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Fantasy by god's design | status & candy
Aeron can not recall the last time he was home. How old was he? He could not have been older than twelve—fourteen maybe—and how old was he now?
Ten years, he muses wistfully, flexing his hold on the leather-corded reigns in his hand. The mare neighs, jerking her head against the pull of the metal bit in her mouth. Aeron calms her, combing his gloved hand through her silky mane. Aries, her name. Aeron remembers naming her when she was merely a filly; the filly he was made to choose as his riding companion for the travels. Sufficient strength had not developed in her legs to be ridden, but look at her now; look at him now, the way he commands her.
“My Prince?” Comes a gruff voice from behind; a voice that has substituted as a warm, paternal figure to fill the blurry curves of the hollow silhouette of his father, the King.
Aeron, having been prepared for this undertaking from the moment he was born, shed no tears at the prospect of alienation from his family during his most transformative years, but his father had still reassured him. Aeron had spent his last night in the kingdom in his personal study, sitting cross-legged and starry-eyed at his feet by the hearth. He told Aeron tales from his own childhood, emphasising a man’s duty to the kingdom and its heir—“Your mother, and your sister.” All of his brothers underwent the same training time spans in different parts of their border. Some of them were even graced with the opportunity to train and learn in the forces of their allies—kings and noble-blooded generals alike. Aeron was not blessed with such felicitous fortuity, and as far as his knowledge stretched, his time of service had been the longest as of yet.
But now I’m finally home, he thinks, letting the glimmers of glee spark gooseflesh all over his neck. Aries tramps her hooves on the soft ground as if returning the sentiments of nostalgia and excitement. Aeron wonders if she also fervently awaits reuniting with her own family.
Someone clears their throat, the same timbre of voice from earlier, except now it comes from beside him. “My Prince, apologies for the abruptness,” the man says, gesturing back to the sea of men on foot and horseback behind them. The army of men Aeron was bringing home with him, all in restless anticipation of seeing their wives’ and sisters’ faces after years of separation.
As per tradition, the members of the royal family are not allowed to accept trinkets or letters from their homelands and kin either. So, Aeron knows the desperation that must be coiling in their bones right now to cross this final threshold, and return to Fjord, but none of them could survive the taste of what had been stripped from him.
Distantly, he imagines the soft face of his only sister the last time he saw her, and his heart thumps uselessly, trying to reach its peripheral tendrils to conjure a caricature of how the years might have transformed her—her physique, and her beauty. Aeron wonders with a faint sense of longing how she wears her hair now.
Perhaps, he should have thought of their mother first, but he is bound to his sister by blood, and so she is what makes it sing in his body; this intrinsic calling to his purpose.
“Apologies, General,” he grins lopsidedly, dismounting his horse in one swift motion. They do not refer to each with their official titles in private—having forgone them mere months into their acquaintance with each other—but pretences must be maintained when they have men to lead.
There are servants by his side in an instant, clipping and unbuttoning various layers of his clothing, unclasping and slipping off all the different pieces of jewellery he had worn on the final cusp of their journey home. Retrospectively, he really should not have given so much of his time getting dressed, when he was ultimately to be stripped of most of his ornaments and efforts. Once the servants are through with him, and his capes, and belts, and frills are safely deposited into a chest—also steadfastly held up by two servants—Aeron is left in a flowy white under-blouse with a plunging v-neck, and black trousers that hug his legs. With his sword no longer by side, there is a new weightlessness to his body, and he could swear there is a light bounce in his every step.
He crosses the grassy slope of the gently undulating hills by foot, intricately aware of the thousands upon thousands of eyes boring through his head from the top. These are boundaries that common men can not transgress in their homeland, and the base of these sacred hills is one of the many. There have been fools who tried in the past—and fools whose bodies are recovered following their ill-fated attempts in the present—only to experience first-hand the true reason why the royal family has left these seemingly vulnerable parts on the outskirts entirely unguarded.
As he approaches the converging foothills of every mountain encapsulating the serene, ring-shaped lake guarded by the great heights of these verdant ranges, the grass beneath his feet grows damper, and the thrum of his heart accelerates. He has barely taken a step inside the bright blue basin of cool, knee-deep water before its guardians are pooling by his shins: the many multicoloured fishes.
“Hey!” He yips when one of them nips at his skin.
