The memories were a luxury, and a curse. They came to Ganymede in flashes and waves — old, repetitious, some cherished and others dreaded, echoes from a past long gone, except that with each new piece of the puzzle that had been Liesel’s life, the past felt closer than ever before.
Some memories were clearer than others; they could have happened yesterday. The rest swirled in the back of her mind as if lost amongst a dense mist. Occasionally she might catch glimpses, fragments she’d not had the opportunity to consider before, but they came and went so quickly she often couldn’t be sure of their veracity. Perhaps they weren’t memories at all, but old dreams Liesel could never quite let go of.
Often, when Ganymede slept on her moon, those flashes of something secret and long buried came to her in her own dreams.
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Liesel holds a baby in his arms.
This is not an entirely new experience; people often encourage him to hold their children, as if by doing so he can somehow imbue in them the gift of a long, fruitful life. He doesn’t dislike babies, though the concept of raising one seems strange, almost alien — a part of life he’s already long accepted as impossible and thus of no use considering.
The baby yawns and wriggles. Liesel holds her closer, cautious and protective. He looks from her face, so soft and new, to the harsh lines and perpetual scowl of the man who brought her to him.
Serge watches silently, immovable.
This is not an entirely new experience; people often encourage him to hold their children, as if by doing so he can somehow imbue in them the gift of a long, fruitful life. He doesn’t dislike babies, though the concept of raising one seems strange, almost alien — a part of life he’s already long accepted as impossible and thus of no use considering.
The baby yawns and wriggles. Liesel holds her closer, cautious and protective. He looks from her face, so soft and new, to the harsh lines and perpetual scowl of the man who brought her to him.
Serge watches silently, immovable.
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She fits into his rooms at Valhalla as if she belongs there.
She comes to him at night, when the fortress has gone quiet but for the soft pad of her feet outside the door. She knocks politely and waits for him to let her in, returning his admonishing look with a bright, tireless smile.
“You should be sleeping,” Liesel tells her, but he welcomes her anyway.
She scampers through the sitting room and into the bedroom proper, where she clambers onto the bed and makes herself comfortable against the pillows, a book clutched securely in her lap. With her nightdress trimmed in fine lace and her auburn hair twisted into a neat plait, she looks more like a Ganymedean Princess than a daughter of Jupiter.
“Will you read to me?” she says in her young, sweet voice. “Please?”
When Liesel follows and takes his place beside her, she presents him with a book of fairytales.
“Where did you find this?” he asks. It isn’t the sort of book her father would keep.
“Uncle Percy gave it to me.”
She settles against him. Her head finds Liesel’s shoulder, and she beckons him to begin.
Liesel puts an arm around her and reads of witches and princes and dark creatures from all the far flung corners of the cosmos.
Later, his heart swells when she grows heavy with sleep, her breathing low and even, dark lashes coming to rest against her cheeks. He presses a kiss to her forehead and falls asleep beside her.
She comes to him at night, when the fortress has gone quiet but for the soft pad of her feet outside the door. She knocks politely and waits for him to let her in, returning his admonishing look with a bright, tireless smile.
“You should be sleeping,” Liesel tells her, but he welcomes her anyway.
She scampers through the sitting room and into the bedroom proper, where she clambers onto the bed and makes herself comfortable against the pillows, a book clutched securely in her lap. With her nightdress trimmed in fine lace and her auburn hair twisted into a neat plait, she looks more like a Ganymedean Princess than a daughter of Jupiter.
“Will you read to me?” she says in her young, sweet voice. “Please?”
When Liesel follows and takes his place beside her, she presents him with a book of fairytales.
“Where did you find this?” he asks. It isn’t the sort of book her father would keep.
“Uncle Percy gave it to me.”
She settles against him. Her head finds Liesel’s shoulder, and she beckons him to begin.
Liesel puts an arm around her and reads of witches and princes and dark creatures from all the far flung corners of the cosmos.
Later, his heart swells when she grows heavy with sleep, her breathing low and even, dark lashes coming to rest against her cheeks. He presses a kiss to her forehead and falls asleep beside her.
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“What?”
The question is quiet, timid, almost a whisper. Privately, Liesel thinks he must have misheard. The day has been long and he is tired, plagued as he often is by duty. Perhaps this is Serge’s idea of a joke, some means of lifting the heavy weight that always comes to rest on Liesel’s shoulders.
