home in the mountains. Dusting off his clothes, Detraeus lit one each of a dark, winding incense common in temples to Soudana, and one richer, earthier one akin to those part of dovaa homage to their god of dragons, Abronaxus.
The ‘shrine’ at which he prayed, just outside of their house, was a small structure of only three walls and a simple roof to guard from the elements. In it, he kept two small idles — one in the name of the dark goddess, his goddess, and one in honor of the god for Araceli’s people — each with their own small array of three candles and an incense burner. Araceli did not pray, but since the conception and birth of his children, Detraeus’ own faith had grown more complicated. And conflicted.
Though he still worshipped Soudana as his mother and immortal leader, protector, and savior, she was of
his people, and his people alone. Reconciling that concept with the idea of fathering two children born to a mix of separate races had been an enduring struggle, but one he grappled with daily in the interests of both of them. If any god would answer prayers for the well being of Ataya and Akara, he wanted to pay them all due respects and homage. So, he recognized the deities of both the bloodlines that ran within them. On conclusion of his prayer session, Detraeus dipped his head, and stepped out of the makeshift shrine to move back towards the house.
It was mid-morning, all of his family up and about, and — thanks to an extensive discussion with his mate the night before regarding their son — he moved with specific purpose towards the room Ataya and his sister shared. Inside, as predicted, Ataya sat up on the bed still, bare toes curled beneath him, book propped in his lap, back to the headboard, and dark hair loose about his shoulders as he read.
His hair was getting longer, Detraeus noted as he propped his weight against the door frame to observe for a moment. Neither of the twins had had their hair cut yet, since their birth, and at nine and a half, Ataya’s was making its way well down his back. At least (oddly enough, Detraeus thought, for a child) Ataya was painstakingly diligent and precise about caring for it.
Since a year or so back, the boy had began insisting on giving it exactly a hundred strokes with the brush in the morning after waking, and in the evening before bed. Though it struck them as a strange request at first, it was part of his routine now and both Detraeus and Araceli had simply accustomed themselves to the quirk. Privately, Detraeus guessed the new habit to be a lash-back in reaction to the words and looks his children received whenever they travelled into town. An effort to somehow look less like whatever label it was that they pinned on him. To whatever extent that he was sure Ataya’s efforts were in vain, Detraeus had not the heart to attempt to explain such a thing to an nine-year-old.
When Ataya began murmuring, brow pinching in concentration as he looked over — apparently — a spell in the text, Detraeus tilted his head, watching. Then, Ata spotted him. Immediately, the spell stopped, and he clapped his lips shut, fingers falling flat to the text. “I wasn’t—”
“You needn’t stop on my account,” Detraeus said, stepping in. “What was it?”
Ataya eyed him. Wary, as though the offer of permission were a trap of some sort.
Detraeus tilted his head as he approached the bedside. “I mean it. Come. Show me.”
“It’s not very good,” Ataya said, eyes still on him. “I can’t get it shaped right…”
When Detraeus continued to wait, lingering in a stand at the mattress’ edge, Ataya eventually hummed and shifted his weight, lifted his hand again, and furrowed his brow as he cast. Gradually, magic gathered. Like a rippling, live shadow it pooled in his hand and then furled upwards. After some time, it spread out, shaping itself into something vaguely akin to…? Detraeus tilted his head, eyeing it.
“A…bird…?”
“It’s
supposed to be a flying hastar,” Ataya said. “But it doesn’t look it. So it’s not your fault for not seeing it.” He closed his palm, snatching the magic back to him as the shape dissipated.
“It looked something like that,” Detraeus said.
“It didn’t.”
“It’s much better than I could have done.”
“Can you even
do magic?” Ataya asked, his brow pinching as he turned to eye his father. “I’ve never seen you cast a spell. Not one. Not in all the time I’ve lived.”
“That isn’t very long.”
“It is,” Ataya insisted. “Almost a decade.” ‘Decade’ was a new word he’d learned fairly recently and it still sounded exciting to say aloud. “A
lot can happen in a decade. Did you know that once, under General Adronys Narrian, a Serenite army held the city of Baraedor under siege for
so long that there was an entire generation of children who—”
“I never learned.”
Ataya blinked. “Never learned what?”
Detraeus’ eyebrows quirked upwards. “How to cast. Anything. Ever.”
Ataya frowned. “Why not?” he asked, shifting his weight to look up at him, fingers still splayed across his open book. “Have you never liked it? Or was it no one taught you? Did
your parents not like magic, either?” His brow furrowed tighter. “Did they forbid you to? Did they—”
“It is not that I don’t like magic, Ataya—”
“You don’t trust it, then?”