The waterfall suspended in the middle of the lake does not make a single splash in the still water, disturbed with disorderly ripples only due to Aeron’s presence. It falls like one continuous ribbon from the edge of one of the floating heads of the many mountainous heads broken off from their full bodies in the sky. From the distance, this particular floating cliffside is as unassuming as every other, sans the laminar waterfall pouring from one of its exceedingly pointed sides.
Despite it being a perfectly summer day, the water is frosty on his shoulders, and suddenly, the shudders blooming from deep inside him are not solely caused by the exhilaration bubbling inside his stomach, and holding his breath captive.
Over the gush of his own blood in his ears, Aeron barely feels the waterfall’s magic shimmer through him, but he hears the melodious whispers of the fish guardians around him. “You’re back!” They exclaim exuberantly, “We missed you, we missed you.” While the chilly waterfall paints every inch of his skin in love.
Before he knows it, he is stepping out, drenched to the marrow of his bone, thousands of miles inside, and hundreds of miles sky-ward in the mainland of Fjord. His hair is sopping, and his clothes are clinging to every bulging pack of muscle in his body.
Aeron steps out of the neverending flow of freshwater framed by a mineralised-aquamarine archway. Behind him, a wall of laminar water blocks its posterior end, and in front of him…
He wipes a palm up his face, slicking his dark-blond hair back. His drowning eyes shed the remaining tears of the sweet, freshwater, and he has to blink a few times to bring his vision into focus. A neat row of exquisitely dressed individuals immediately adorn the scene before him, every new person more sparkly, and spruced up than the last, yet his eyes still long for fresh white waves breaking against the stormy edges of a ragged cliff-face.
His breath catches, freezing like crystals in lungs, and it is only the sight of her, and the sound of his own voice sighing her name that thaws them: Octavia…
Ten years, he muses wistfully, flexing his hold on the leather-corded reigns in his hand. The mare neighs, jerking her head against the pull of the metal bit in her mouth. Aeron calms her, combing his gloved hand through her silky mane. Aries, her name. Aeron remembers naming her when she was merely a filly; the filly he was made to choose as his riding companion for the travels. Sufficient strength had not developed in her legs to be ridden, but look at her now; look at him now, the way he commands her.
“My Prince?” Comes a gruff voice from behind; a voice that has substituted as a warm, paternal figure to fill the blurry curves of the hollow silhouette of his father, the King.
Aeron, having been prepared for this undertaking from the moment he was born, shed no tears at the prospect of alienation from his family during his most transformative years, but his father had still reassured him. Aeron had spent his last night in the kingdom in his personal study, sitting cross-legged and starry-eyed at his feet by the hearth. He told Aeron tales from his own childhood, emphasising a man’s duty to the kingdom and its heir—“Your mother, and your sister.” All of his brothers underwent the same training time spans in different parts of their border. Some of them were even graced with the opportunity to train and learn in the forces of their allies—kings and noble-blooded generals alike. Aeron was not blessed with such felicitous fortuity, and as far as his knowledge stretched, his time of service had been the longest as of yet.
But now I’m finally home, he thinks, letting the glimmers of glee spark gooseflesh all over his neck. Aries tramps her hooves on the soft ground as if returning the sentiments of nostalgia and excitement. Aeron wonders if she also fervently awaits reuniting with her own family.
Someone clears their throat, the same timbre of voice from earlier, except now it comes from beside him. “My Prince, apologies for the abruptness,” the man says, gesturing back to the sea of men on foot and horseback behind them. The army of men Aeron was bringing home with him, all in restless anticipation of seeing their wives’ and sisters’ faces after years of separation.
As per tradition, the members of the royal family are not allowed to accept trinkets or letters from their homelands and kin either. So, Aeron knows the desperation that must be coiling in their bones right now to cross this final threshold, and return to Fjord, but none of them could survive the taste of what had been stripped from him.
Distantly, he imagines the soft face of his only sister the last time he saw her, and his heart thumps uselessly, trying to reach its peripheral tendrils to conjure a caricature of how the years might have transformed her—her physique, and her beauty. Aeron wonders with a faint sense of longing how she wears her hair now.
Perhaps, he should have thought of their mother first, but he is bound to his sister by blood, and so she is what makes it sing in his body; this intrinsic calling to his purpose.
“Apologies, General,” he grins lopsidedly, dismounting his horse in one swift motion. They do not refer to each with their official titles in private—having forgone them mere months into their acquaintance with each other—but pretences must be maintained when they have men to lead.