But Serge says nothing. He stands as he always does — upright, stoic, a nobleman’s posture coupled with a soldier’s stern frown.
Again, Liesel asks, “What?”
Perhaps Serge hadn’t heard him the first time. Perhaps Liesel hadn’t spoken at all. Perhaps this moment was little more than a terrible dream, the product of stress and loneliness, Liesel’s fears catching up to him.
He knows, even now, that he cannot give Serge the sort of life lovers are meant to lead. There will always be secrets and limitations. There will always be boundaries they cannot cross. There will always be pieces missing — pieces that, if Liesel were someone else, they may have been able to share together.
A sudden wet heat in Liesel’s eyes blurs Serge’s figure. Liesel blinks, hoping to banish the tears, but they spring free and slide down his face.
“I did this for you,” he says, showing Serge his right palm. The scar there is only months old. “I did this because I—… And you said—”
The words won’t come to him. They rise up his throat, fighting to be free, but betrayal chokes him. His chest aches with it. He thinks his heart might split in two.
If this is what love feels like, he might have been better off with denial.
“Liesel…”
Serge shifts closer. He reaches for Liesel’s hand, but Liesel steps back and cradles it against himself. Serge’s scowl deepens. His expression rarely differs. Liesel cannot determine if the frown Serge wears is the result of guilt or anger.
He knows there have been others before. Countless lovers — on Jupiter, on Ganymede, on Io, on Earth, anywhere Serge might have gone in service to Valhalla. Liesel would’ve been a fool not to notice. Serge never hid them from him, either because it would’ve been pointless to try, or because some vindictive part of him enjoyed the opportunity to throw them all in Liesel’s face.
Liesel let him, and never complained, even when jealousy seemed to eat him alive.
That was then, before the scars. This is now.
“You made a vow to me,” Liesel says. “After, I thought—… I thought there wouldn’t be anyone else. You said—”
“There hasn’t been.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
Liesel backs away another step. He collides with the side of the bed, seeking refuge by the bedpost. Here on Ganymede, the bedsheets never smell like the two of them. They are crisp and clean, the bed neatly made each morning. He cannot press his nose to the pillows and pick up the fresh scent of Serge’s soap. He cannot turn in the middle of the night, half asleep, and bask in the feel of Serge’s warm skin. He never wakes beneath the gaze of pale green eyes, Serge’s fingers threaded through his hair.
“I haven’t lied to you,” Serge says. “I made a vow. There’s been no one since.”
“But—”
“I can’t change what happened before.” There’s a softness in Serge’s eyes, beneath the bitterness. “It was on Eupheme, five months ago. How was I to know what would happen next?”
Liesel swallows his protests. He blinks again; more tears slip free, making wet trails down his cheeks. He brushes them away, horrified, humiliated. None of it eases the sting. None of it soothes the heartache.
Serge approaches, slow and cautious. He doesn’t reach for Liesel again, but presents his left hand, where a matching scar cuts through his palm.
“I meant every word.”
The question is quiet, timid, almost a whisper. Privately, Liesel thinks he must have misheard. The day has been long and he is tired, plagued as he often is by duty. Perhaps this is Serge’s idea of a joke, some means of lifting the heavy weight that always comes to rest on Liesel’s shoulders.
But Serge says nothing. He stands as he always does — upright, stoic, a nobleman’s posture coupled with a soldier’s stern frown.
Again, Liesel asks, “What?”
Perhaps Serge hadn’t heard him the first time. Perhaps Liesel hadn’t spoken at all. Perhaps this moment was little more than a terrible dream, the product of stress and loneliness, Liesel’s fears catching up to him.
He knows, even now, that he cannot give Serge the sort of life lovers are meant to lead. There will always be secrets and limitations. There will always be boundaries they cannot cross. There will always be pieces missing — pieces that, if Liesel were someone else, they may have been able to share together.
A sudden wet heat in Liesel’s eyes blurs Serge’s figure. Liesel blinks, hoping to banish the tears, but they spring free and slide down his face.
“I did this for you,” he says, showing Serge his right palm. The scar there is only months old. “I did this because I—… And you said—”
The words won’t come to him. They rise up his throat, fighting to be free, but betrayal chokes him. His chest aches with it. He thinks his heart might split in two.
