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The hope for it to blow away soon resonates with me as well, the close proximity of the pillars more invasive with her wing’s breadth; though she tucks them, tries to keep them out of the way, I have the sort of mind that becomes more and more aware of their dusty air smell the longer I’m here. I don’t answer her. She’s got too much of a mouth on her to handle my honesty with the tact Xynia had, or the equal bluntness with which my blade brother and Aithniel spoke. Besides, just like Aithniel, its not like she can really help the strangeness of her being.
That was her parent’s fault, as mother had reminded Thistle Sister, many times.
So it was the Sun’s fault, I thought now, smiling in an oddly out of place fashion that my mother had dared deem a God to blame. Even when I’d told her what I’d learned, she’d kept on about how it was a piteous shame that a Divine being had left his child to starve, that even the Gods with all their “we should get along” jibber jabber had been reduced to knowing their hybrid offspring was unworthy of love, or life.
My mother is an idiot.
I look over at Erthë and wonder if any one has ever told her the truth about herself before. I wonder if she’s ever had to cry into her brother’s shoulder while he tried to console her for simply being. She certainly hasn’t ever had to deal with the emotional and mental battle I deal with on a daily basis, the same one going on right now as I decide that I might want to know more about her. Even if knowing might mean that I came to care for what became of her, that, when I was ultimately forced to push her away (her children born winged, her opinions unchanged, her heart wild, soul tethered to the fate of stardust, not an eternal life of plenty) as I had been forced to push away Aithniel.
I could not be the Brother of a girl who called a God father. It was too dangerous for me, and for her.
So why did I dream of her? Why does she taunt me, still, into becoming close to a girl I shouldn’t?
It’s all so confusing that I don’t even show any exasperation for Erthë’s stating the obvious, as I usually would. By the time she’s genuinely answering me I’ve put aside the heavy pull of my sister’s memory to listen to her answer, finding the words “parents” alongside “wanderlust.” No one cared when she left, she says, and I can understand that feeling; I’m pretty sure only Aithniel really knew I was gone out of all of them for a long, long time.
Was Erthë a gypsy child? Did her parents leave her as soon as she was old enough to graze on her own to chase their own adventures?
Why the fuck did I care?
All it gets me is questions about me, whether I spend time with my kin or not. The answer is a blade twisting in my chest because it brings to mind mother’s defiant, golden eyes awash with hurt all over again; it makes me see Aithniel’s dark lips curve downwards, her heart’s breaking camouflaged by the shouts she casts in my face. The only face that comes to me that does not feel me with a desperate sensation of failure is my father’s, but it is distant, and there are bags on his shoulders as he leaves my home to find a new one.
No, no I fucking don’t see my kin.
"Sometimes. My dad lives in the Edge," or he’s supposed to, anyway, I lie, because while I can honestly tell others about themselves its almost impossible for me to be truthful about myself, "I guess that might have been why I was down there."
And what could he have told me, to ease the ache?
Nothing he could do could change what was or what had already come to pass. All he could do is tell me to suck it up, and carry on. Hearing it commanded wouldn’t make it any easier.
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