Zèklè

It's time, Zero. The dragons say it with their pointed glances; the wind says it in its suggestive song. It's time, the time has come, the time is now, this is the time. You have to go- and you do go, quickly, your hooves picking out a rapid beat that matches the patter of your heart, anxiety and anticipation mixing an intoxicating cocktail in your tumultuous mind. The prospect of fatherhood still fills you with joy, but thanks to your fight with your mother there is a bitterness behind the sweet, a coppery unpleasantness that tastes of fear. What if she's right? a part of you wonders, merciless and cruel in the back of your mind. What if it's you - you who fails, you who leave, you who destroy the things you love? What if you are no better than her; what if you fail this, your ultimate test? The world is ending and you're having a child - isn't that already a sign of pretty poor judgment on your fault? Did you really have to chose this moment to no longer keep your dick in your pants?

Yes. That's what you think- nay, know- as Isopia comes into view, still a distance away but unmistakable as ever, her body a promise on the sandy shore. Even from here she is more beautiful than she has ever been, because she is bearing your child. She is calm - she is always calm - but your heart skips a beat as you watch her push, your voice echoing out in a wordless greeting as you rush as quickly as possible to her side. It seems like the space is endless, as much as you hurry, your new wing shiny yet useless at your side, your golems waddling behind at a growing distance. It seems as though you shall be too late, but in the end you are just on time, your fumbling run finally ending just as your son makes it into the world.

(Son. My son. My son.)

"Our son," you murmur, delight and awe obvious in your muted voice. You are torn between the babe and his mother, between the desire to pull your child into a protective embrace and trepidation - what if you break him? He's so tiny and perfect, and the dumbfounded wonder on your face is broken only by a goofy, blissful, crooked grin. You look from Isopia to your child (your child, both of yours, shared) and back, and your love for your best and dearest friend swells to a point almost uncontainable, somehow made greater by this addition to your family. It seems right, so right, that your firstborn should be by her - and that he should be born here, the site of your first adventure, the place where you discovered whales and learned Isopia's name and your bond with your soulmate was found and forged.

"Hello, Little Mountain," you say to the boy, tears in your eyes, happiness choking your throat.

You step closer to both of them, your metal wing reaching out to brush against Isopia, your eyes not leaving the colt who seeks the comfort of her skin, her breath, her side. You try to take your cues from her, to gauge what she is okay with; you want to push closer to her, you want to push closer to him, you want to wrap yourself in both of them and just cherish this moment. Yet at the same time you're almost afraid to touch him, to speak, to ruin this moment with your ill luck and imperfection. Because that's what your son is- perfect, whole. Four legs, two wings, and one perfect little colt.

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