If this is what love feels like, he might have been better off with denial.
“Liesel…”
Serge shifts closer. He reaches for Liesel’s hand, but Liesel steps back and cradles it against himself. Serge’s scowl deepens. His expression rarely differs. Liesel cannot determine if the frown Serge wears is the result of guilt or anger.
He knows there have been others before. Countless lovers — on Jupiter, on Ganymede, on Io, on Earth, anywhere Serge might have gone in service to Valhalla. Liesel would’ve been a fool not to notice. Serge never hid them from him, either because it would’ve been pointless to try, or because some vindictive part of him enjoyed the opportunity to throw them all in Liesel’s face.
Liesel let him, and never complained, even when jealousy seemed to eat him alive.
That was then, before the scars. This is now.
“You made a vow to me,” Liesel says. “After, I thought—… I thought there wouldn’t be anyone else. You said—”
“There hasn’t been.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
Liesel backs away another step. He collides with the side of the bed, seeking refuge by the bedpost. Here on Ganymede, the bedsheets never smell like the two of them. They are crisp and clean, the bed neatly made each morning. He cannot press his nose to the pillows and pick up the fresh scent of Serge’s soap. He cannot turn in the middle of the night, half asleep, and bask in the feel of Serge’s warm skin. He never wakes beneath the gaze of pale green eyes, Serge’s fingers threaded through his hair.
“I haven’t lied to you,” Serge says. “I made a vow. There’s been no one since.”
“But—”
“I can’t change what happened before.” There’s a softness in Serge’s eyes, beneath the bitterness. “It was on Eupheme, five months ago. How was I to know what would happen next?”
Liesel swallows his protests. He blinks again; more tears slip free, making wet trails down his cheeks. He brushes them away, horrified, humiliated. None of it eases the sting. None of it soothes the heartache.
Serge approaches, slow and cautious. He doesn’t reach for Liesel again, but presents his left hand, where a matching scar cuts through his palm.
“I meant every word.”
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“I want to be a Knight,” she announces over tea one afternoon, while heavy rain lashes the windows at her back.
“Do you?” Liesel asks. Even in his grief, her presence draws a smile onto his face. He thinks that must be why she so often places herself by his side now, that she and Serge must have conspired together. Here at the fortress of Valhalla, Liesel rarely finds himself without one of them.
“Mm,” she says, biting into a pastry. Under Liesel’s expectant gaze, she chews and swallows before speaking again. “Like Papa.”
Teasingly, Liesel replies, “Empyrean will need a new guardian after your grandfather.”
She makes a face, nose scrunched, mouth puckered, like she’s eaten something unpleasant hidden away among her sweets. In her defense, Carolus keeps more dreary company at Empyrean than Serge does at Valhalla.
Liesel lets her sit with this thought for a while. He sips at his tea and watches the rain. A low roll of thunder rumbles overhead.
Once fearsome, the storms of Jupiter have become something of a comfort to him.
“Do you like it here?”
Her voice is feeble now, like she can’t bear the thought that he might not. She looks down at her snack with a frown that reminds Liesel of her father.
“Of course I do,” Liesel reassures her. “I always have.”
“But you miss Ganymede,” she says.
He misses the rolling fields dotted with wildflowers. He misses the birdsong. He misses the light and the warmth, the clear blue skies. He misses the familiar faces of his youth. He doesn’t miss the tension, or the loneliness. He doesn’t miss the judgment, or the silent accusations. He doesn’t miss knowing himself to be a pawn.
Leaving Ganymede had not been easy. Returning would not be either.
“Yes,” he admits, because she deserves the truth. “And you’ll miss Jupiter when you attend the Academy on Earth.”
Her lips twitch with the beginnings of another smile.
“Do you?” Liesel asks. Even in his grief, her presence draws a smile onto his face. He thinks that must be why she so often places herself by his side now, that she and Serge must have conspired together. Here at the fortress of Valhalla, Liesel rarely finds himself without one of them.
“Mm,” she says, biting into a pastry. Under Liesel’s expectant gaze, she chews and swallows before speaking again. “Like Papa.”
Teasingly, Liesel replies, “Empyrean will need a new guardian after your grandfather.”
