I am not like any ordinary world
The air grows damp, petrichor emanating from the dried grass. The boy inhales as all becomes clear, the smell of rot and blossom fading as the air grows cool and fresh. It is a new magic, reaching out to ease the boys fractured nerves.
Still his skin burns where the man touched him. It was a touch so different to Aspara’s. Both had been rough yet the man’s had been tight. And a clutching grip upon skin that has almost forgotten what touch is was overwhelming. The boy trembles, though he stands still and brave as a stag against a predator.
The new stranger talks of blood and Leonidas knows about blood. He has shed enough of it with cut banged knees and cut shoulders. But this man says he has Leonidas’ blood. No, that cannot be right. Leonidas is alive, his blood still surges in his veins. Every part of him is still whole. His last wound stopped bleeding weeks ago. All his blood is still in his veins. He blinks slowly, his lips now twisting with confusion. He huffs a breath and wonders how the man caught any of his blood.
“You don’t.” The boy murmurs, unsure. He knows nothing of shared blood and already his nerves are fatiguing, already he feels weary. The air is damp and it makes the boy weary, all of this day has been wearisome. If at first the look within his eyes was leonine, now it turns cervine as his gaze flits toward the woodland. In the deep of the woods he could sleep away the stress of the day.
Leonidas goes to move , but then, then the man mentions his mother. Family. The boy freezes, but not before he lifts his chin sharply to stare at the star-hewn man.
Asterion.
His mother.
His uncle.
How long had Leonidas been alone, and now this? “I don’t have family.” The boy says swiftly, his voice low, his look flighty.
Do you remember Leonidas?
Remember.
No.
There is something wrong with remembering. Just being asked twists something within him. It hurts, it feels like falling. There is a flood within him and it fills him with desperation. An old, malevolent desperation. It disturbs the equilibrium the child has cultivated in his solitude.
“I don’t have a mother.” Leonidas’ heart aches, wounded. He dares not say the man’s name, Asterion. It feels as dangerous as the feelings the man disturbs within him. The stranger had clutched him, held him violently. Leonidas had screamed and fought, but this growing hurt, this strangeness with Asterion is worse. Asterion is worse. Dangerous.
His Uncle tries to placate him but the boy is a young and startled colt. His cheeks are wet, but the boy does not know when he started crying. Maybe it was at that first awful twist of his stomach, or maybe at the second. Either way the tears trickle from his lashes and spill down toward his chin.
“I don’t remember. Go away.” That small piece of dagger rises again, held up between them as the boy steps back, even as he tremulously commands Asterion to leave. With just words Asterion has left him aching as if from blow upon blow.
Remembering was worse than forgetting.
@Asterion