There are servants by his side in an instant, clipping and unbuttoning various layers of his clothing, unclasping and slipping off all the different pieces of jewellery he had worn on the final cusp of their journey home. Retrospectively, he really should not have given so much of his time getting dressed, when he was ultimately to be stripped of most of his ornaments and efforts. Once the servants are through with him, and his capes, and belts, and frills are safely deposited into a chest—also steadfastly held up by two servants—Aeron is left in a flowy white under-blouse with a plunging v-neck, and black trousers that hug his legs. With his sword no longer by side, there is a new weightlessness to his body, and he could swear there is a light bounce in his every step.
He crosses the grassy slope of the gently undulating hills by foot, intricately aware of the thousands upon thousands of eyes boring through his head from the top. These are boundaries that common men can not transgress in their homeland, and the base of these sacred hills is one of the many. There have been fools who tried in the past—and fools whose bodies are recovered following their ill-fated attempts in the present—only to experience first-hand the true reason why the royal family has left these seemingly vulnerable parts on the outskirts entirely unguarded.
As he approaches the converging foothills of every mountain encapsulating the serene, ring-shaped lake guarded by the great heights of these verdant ranges, the grass beneath his feet grows damper, and the thrum of his heart accelerates. He has barely taken a step inside the bright blue basin of cool, knee-deep water before its guardians are pooling by his shins: the many multicoloured fishes.
“Hey!” He yips when one of them nips at his skin.
The waterfall suspended in the middle of the lake does not make a single splash in the still water, disturbed with disorderly ripples only due to Aeron’s presence. It falls like one continuous ribbon from the edge of one of the floating heads of the many mountainous heads broken off from their full bodies in the sky. From the distance, this particular floating cliffside is as unassuming as every other, sans the laminar waterfall pouring from one of its exceedingly pointed sides.
Despite it being a perfectly summer day, the water is frosty on his shoulders, and suddenly, the shudders blooming from deep inside him are not solely caused by the exhilaration bubbling inside his stomach, and holding his breath captive.
Over the gush of his own blood in his ears, Aeron barely feels the waterfall’s magic shimmer through him, but he hears the melodious whispers of the fish guardians around him. “You’re back!” They exclaim exuberantly, “We missed you, we missed you.” While the chilly waterfall paints every inch of his skin in love.
Before he knows it, he is stepping out, drenched to the marrow of his bone, thousands of miles inside, and hundreds of miles sky-ward in the mainland of Fjord. His hair is sopping, and his clothes are clinging to every bulging pack of muscle in his body.
Aeron steps out of the neverending flow of freshwater framed by a mineralised-aquamarine archway. Behind him, a wall of laminar water blocks its posterior end, and in front of him…
He wipes a palm up his face, slicking his dark-blond hair back. His drowning eyes shed the remaining tears of the sweet, freshwater, and he has to blink a few times to bring his vision into focus. A neat row of exquisitely dressed individuals immediately adorn the scene before him, every new person more sparkly, and spruced up than the last, yet his eyes still long for fresh white waves breaking against the stormy edges of a ragged cliff-face.
His breath catches, freezing like crystals in lungs, and it is only the sight of her, and the sound of his own voice sighing her name that thaws them: Octavia…
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StatusUndead
The Cutest Undead
"Yes, Agun, I know our brother is arriving today. You are my seventh brother that told me, along with twelve of our attendants. I'm almost ready, I'll be out shortly," Octavia's voice flowed out towards her brother. She normally had time to spare for a quip, but after hearing the same thing so many times, even she ran out of smart remarks.
She was excited that Aeron was returning. It had been a long time since they've last seen one another. He was always her favorite brother, and she missed him dearly. They used to play all the time when they were younger. He always seemed to appreciate her subtle sarcasm. It made her like him all the more since it normally annoyed the rest of her family, if it didn't outright confuse them. Though, to be fair, she also enjoyed those other reactions as well.
She was nearly ready for the ceremony. She wore her lavender dress. A simple silk adornment. Long and flowing, she liked how it swayed as she walked, or how it blew in the wind. She was never one for pomp and frills, but it still bore the family crest on the sleeves. She also liked how it matched her eyes. All she had to do was finish brushing her hair. Though that was a chore in itself. It was white as freshly fallen snow, and just as soft. It was straight and shiny, the envy of any girl, and was so long it nearly dragged on the floor when she walked, and often laid on the floor when she sat. It required a lot of maintenance, and was one thing she didn't let any of her attendants help with. Dealing with the bulk of her hair also helped to strengthen her arms and help keep her fit.
