Not old enough to have kids? That means nothing to you. You have no frame of reference for having or making babies, or any kind of knowledge about that sector of life (and it offends you, this gaping ignorance in your skull—) You can only tell that she’s taller than you, and older, and so she might’ve had kids, you can’t be sure. You shrug a little as an answer. You can’t help not knowing.

You watch and learn as she mentions her father—his name is Vadim, a token tucked and stored safely away—and how she is barely able to name a mother, Shadow. She is dead, like yours. You cock your head a little bit, at the hitch in her voice, the pauses, and you wonder if that’s how you should act from now on whenever you mention your dead fake mother. Would it be more convincing? For she’s caught onto your frustration, if only a little bit, about lying about Nyx, lying about Paaaaapa. She chides you on how you should be grateful for the lie, for the blemish on your lineage and pride and honor. How you’re an un-doc-umented child, an orphan, even though you know that’s not true, but you can’t tell everyone else that, can you, little Enyo? You’re stuck as a nothing.

You collapse on yourself, silent, because you can’t answer her, not yet at least. Your breast is burning with indignation, the reprimand to show gratitude when you’re so mad at this distasteful situation, and hot tears prick the corners of your eyes (weakness) out of your helpless fury.

But ah, you can use these. One might be grateful for being adopted so graciously by such kind adults, but how could one find gratitude in losing one’s parents before one even knows them, to snatch away a happy family before one even knows how to speak?

“What were their names? Your parents... do you know?"

Ah, an opening.

You avert your shadowy, glistening gaze. “No,” you say very, very softly, a breath, because you’re afraid of outright losing your composure and crying everywhere (you must keep poise), “I was too young…” You open your mouth to try and explain the lie further—Mommy was killed after giving birth, Daddy was killed protecting his vulnerable family from bandits, Nyx found us only after the blood had been shed— but your body is trained well and, right on cue, a tear breaks free from your lid, and you clamp your mouth shut, a crying little girl sad that she doesn’t even know her original parents’ names.  

You give a sniff and look at your feet. “I wish I did,” comes out small and piteous, and you duck down to wipe your face against your knee, to try and pull yourself together, because it’s a touchy subject (of course) and you want to steer away from it. “I like your things,” you say in a contrite voice, and your eyes sparkle with residual tears at the shiny things that Erthë wears. “Where did you get them?”


"talk talk talk"