She makes a face, nose scrunched, mouth puckered, like she’s eaten something unpleasant hidden away among her sweets. In her defense, Carolus keeps more dreary company at Empyrean than Serge does at Valhalla.
Liesel lets her sit with this thought for a while. He sips at his tea and watches the rain. A low roll of thunder rumbles overhead.
Once fearsome, the storms of Jupiter have become something of a comfort to him.
“Do you like it here?”
Her voice is feeble now, like she can’t bear the thought that he might not. She looks down at her snack with a frown that reminds Liesel of her father.
“Of course I do,” Liesel reassures her. “I always have.”
“But you miss Ganymede,” she says.
He misses the rolling fields dotted with wildflowers. He misses the birdsong. He misses the light and the warmth, the clear blue skies. He misses the familiar faces of his youth. He doesn’t miss the tension, or the loneliness. He doesn’t miss the judgment, or the silent accusations. He doesn’t miss knowing himself to be a pawn.
Leaving Ganymede had not been easy. Returning would not be either.
“Yes,” he admits, because she deserves the truth. “And you’ll miss Jupiter when you attend the Academy on Earth.”
Her lips twitch with the beginnings of another smile.
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Serge drags the bloodied blade across his palm. His gaze is steady, eyes locked with Liesel’s. His expression never wavers, his frown still firmly in place. When his blood flows freely, Serge sets the blade aside. He presses his palm to Liesel’s. The other hand cards through Liesel’s hair.
“My life and loyalty I’ve pledged to Jupiter and Valhalla,” he says. “But everything else, I pledge to you.”
A helpless smile crawls across Liesel’s face. A faint flush pinks his cheeks. Before, he might have looked away, nervous, bashful, deeply aware of the magnitude of what he has done, the secrets they’ve kept, meeting in the shadows of flickering candlelight, away from prying eyes.
This will not be secret. The bleeding will slow and the skin will knit back together, but the scars will linger — for an eternity, if Liesel has it his way, impossible as it might seem.
He kisses Serge’s mouth of his own volition. He touches Serge’s face with reverence, while their fingers twine and their blood mingles, and the world around them seems to fade away.
“My life and loyalty I’ve pledged to Jupiter and Valhalla,” he says. “But everything else, I pledge to you.”
A helpless smile crawls across Liesel’s face. A faint flush pinks his cheeks. Before, he might have looked away, nervous, bashful, deeply aware of the magnitude of what he has done, the secrets they’ve kept, meeting in the shadows of flickering candlelight, away from prying eyes.
This will not be secret. The bleeding will slow and the skin will knit back together, but the scars will linger — for an eternity, if Liesel has it his way, impossible as it might seem.
He kisses Serge’s mouth of his own volition. He touches Serge’s face with reverence, while their fingers twine and their blood mingles, and the world around them seems to fade away.
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“Her starseed is ready,” Lucasta says in a hushed whisper — out in the hall with the door half closed, looking in on the small figure asleep in the bed.
Liesel’s heart stutters and skips a beat. “For what?”
Lucasta turns a stern look his way. “You know exactly what.”
He remembers the day he turned ten years old, the occasion marked with a party and presents and cake, games in the yard with siblings who weren’t his. He remembers the woman he thought was his mother holding him close at night, kissing his cheeks before tucking him into bed, reading him stories of old.
He remembers the next day, coming across the cat with the amber eyes, whose soul spoke to his in a way that seemed both familiar and strange.
He remembers the steely eyed men who came for him, and the woman he thought was his mother lamenting, “He’s still a child.”
“He is Ganymede,” they said.
“Now?” Liesel asks with a catch in his voice. “At the worst possible time?”
He looks to Serge, who stands rigid and silent beside him, gaze locked on the little girl who still sleeps with the stuffed doll she’s had from infancy. She drew the symbol of Jupiter on its forehead once — a symbol that would never be hers.
“There will never be a better time,” Lucasta says. “Either she will be in danger as she is now, or she will be in danger with the means to defend herself against it. Which is worse?”
“But she’s only—”
She is seven. She is a child, with a child’s concerns. She loves parties and fairytales and sweets. She loves running around the training yard with a sword in her hand, pretending to fight all manner of ferocious beasts. She loves sitting in her father’s lap, watching him tinker away in his office. She loves all the people within the fortress of Valhalla who’ve watched over her since birth. She loves Liesel. She misses her uncle.