She walked through the halls, her excitement building as she ran her hand along the walls. Her fingers brushed past wood and stone. Her home was a marvel of natural engineering. Her kingdom had a unique style of building. It was painstakingly slow, but it was beautiful. It was also functional, as it could repair itself. The technique consisted of growing large, powerful trees around large slabs of stone. The branches of this special tree never stopped growing, which allowed for this phenomenal style of building. Branches were woven around stone in a perfect blend of man and nature.
She loved her home, as well as her kingdom. It was one that flowed seemlessly with the water. Her home, the largest building in the kingdom, where her and her many family members resided, was no exception. Many rooms had openings which allowed rain to flow through. To an outsider, it may seem like just a few leaky roofs, but it was all by design, and each location was masterfully chosen. Though her people loved the water, not everyone wished to always be soaked. At least not all the time. Octavia loved the water. She allowed her shoulder, arm, back or other part of her body to dip beneath various drips of water as she made her way to the congregation, prepared to greet her favorite brother.
She waited with anticipation alongside her family and attendants. Finally, the moment had come. And forth came a man. Octavia was pleasantly surprised to see he had filled out nicely. He was a scrawny little thing back in the day, not unlike the horse he had bonded with. She wondered what the hell he was eating to become such a man. She stepped forward, anticipation filling her heart. As she donned a dumbfounded expression, she turned to her brothers, gesturing to Aeron, "Who is this man, to be allowed to interrupt our gather?"
She turned back towards Aeron, half wondering if he would see through her ruse. He used to be so good at it, but it has been quite some time. Although her brothers had let out several groans, as well as a couple of them attempting to inform her of who it was, the people of the kingdom quite loved her for her antics. Some official business can carry such serious tones and weight, though the women of the royal family were given much leeway in the strictness in which they had to act, since they were irreplaceable. It allowed the people to feel close to the royal family, allowing for a peace that is rare in their world.
She turned towards Aeron after her question, choosing to don an angry look, as though she were upset at the intrusion. She crossed her arms and started to tap her foot. She did her best to look annoyed. She was certain it would fool Aeron.
She was excited that Aeron was returning. It had been a long time since they've last seen one another. He was always her favorite brother, and she missed him dearly. They used to play all the time when they were younger. He always seemed to appreciate her subtle sarcasm. It made her like him all the more since it normally annoyed the rest of her family, if it didn't outright confuse them. Though, to be fair, she also enjoyed those other reactions as well.
She was nearly ready for the ceremony. She wore her lavender dress. A simple silk adornment. Long and flowing, she liked how it swayed as she walked, or how it blew in the wind. She was never one for pomp and frills, but it still bore the family crest on the sleeves. She also liked how it matched her eyes. All she had to do was finish brushing her hair. Though that was a chore in itself. It was white as freshly fallen snow, and just as soft. It was straight and shiny, the envy of any girl, and was so long it nearly dragged on the floor when she walked, and often laid on the floor when she sat. It required a lot of maintenance, and was one thing she didn't let any of her attendants help with. Dealing with the bulk of her hair also helped to strengthen her arms and help keep her fit.
She walked through the halls, her excitement building as she ran her hand along the walls. Her fingers brushed past wood and stone. Her home was a marvel of natural engineering. Her kingdom had a unique style of building. It was painstakingly slow, but it was beautiful. It was also functional, as it could repair itself. The technique consisted of growing large, powerful trees around large slabs of stone. The branches of this special tree never stopped growing, which allowed for this phenomenal style of building. Branches were woven around stone in a perfect blend of man and nature.
She loved her home, as well as her kingdom. It was one that flowed seemlessly with the water. Her home, the largest building in the kingdom, where her and her many family members resided, was no exception. Many rooms had openings which allowed rain to flow through. To an outsider, it may seem like just a few leaky roofs, but it was all by design, and each location was masterfully chosen. Though her people loved the water, not everyone wished to always be soaked. At least not all the time. Octavia loved the water. She allowed her shoulder, arm, back or other part of her body to dip beneath various drips of water as she made her way to the congregation, prepared to greet her favorite brother.
