Zèklè

She answers in that intelligent, thoughtful voice you've come to know so well- well enough to catch something in the hesitation, the spaces between her staggered sentences, and you hold onto that. Oh, sure, her response is clinical and philosophical at its core -

"The one purpose all living things have," she says, and you have to stop and think about that one, because you haven't really thought about reproduction as being a thing that's your purpose (though let's be real, you haven't really thought about reproduction at all- this is a very half-baked plan), let alone the only purpose

- you imagine you can read behind it some actual interest, some wistful longing for the family life of which you are so fond. Because, ultimately, what is your goal in life but to make everyone you love into one great family, to fold them all beneath your single wing and keep them their, their hearts beating a peaceful rhythm that will lull you to sleep through your darkest dreams?

That you are a deeply sentimental creature can never be denied.

Have you?

"Have I thought about being a ma?!" you laugh, your voice teasing, sunbeam eyes glittering with delight at your own stupid joke. Of course you haven't! You're a boy! Haha! Sigh. To your credit your recover quickly, foolish smile fading into a thoughtful expression as you consider this question. Ultimately it doesn't have an easy answer - "Yeah, I- I guess," you acquiesce, "But..." you shrug, your shoulders rolling easily, your neck arching as you reach back to bite at the metal patch on your skin. But who would want one with me? you do not say. Even with your rudimentary and, frankly, alarmingly juvenile understanding of reproductive processes, you know that babies are a little bit of Ma and a little bit of Da. And who'd want a baby who was a little bit of, well...

...cripple?

"'Sides, I got all my brothers an' sisters to look after."

You turn back to her, your smile genuine as you think about your massive and generally unknown horde of siblings. You do like children, and you would like to be a Da, maybe. But this is about Iso, not you, and your infantile understanding of the world fails to calculate in how you might be, ah... necessary to the next step of the motherhood process. Silly boy.

"I don't think you're obligated to be a Ma," you say carefully, trying and failing to be calculating, cunning, subtle. "But if that's something you think you'd like -"and she had liked it, hadn't she? She would like it "- then maybe- maybe we could-" and there it is, the implication, the realization, and your face grows hot and your tongue grows heavy as you realize what exactly you might be offering, to Iso, with Iso, because babies are a little bit of Ma and a little bit of Da you idiot- oh, boy, did you not think this through.

"MaybewecouldgoseeyourDaorsomething!" you sputter through your embarrassment, wishing more than ever that you had two wings, so you could wrap your head up and hide beneath them both.

And in the sea that's painted black,
Creatures lurk below the deck
But you're a queen and I'm a lionheart