“And it’s not that.”
“But you don’t like it when I do it—”
“Ataya.”
Ata closed his lips, but watched him, frown lingering stubbornly.
After a significant enough pause to satisfy Detraeus that he might get a word in edgewise, he spoke again. “I do not dislike magic. Nor do I dislike it when you perform it…” He hesitated. “You are quite good at it, you know. Better, I think, than I ever would have been had I tried when I was your age.”
Ataya’s eartips warmed, chest swelling in spite of himself with a strange pride at the rare praise. He looked away, lower lip disappearing between his teeth and tongue flicking over it. “Akara is good, too,” he said, arms folding inward towards himself as he did — well aware that his father tended towards preferencing his sister’s skills.
“She is,” Detraeus agreed, and Ataya worked not to let his shoulders sink or stiffen. “But you are better.” Ataya glanced up, a jerk of sharp, startled motion before he stared openly. “Just as she is better than you with the bow.”
Ataya’s lips pursed a fraction. “And knives,” he quipped. “And swords. And dagger throwing, and combat…and climbing, and running, and—”
“Ataya.” Detraeus eyed his son. “We all have our strengths and weaknesses.”
Ataya may or may not have murmured something about having a
lot of weaknesses before speaking up more clearly again. “You never told me why you never learned any magic.”
Detraeus grunted, weighing his words with a frown of his own before continuing. “When I was your age,” he said at length, “…I could not read. Did you know that?”
Ataya’s eyes widened, comically large and disbelieving. Then, they narrowed. Thin, calculating slits. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true, just the same,” Detraeus said. “I didn’t begin to learn until I was nearly twenty…and after that, it took me many years more to master. You can ask your mother. She helped to teach me once I worked past my pride enough to ask.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re too smart. And you don’t ask anyone for help. And how could you not learn? And
why,” Ataya insisted. “Did your parents not teach you? Didn’t you have books? Didn’t you
want to read? I thought
everyone learns to read unless they’re
stupid—”
“Not every child is so fortunate as you and your sister, Ataya…I did not have parents to teach me, and whether I wanted to learn or not, well…” Detraeus frowned. “It is all a story for a different time.”
“But—” Ataya shook his head. “How did you not have
parents? Did something happen to them? How did you eat? Where did you
live?” He paused, thinking and then squinting back at his father. “Was it exciting? Did
no one tell you what to do? Could you do anything you liked
all the time? Is that why—”
“I’d like to go for a walk with you, Ataya,” Detraeus said.
Ata blinked. “A…walk?” he repeated. “To where? And for why? Have I done something? Is it another
training session? Because we already—”
“No, Ataya. Just a walk…” Detraeus debated. “Perhaps, if we happen upon something, it could be a small hunt—”
“But we already
had training for today,” Ataya fussed. “And I don’t want to go hunting.”
“Just a walk, then,” Detraeus said, eyebrows arched as he watched Ataya crawl down off the bed despite his objections. “And if a dragon attacks us, then what, hm? Shall we not fight, since it’s not a hunt?”
“
You can kill it, then,” Ataya said, stepping up beside his father and huffing. “
I don’t want to.”
“Mm…yes,” Detraeus conceded. “I could. But you do know, the
purpose of my training you and your sister is that you can defend yourself…you know that, don’t you? I don’t do it to make you miserable. I want you capable of taking care of dangers on your own, should you need to…you won’t always have someone larger and stronger around to protect you.”
“Perhaps I will.”
Detraeus glanced down as they moved towards the front door. “You think so?”
“Maybe. I like it. It makes it easier to think.”
Detraeus blinked. “Easier to think?”
Ataya nodded. “When Dysarrin—” He glanced to his father, gauging his reaction with full awareness that despite his ‘permission’ on various levels, he still did not approve of Ataya’s only friend aside from his sister. “When he runs out towards…” Not monsters. Not dangerous creatures. They
absolutely did not do things that might very well get him into legitimate trouble. “Things. He distracts them, and it makes it easier for me to cast. Nothing bothers me when he’s around, ‘cause he’s so big. And he smells so bad, I think everything smells him first.”
Detraeus snorted.
“
And,” Ataya added with emphasis, trailing after as his father opened the way into the stables, “did you know a lot of children don’t ever learn to fight at all? They learn to be other things, like dancers or teachers or priests or secere…secr…people who write things down for important people.”