She waited with anticipation alongside her family and attendants. Finally, the moment had come. And forth came a man. Octavia was pleasantly surprised to see he had filled out nicely. He was a scrawny little thing back in the day, not unlike the horse he had bonded with. She wondered what the hell he was eating to become such a man. She stepped forward, anticipation filling her heart. As she donned a dumbfounded expression, she turned to her brothers, gesturing to Aeron, "Who is this man, to be allowed to interrupt our gather?"
She turned back towards Aeron, half wondering if he would see through her ruse. He used to be so good at it, but it has been quite some time. Although her brothers had let out several groans, as well as a couple of them attempting to inform her of who it was, the people of the kingdom quite loved her for her antics. Some official business can carry such serious tones and weight, though the women of the royal family were given much leeway in the strictness in which they had to act, since they were irreplaceable. It allowed the people to feel close to the royal family, allowing for a peace that is rare in their world.
She turned towards Aeron after her question, choosing to don an angry look, as though she were upset at the intrusion. She crossed her arms and started to tap her foot. She did her best to look annoyed. She was certain it would fool Aeron.
A flicker of confusion must shutter across his face at Octavia’s immediate reaction upon seeing him standing before the waterfall. The magic-infused waterfall? That can only be accessed by those of royal descent? Aeron examines his arms, experimentally flexing his hands; has he truly transformed in appearance so drastically?
His eyes are like strokes of the softest bristles of a new brush when they trace the outlines of her posterior silhouette through the lavender dress. Octavia has not changed too much; though she wears her hair longer than it ever was—the silky, shiny strands singing just past her feet. Every part of her, he would have recognised even in blindness. Including the petulant tilt in her stance as she stands with her back to him, arms crossed over her chest. Aeron remembers how she used to pout, cheeks puffed, and–
Oh.
His lips stretch into a nostalgic smile, all white teeth, and water dripping over the thin pink skin. His chin dips, head shaking from side to side. How could he have forgotten the very nature of his spirited sister? That was precisely why she was adored by everyone—her family, and the people ranging far and wide in their kingdom.
If the sudden recollection had not been enough to remind him, his brothers’ reactions certainly would have been: the way some of them are disgruntled, pinching the bridges of their noses, or rolling their eyes in fondly. Or even the way some of them are bumbling around her, stuttering with their hands to introduce Aeron, our elder, or Aeron, our younger brother, Princess, depending on their position in the royal line. Aeron catches a few unfamiliar faces in the throng of his fretful brothers as well, and makes a mental note to introduce himself to his youngest brothers later. If his memory serves him correctly, then during the time of his departure, the Queen had been expecting once more. She and his father must really love each other to desire any more children after Octavia. The thought rings bittersweet in his heart.
“You haven’t changed one bit, dear sister” he remarks playfully, reaching back to the present.
He takes big, heaving steps out of the basin surrounding the grey and turquoise waterfall gate. The water soaking through his clothes wants to weigh him down, clinging to the folded hem of his brown trousers with fleshy tendrils of hands.
With his arms open and welcoming, Aeron heads straight over to his sister the moment he steps out of the raised water reservoir. He pauses a few paces away from her, his hazelnut eyes bracketed by a warm smile. “I’m home,” he whispers, and crosses the last planks of the bridge separating them to envelop her in a warm—cold, really—embrace. He can feel the water seeping from him into her lovely, and likely new, silk dress, webbing through the lilac fibres. Though she was always fond of the water, was she not? So, Aeron is not too fussed about getting her wet.
He uses the point of his finger to curl a lock of her hair behind her ear, fingernail scraping delicately over the skin painting the path he takes. “Did you miss me, Octavia?” He rumbles teasingly, hands splayed across the small of her back, feeling the strain of her erector muscles straining against his palms.
Someone close to them clears their throat, making a pointed, nonverbal statement for the time constraints. Aeron loosens his grip on his sister, heart clenching in longing. It has been so, so long… He detaches his front from hers, the water snagging their clothes together like a wet, rainy kiss, and immediately misses the suppleness of her body against the hardness of his own. His words are barely even a whisper, barely audible to himself, “Not a day went by when I didn’t think of you.” With a kaleidoscope of love effervescent on his face, and a heart that will not stop racing, Aeron rakes his fingers through her hair, pushing it back to replace its caress on her cheek with the coolness of his palm.
Suddenly, he turns to his brothers, the cadence of his voice rising to loud and congenial. “Or you,” he adds with a laugh, stepping away from Octavia completely. “All of you,” he says softly, “I missed all of you dearly.”