She wants to be a Knight, but that has never been her fate.
Liesel watches her sleep and wishes he knew how to keep the darkness at bay.
It would come for all of them.
Liesel’s heart stutters and skips a beat. “For what?”
Lucasta turns a stern look his way. “You know exactly what.”
He remembers the day he turned ten years old, the occasion marked with a party and presents and cake, games in the yard with siblings who weren’t his. He remembers the woman he thought was his mother holding him close at night, kissing his cheeks before tucking him into bed, reading him stories of old.
He remembers the next day, coming across the cat with the amber eyes, whose soul spoke to his in a way that seemed both familiar and strange.
He remembers the steely eyed men who came for him, and the woman he thought was his mother lamenting, “He’s still a child.”
“He is Ganymede,” they said.
“Now?” Liesel asks with a catch in his voice. “At the worst possible time?”
He looks to Serge, who stands rigid and silent beside him, gaze locked on the little girl who still sleeps with the stuffed doll she’s had from infancy. She drew the symbol of Jupiter on its forehead once — a symbol that would never be hers.
“There will never be a better time,” Lucasta says. “Either she will be in danger as she is now, or she will be in danger with the means to defend herself against it. Which is worse?”
“But she’s only—”
She is seven. She is a child, with a child’s concerns. She loves parties and fairytales and sweets. She loves running around the training yard with a sword in her hand, pretending to fight all manner of ferocious beasts. She loves sitting in her father’s lap, watching him tinker away in his office. She loves all the people within the fortress of Valhalla who’ve watched over her since birth. She loves Liesel. She misses her uncle.
She wants to be a Knight, but that has never been her fate.
Liesel watches her sleep and wishes he knew how to keep the darkness at bay.
It would come for all of them.
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On a warm summer’s day, with the scent of flowers wafting in on the breeze, Liesel holds a baby in his arms.
Wisps of dark hair cover her head. Her eyes were pale when he first saw them, but they have since closed with sleep. She is a smaller, softer version of Serge, without his scowl, or his fierceness. She nestles close to Liesel’s chest and finds safety there.
Liesel looks from her to Serge. Quietly, he asks, “What have you named her?”
Serge seems hesitant for once, his confidence deserting him, like he has found himself in a position he does not feel suited for.
He was never meant to be a father.
Liesel was never meant to fall in love.
Sometimes, the things they weren’t meant for had a way of catching up with them.
Serge puts a hand against the baby’s head, his palm large but gentle.
“Her name is Celia.”
Liesel loves her as if she were his own.
Wisps of dark hair cover her head. Her eyes were pale when he first saw them, but they have since closed with sleep. She is a smaller, softer version of Serge, without his scowl, or his fierceness. She nestles close to Liesel’s chest and finds safety there.
Liesel looks from her to Serge. Quietly, he asks, “What have you named her?”
Serge seems hesitant for once, his confidence deserting him, like he has found himself in a position he does not feel suited for.
He was never meant to be a father.
Liesel was never meant to fall in love.
Sometimes, the things they weren’t meant for had a way of catching up with them.
Serge puts a hand against the baby’s head, his palm large but gentle.
“Her name is Celia.”
Liesel loves her as if she were his own.
From the depths of dreams, Ganymede awoke to morning light and birdsong. She sat up slowly, groggy still, but refreshed, her energy replenished. If she concentrated hard enough, let herself focus on the magic that swirled within and around her, she could almost feel the heart of her moon beating in time with her own.
Thump-thump… thump-thump… thump-thump…
She wiped sleep from her eyes and found tears on her cheeks. Images flashed through her mind — dreams and memories and everything in-between — faces she knew, others she didn’t, including one she once had neither a name nor an explanation for.
Ganymede looked to the balcony doors. Outside in the garden, the flowers had not yet begun to bloom, but if she closed her eyes she could almost remember their sweet scent.
Celia…
Up above, Jupiter hung within the blue expanse of the sky, at once friendly and ominous. Ganymede remembered the rain on Liesel’s face, how he looked to the clouds and sought out his home when darkness descended. When he met his end…
“But she’s only—”
Seven — a lucky number, unless it came to war.
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HMMMMM I WONDER WHO COULD BE TURNING SEVEN SOON
emo
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