“Scribes,” Detraeus grunted, guiding a hastar out from one of the pens and brushing it down before reaching for the saddling.
“Scribes.” Ataya squinted. “I thought we were going to walk?”
“Changed my mind,” Detraeus said. “We’ll ride.” He offered a hand, hoisting Ataya up onto the beast before leading it out.
“I could ride on my own, you know. You’ve had us on them enough. I bet—”
“One year,” Detraeus said, latching the stable doors behind them before spreading his wings large and lifting himself up to settle behind his son and take the reigns. “When you’re ten.”
“Half a year,” Ataya corrected. “And,” he said, hopping back to the previous topic without skipping a beat, “did you know even Uncle Lithian says he used to want to not fight? He was going to be a priest. Now, he doesn’t fight hardly, either. He runs his shop as an…apoth…atho…car…”
“Apothecary. He’s a healer, Ataya. Not an alchemist. And a pureblood. It’s different.”
Ataya frowned. “Why?”
“Pureblood children
can choose not to learn to fight. You cannot.”
“Why?”
“It’s safer for them. They can hide from adversity. They have cities, continents they can hole themselves in where no one will touch them. You do not
have that…”
“
Why?”
Detraeus grit his teeth. “Wherever you go…whatever you do, whenever you are grown, Ataya, there
will be those out there who will stand against you, there may well be
many of those out there who stand against you, and there will more than likely be
many of those who would prefer to see you dead than alive, do you understand that?”
“
No!” Ataya shook his head, hair tossing sharply this way and that. “No—”
Detraeus winced, catching his son’s shoulder to steady him. “Ataya—” His throat tightened on itself, and his wince became a grimace — angry that these were words he felt the need to say to a child. A
child not yet ten. “I’m sorry—”
“No—no, I don’t
understand,” Ataya said. “
Why? I didn’t
do anything. Kara didn’t do anything. Mama didn’t do anything. I thought we
lived in the mountains so we could be ‘safe.’ You always said we’re here because here’s where we’ll be safe, but the mountains aren’t safe, because things try to eat us, and storms come, and people attack us and hate us, and if we leave the mountains, we won’t be safe because people will hate us and attack us and they don’t
know us, so why isn’t it safe for us? Why do
they get safe places? Why don’t they like us? Why do they want to hurt us? I don’t
understand…”
“Because…they…” Detraeus squeezed his eyes shut, sending up a brief, mental prayer to Soudana and Abronaxus alike before glancing about and dismounting. They had space to themselves now, at least, and he ushered Ataya down, into his arms, before setting him on his feet.
“Why…” Ataya repeated, his brow furrowed in a tight scowl and lashes damp at the base though he diverted his gaze on inspection. “I don’t
understand.”
Detraeus knelt before him. “Because
they don’t understand, Ataya…they are afraid of you and your sister, and angry because they do not understand…they do not approve…you are ‘different’ from what they were raised to expect, so they are confuse—”
“
Stupid,” Ataya snapped.
Detraeus blinked.
“If they don’t understand anything they should, then they’re
stupid. I didn’t hurt them. Kara didn’t hurt them. Why should we have to be what
they approve of if they’re so
confused and don’t even understand who we are? They’re
all stupid…”
“Many of them…” Detraeus admitted, “…are quite foolish in comparison to you and your sister, yes, but—”
“I hate them.”
Detraeus frowned.
Ataya noticed. “If they hate me, and they don’t know me, why shouldn’t I hate them? I
hate them.”
“You can,” Detraeus said, his frown morphing into something edging on a wince. “It is just…hard…to go through life that way when—”
“What would
you know. You aren’t…” Ataya stopped, gaze abruptly jerking to his father. “Is it like how you hate birds…?”
“No,” Detraeus said immediately. “No, that’s different.”
“How?” Ataya frowned, shoulders bunching. “How is it different? They hate us, and want to kill us, but they don’t know us. You hate them, and want to kill them, but you—”
“I
know,” Detraeus snarled, voice rising halfway to a shout in a fraction of an instant, “
exactly what they. All. Are.”
Ataya stared, rooted in place, stalk still, wide-eyed, and silent as stone. A half-second later, his posture fractured, shoulders sinking, feet taking a half-step back, fingers shaking and eyes tearing up even as he shook his head. Immediately, Detraeus’ own posture broke, his anger petering out into regret as he reached out to still Ataya’s retreat.
“No—I’m sorry, I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—”
Ataya whined, shirking out from under his grip.
“Ataya, it’s
different…”
Ataya shook his head. “I don’t understand…I don’t understand—
why? If I was…a bird, would you hate me?”