When the King crosses the distance to approach his son, everyone’s breath stutters like reverberating icicles in a frozen cave. Even the sporadic raindrops seem to halt in their paths. Aeron and his father stand there, face to face, for a moment too painful for his lungs.
Then the King’s arms are unfurling like a paternal, protective canopy, and Aeron’s legs are hurling him towards it. The embrace is locked tight as they try to bridge the chasm of a decade’s worth of absence. He presses a deep kiss into Aeron’s hairline, before pushing the boy away with an unyielding force. “Inform the people!” He roars with bright delight, “My son is home! Let the celebrations commence!”
His eyes are like strokes of the softest bristles of a new brush when they trace the outlines of her posterior silhouette through the lavender dress. Octavia has not changed too much; though she wears her hair longer than it ever was—the silky, shiny strands singing just past her feet. Every part of her, he would have recognised even in blindness. Including the petulant tilt in her stance as she stands with her back to him, arms crossed over her chest. Aeron remembers how she used to pout, cheeks puffed, and–
Oh.
His lips stretch into a nostalgic smile, all white teeth, and water dripping over the thin pink skin. His chin dips, head shaking from side to side. How could he have forgotten the very nature of his spirited sister? That was precisely why she was adored by everyone—her family, and the people ranging far and wide in their kingdom.
If the sudden recollection had not been enough to remind him, his brothers’ reactions certainly would have been: the way some of them are disgruntled, pinching the bridges of their noses, or rolling their eyes in fondly. Or even the way some of them are bumbling around her, stuttering with their hands to introduce Aeron, our elder, or Aeron, our younger brother, Princess, depending on their position in the royal line. Aeron catches a few unfamiliar faces in the throng of his fretful brothers as well, and makes a mental note to introduce himself to his youngest brothers later. If his memory serves him correctly, then during the time of his departure, the Queen had been expecting once more. She and his father must really love each other to desire any more children after Octavia. The thought rings bittersweet in his heart.
“You haven’t changed one bit, dear sister” he remarks playfully, reaching back to the present.
He takes big, heaving steps out of the basin surrounding the grey and turquoise waterfall gate. The water soaking through his clothes wants to weigh him down, clinging to the folded hem of his brown trousers with fleshy tendrils of hands.
With his arms open and welcoming, Aeron heads straight over to his sister the moment he steps out of the raised water reservoir. He pauses a few paces away from her, his hazelnut eyes bracketed by a warm smile. “I’m home,” he whispers, and crosses the last planks of the bridge separating them to envelop her in a warm—cold, really—embrace. He can feel the water seeping from him into her lovely, and likely new, silk dress, webbing through the lilac fibres. Though she was always fond of the water, was she not? So, Aeron is not too fussed about getting her wet.
He uses the point of his finger to curl a lock of her hair behind her ear, fingernail scraping delicately over the skin painting the path he takes. “Did you miss me, Octavia?” He rumbles teasingly, hands splayed across the small of her back, feeling the strain of her erector muscles straining against his palms.
Someone close to them clears their throat, making a pointed, nonverbal statement for the time constraints. Aeron loosens his grip on his sister, heart clenching in longing. It has been so, so long… He detaches his front from hers, the water snagging their clothes together like a wet, rainy kiss, and immediately misses the suppleness of her body against the hardness of his own. His words are barely even a whisper, barely audible to himself, “Not a day went by when I didn’t think of you.” With a kaleidoscope of love effervescent on his face, and a heart that will not stop racing, Aeron rakes his fingers through her hair, pushing it back to replace its caress on her cheek with the coolness of his palm.
Suddenly, he turns to his brothers, the cadence of his voice rising to loud and congenial. “Or you,” he adds with a laugh, stepping away from Octavia completely. “All of you,” he says softly, “I missed all of you dearly.”
When the King crosses the distance to approach his son, everyone’s breath stutters like reverberating icicles in a frozen cave. Even the sporadic raindrops seem to halt in their paths. Aeron and his father stand there, face to face, for a moment too painful for his lungs.
Then the King’s arms are unfurling like a paternal, protective canopy, and Aeron’s legs are hurling him towards it. The embrace is locked tight as they try to bridge the chasm of a decade’s worth of absence. He presses a deep kiss into Aeron’s hairline, before pushing the boy away with an unyielding force. “Inform the people!” He roars with bright delight, “My son is home! Let the celebrations commence!”
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