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as it foolish to assume they would meet again? He did not think so, not at first. But to his growing fear (and secret relief) time did not stand still for Eik-- even when the years stopped touching those he cared for most. It was the birth of his daughters that changed everything. Before then, he had no measure of time. Seasons came and went, and he did not stop to recognize that time was not a circle- that each moment, when it passed, took something with it he would never again experience. He did not witness his own life-- did anyone?-- except as a blur of dull color and motion, every memory a different tide of emotion, most of it tinted (unrightfully so) with either nostalgia or hurt.
But the instant Avesta and Aspara were born, they were the two stars by which Eik measured time’s passage. First steps, first words. First birthday. Second. When they turned two, he wondered for the first time if they would never meet Seraphina or Bexley or Asterion. If he would never see them again. It had always seemed, for some reason, inevitable-- he had taken it for granted. He had forgotten, or perhaps just closed his eyes, to the fact that we are all only given so much time… and to die having fulfilled every wish, lived out every assumption, it was either a madness or a godlike management of expectation.
This is not what he is thinking about when he walks along the beach. He’s in the place beneath words, grey and hazy and reaching, always reaching. (for that white veil, that tattered curtain) Not even the sharp briny tang of the wind could penetrate the shroud of his thoughts. But still, it was always a comfort to be near the water. The lull or the rage of the waves, the hymn or sigh of its song, the endless ways of its being-- all of it he embraced in ways he could not embrace the living. All of it he understood, on some level beneath language, in a way he could not understand people. (in many ways Eik’s magic was wasted on him, for he could read minds but it was often the case that he could not make sense of them.)
It’s hard to say who sees who first. When she turns her head he’s already looking, but who’s to say what he sees?
All of that doesn’t matter. He walks faster, blinking away his thoughts, rising back to the world of the living. The air is cold and damp. She’s wearing a scarf, a feminine bloom of color amidst a landscape of grey. It challenges the piercing color of her eyes, and it loses.
“Seraphina.” The four syllables pace back and forth, so achingly familiar they make his jaw ache.
Eik slows as he draws near and reaches tentatively to her round belly, stopping just short of touching. His breath fans warm and gentle across her skin. He can’t help but grin. There are two- he can sense their dreaming minds. He is instantly struck by memories of another set of twins, and he would do anything to wind back the clock, re-live every precious minute with them. In the end it doesn’t matter how much you savor all those little moments- when they’re gone, they’re gone for good.
There’s so much to say. So much more to not say. He meets her gaze with eyes dark and wondering. “Are you afraid?” He had been, at first-- especially when he learned there would be two. But it seems the hardiest things take root in pain and sorrow, and the most beautiful blooms thrive in landscapes once washed in the dark greys and blues of fear.
There are so many things he wants to tell her. But there is a lot of time between who they are now and who they used to be, and all the many weak parts of Eik are feeling panicky and slippery. Uncertain and inadequate. Foolish, foolish, foolish! (There is a room he steps into, and there he pounds his head against the wall. It makes him feel better- you find what works and you cling to it.) I’m a failure and a fool. I accept this. I-- “It’s nice to see you,” he exhales. He tries to let go. “I always thought… I always thought it would be different.”
When he spoke he thought he meant meeting again-- he always figured their reunion would be in Solterra. But he realizes that maybe he means everything. He thought everything would be different.
(which, of course he would. Fool.)
Time makes fools of us all