“You would never be my son if you were, Ataya…”
“What if I was
half and…and…would you hate me
then…?”
“Ata—I would never…” Detraeus frowned, brow furrowing as he tried to determine
how to state it. It
was different. He
knew it was different. “I…have a
reason for hating them, Ataya,” he said at length. “Those people who will hate you, fight you, look down on you — they do not have a reason…other than that they do not understand you, and they are afraid because they do not understand.”
Ataya rubbed at his nose, posture relaxing a fraction, but expression still contemplative. “What reason?”
“I cannot tell you.”
Ataya frowned. “But…if there’s a
reason and it’s so important that it makes you hate everyone, why—”
“They—” Detraeus’ throat knotted, and he cleared it. Drawing a breath, he eyed his son. “I was very…” He flicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth, tail twitching sidelong before he managed to push more words out. “When I was your age…or younger…they hurt me, greatly, many of them…and they stole my family from me…”
“Daddy—”
“I got away,” Detraeus said. “But I was very angry…and I am still angry. You are right, Ataya, you are very right, I do not know
all of them…but I know what many of them are capable of, and I know that those who did not do the things that they did also did
nothing to stop them, and they worship a goddess who allowed those things to happen…and will continue to, with other children after me…so I was angry, am angry, will always be…angry…do you understand…?” he asked. “Is that enough…?”
Ataya nibbled at his lip, and then nodded, reaching out. Detraeus took his hand, and Ataya squeezed. “They won’t get you here, Daddy…”
Detraeus gave a half-choked sound, and then a smile that didn’t quite bloom into something fully formed. “You’re right. They won’t…and even if they tried, it would not matter.”
“Because you’ll kill them all if they do.”
Detraeus glanced sharply down to Ataya. “I—what?”
Ataya blinked. “Well. You would. Wouldn’t you?”
“Mm…” Detraeus eyed him. “Yes. I would.” He stood, keeping their hands intertwined. “I just…do not usually expect such words out of you.”
“So what were we
going to talk about?” Ataya asked, waiting as his father tethered their hastar and then started them off on a more casual walk through the brush.
Detraeus grunted. “How much I love you,” he said.
“I
meant it.”
“I’m serious,” Detraeus said. “Your mother wanted me to talk to you—”
“Oh.”
Detraeus frowned, glancing down. “What?”
“So you’re saying it ‘cause
she wants you to…”
“Ataya…” Detraeus shook his head. “No. Ataya, I
do love you—you
must know that…you know that…don’t you…?”
Ataya glanced up, blinking. “Yes.”
“Your mother just…thought I didn’t say it often enough.”
“Yes,” Ataya agreed.
Detraeus tilted his head. “Yes?”
“You don’t.”
Detraeus eyed him. “I love you…”
“Again.”
Detraeus squinted. Snorted. Cleared his throat. Grunted, and glanced away. “I love you—”
“Again,” Ataya repeated, bouncing on a step, and then proceeding to hop from rock to rock, one hand still clutched in his father’s. “Again, again, again,
again…”
Detraeus flushed as he watched, reminded for a moment — in spite of himself — of the instant Araceli had first brought his hand to her belly after his long absence. A new morning upon them. The sea breezes gusting in from the great ocean, and how afraid she had been of his answer. How terrified, baffled, and thrilled, he had been to hear her reveal as he’d fallen to his knees before her.
It seemed only moments ago in retrospect.
Only moments ago since Ataya was so small, he could be held in the crook of one arm, his head barely big enough to fill Detraeus’ outstretched hand. Only moments ago since he’d stretched out on the furs by the fireside beside his sister, not yet strong enough even to crawl and far more content to lay against his mother’s breast than go anywhere else. Each great milestone in his life a blink and then gone again in Detraeus’ perspective. He was already almost ten, and would at this rate soon be large enough to want spaces of his own. Adventures of his own. Travels that lead him places Detraeus could not always follow.
Flustered as his heart clenched and throat tightened back down on himself, Detraeus breathed out, and then reached over. Using his grip to usher Ataya towards him, he lifted and scooped him up with the help of his tail until he had his son perched on his hip, legs wrapped around on instinct. There, he leaned over and down, holding Ataya up in a half hug, half cling as he kissed his temple. “I love you…Ataya…”
Ataya let his eyes shut, looping his arms loosely around his father’s neck and tucking his face against his shoulder. “Good. I like that one best.”
“Nnh. You do, do you?”
“Mmhm.”
