they dredged icarus up from the sea today; wings bedraggled, tangled in the nets of those who tried to raise his body before. but he would not ascend; he learned his lesson.
She asks if I have children and I think that the truth buried there (a parasite, a dormant creature waiting to kill, to drain) is better left a lie. That is what our agreement is; that is what we are privy to, with one another. (As if I do not lie to everyone I meet, in some capacity). Perhaps it is our agreement that wrenches my vulnerability and transforms it into a strength. Perhaps it is our agreement that allows the truth to slip frankly from my mouth. “Yes, I do. A son.” With a woman who did not love, and knew only because--only because my father had arranged it. Only because Cillian looked as close to Boudika as possible, without becoming her.
If anything, I had hated her; everything about her, and who she was not. My mouth is dry with my admission. “Khier, is his name. He looks nothing like me.”
No, I think. He looked like my father. Khier was born black where I was white, white where I was black. Silver, where I was gold, and striped where I was spotted. His bore antlers like a prince’s crown. I wonder, briefly, what he is doing now. He is old enough to be a man; he is old enough to be a lieutenant, sailing ships, conquering foreign lands.
Or maybe he is dead.
I have seen men abandon their children for duty. I have seen them given second chances, only to leave again. My daughter will not be left.
My smile is quiet, and knowing. I understand her logic; parts of me wish it was a logic all women shared and for a moment, furious and unexpected, I am angry with her. I blame my mother for much more of my suffering than I blame my father, I think. And I blame Boudika for even more--
What could we have been, I have asked many nights. If only she had not been a woman?
What might I have been, had my mother fled one evening with me on a white-sailed ship? There were legends of Oreszian women fleeing their husbands, taking children into the sea. All of the myths say they drown; but now I wonder if that were only a way to control them. But the truth? I hate my mother for her cowardice. And I hate Boudika for hers, too.
I wonder if I will grow to hate Elena for the same.
“From the sounds of it, he also abandoned his shadows and worship to conceive her.” I only mean to imply, nothing is as black and white. “But you are right. When placed in a similar situation, I chose duty. My son may as well be a bastard, and that’s simply the way of it.” I do not say that part of the reason I could not claim responsibility for him was because I had known (oh, how I had known) that I would have been exactly like my own father.
That is one sin I am not willing to commit.
I am quiet, for a moment; I watch her pinched expression, the tension held firmly between her teeth. She is angry; I do not know if it was me, or the father, or both. “Perhaps you should raise her like a boy.” I say it lightly enough that it isn’t a real suggestion. In fact, it is almost a bone that I offer: a flag of surrender. The world, I seem to agree. Does not give girls a fair lot in a realm of men.
Something about it makes me remember the beach, and her admission, and how she had lied to me. I love you. It makes my mouth taste like salt.
If anything, I had hated her; everything about her, and who she was not. My mouth is dry with my admission. “Khier, is his name. He looks nothing like me.”
No, I think. He looked like my father. Khier was born black where I was white, white where I was black. Silver, where I was gold, and striped where I was spotted. His bore antlers like a prince’s crown. I wonder, briefly, what he is doing now. He is old enough to be a man; he is old enough to be a lieutenant, sailing ships, conquering foreign lands.
Or maybe he is dead.
I have seen men abandon their children for duty. I have seen them given second chances, only to leave again. My daughter will not be left.
My smile is quiet, and knowing. I understand her logic; parts of me wish it was a logic all women shared and for a moment, furious and unexpected, I am angry with her. I blame my mother for much more of my suffering than I blame my father, I think. And I blame Boudika for even more--
What could we have been, I have asked many nights. If only she had not been a woman?
What might I have been, had my mother fled one evening with me on a white-sailed ship? There were legends of Oreszian women fleeing their husbands, taking children into the sea. All of the myths say they drown; but now I wonder if that were only a way to control them. But the truth? I hate my mother for her cowardice. And I hate Boudika for hers, too.
I wonder if I will grow to hate Elena for the same.
“From the sounds of it, he also abandoned his shadows and worship to conceive her.” I only mean to imply, nothing is as black and white. “But you are right. When placed in a similar situation, I chose duty. My son may as well be a bastard, and that’s simply the way of it.” I do not say that part of the reason I could not claim responsibility for him was because I had known (oh, how I had known) that I would have been exactly like my own father.
That is one sin I am not willing to commit.
I am quiet, for a moment; I watch her pinched expression, the tension held firmly between her teeth. She is angry; I do not know if it was me, or the father, or both. “Perhaps you should raise her like a boy.” I say it lightly enough that it isn’t a real suggestion. In fact, it is almost a bone that I offer: a flag of surrender. The world, I seem to agree. Does not give girls a fair lot in a realm of men.
Something about it makes me remember the beach, and her admission, and how she had lied to me. I love you. It makes my mouth taste like salt.
