Tag: fantasy short story

Te Iubesc

(Originally published on Medium on December 31st, 2024)

Thrice you’ve texted in the years since you’ve passed, the same curt message:

E mama. Sunt o pisica de piatră. Te rog, vino la Cimitirul Eternitatea în următoarea luna albastră. Te iubesc.

Always during blue moons. Always from random Romanian numbers.

And, quite frankly, ma, I’m a little pissed.

Alive, you had no time for me. Just flew your little Starla off to “un loc mai bun…” As if any place without you was better than being with you. But dead, well… Now you want me back. Won’t even tell me why (or how you’re doing this!). Not plainly, at least.

But Iași isn’t my home, you saw to that. Neither is this culture you’ve denied me.

I came for you, though. Eventually.

Cost me two days’ travel on economy planes and rickety trains. Had both my laptop and cell phone stolen by a gang of scraggly, yet surprisingly adept, youngsters—that one girl’s portrayal of “lost and afraid” would have had even Meryl Streep rising to applaud. Now I have no way to translate, am hopelessly confused, more frightened than I should be, and so, so furious.

You never taught my tongue how to dance like yours; I am speechless in your language.

And as I wander through this crumbly constellation of tombstones dotting “Cimitirul Eternitatea,” the sun setting ablaze the horizon with all the colors of desperation and angst, I’m searching for every cat of stone. Looking for you.

Happy now, ma?

Five… six… seven stone cats. I make a mental note.

Which one are you?

The sun now set, the moon a faint print in the sky, I sit myself upon a rusted bench along a cobble walkway between graves and puzzle over what to expect. You’re a cat (or so you claim). Of stone. Fitting, I suppose. You never were easy to understand. Ever distant. Enigmatic.

Will you come alive with the blue moon? Or is this just more wasted time?

A few plots away, an older woman tends to the cradle grave (presumably) of a loved one. O bătrână. Frumoasă. Swaddled in a black shawl and red headscarf, she lights candles, places them into gilded lanterns hooked on either side of the white marble tombstone. Their small flames illuminate the mass of rose bush spilling out from the grave where it had been planted. Nurtured and grown. Here. She reaches for a white rose, bloomed wide, and caresses its petals. Offers it care and warmth. Acknowledgment. She turns, meets my eyes. Smiles.

I nod, smile back.

The blue moon (luna albastră) crowns the distant buildings now, accentuating their brash and distinct brutalist-styling. I remember the letters, the few tales you’ve shared. Of communism and corruption. Of hardship. How, even after the revolution, life wasn’t easy. You did what you thought was best. Gifted me an opportunity at a life you never dared dream for yourself. And I don’t blame you. But that doesn’t mean the missing hurts any less.

The older woman rises from her tending beside the grave and approaches, small bags clutched and crinkling in hand. She nears, says something I don’t understand, and proffers a bag.

My throat dries, tenses. Uncertain of what constitutes proper protocol in this situation, all I can think to do is shrug, say, “Uh…”

“Zi bogdaproste.” She makes light of my ignorance with a soft chuckle, waves her hand in encouragement as she repeats, “Zi bogdaproste, dragă.”

“Bo–bogdaproste.” The word is clumsy on my tongue, but her brown eyes twinkle.

I accept the bag she proffered. Seemingly pleased, she nods and departs.

Stars blink now, and the blue moon glows overhead. I rise from the bench, my eyes already leaping through the cemetery, sweeping across stone cat after stone cat. They’re all where they were, ornamentations scattered amongst various graves. Except one.

Did I…miscount? I must’ve.

I cannot move, stilled by thoughts and recollection.

But… no. No, I didn’t… There were seven cats. But… dammit, ma! You can’t be…

My legs start to move, aimless at first, wobbly, then with vigor, dashing between tombstones towards where the one cat is missing.

You’re gonna owe me such an explanation. Can you… even talk as a cat?

Movement catches my eye. A man in overalls. He’s charging towards me, hollering nonsense, a hoe raised above his head. I lunge behind a nearby tombstone, shout back as he passes, “What the fuck!”

He pays me no mind, keeps on.

I shake my head, bite my lip and rise, glaring after him and his maniacal assault. It’s then I spot you—a sleek figure darting just ahead of the man, dark feathers streaming from your mouth like a grotesque trophy. And I don’t know how, but I recognize you instantly. Some inexplicable knowing, deep in my bones.

He’s got you backed against a thin copse of trees, swinging his hoe. Jabbing.

You stand your ground. Hiss and shriek. Bristle.

I come up behind the man, angle myself so he sees me. He shouts something, sounds like profanity, but I wouldn’t know. Flashcards shuffle through my mind. I search for something to say, something he’ll understand.

“Vă rog!” I start, firm, “Gata.” Enunciating every syllable. “Pisica e bună. Vă rog, pisica e bună.”

He jabs again and again. Misses you. Misses you.

“Vă rog!” I implore. Please.

He looks at me, shouts back, “Pisica nu-i bună. E agresivă. Sălbatică.”

From what I understand him say, I agree. You look the part: plumage and bones pouring from your mouth. Jagged. Bloody.

“A mea,” I insist, stepping past him, towards you. “Vă rog, pisica e a mea.”

Breeze and breath fill the silence.

I bend down, scoop you up. You paw at the bag the older woman gave me.

“Mulțumesc,” I say, backing away through the trees. “Mulțumesc.”

He waves us off.

“Plecați de aici! Plecați!”

I hurry, eager to be rid of him, too.

It’s true night now. Bright stars wave from their beds of distance and darkness, thousands of small candles wave back, cozy beside their flowers and tombstones, left behind as the stream of straggling visitors trickles out past the iron gate.

I settle us in the quiet, sit on the steps of a small mausoleum. Look at you.

“Ai venit, Starla! Ești aici.”

My heart skips a beat.

“What?”

“Nu avem mult timp, draga mea. Ascultă-mă.”

Gibberish in my ears, I forget to breathe. Just stare at you.

“No. Nooo. No. You’re a cat. Cats don’t…don’t do that.”

“Starla. Ascultă-mă. Te rog. Ascultă-mă. E foarte important.”

I press against my temples, feel my pulse hasten.

“Ma,” I say, half in disbelief. “Ma, I don’t understand you. I don’t…understand any of this. You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead. The fuck is going on? How are you alive? A… a cat. How is… any of this happening?”

I cover my eyes. Breathe.

In all the years that I’ve received these messages from you, I didn’t actually think anything would turn up. It’d just be some sick joke. A misunderstanding. I came here on a whim, not on belief. I came hoping to prove to myself that whatever insanity was transpiring, it was… unprocessed grief manifesting as… something, anything other than this. Because this… can’t be real. Cats don’t talk. Cats don’t talk. THEY DON’T TALK!

I stumble to my feet, pace along the steps, clap the tips of my fingers together. You follow along beside me lithe and calm and regal as any cat. Somehow that makes everything seem even more impossible.

“I don’t even…” I exhale. Stop. Look at you. Away. At you again.

“Concentrează-te, Starla. Concentrează-te,” you say. “Ai telefonul tău?”

“I. Don’t. Under. Stand,” I say, miming to you. “You’re. Supposed. To be. Dead. Why aren’t you dead?”

You roll your eyes, grumpy-growl at me.

Your ears shift back and forth, like you’re listening to something.

“Urmează-mă. Repede.”

You’re gone, weaving through trees and tombstones. Swallowed by the dead and night.

“Good God!”

I hurry after you, more stumbling than running. For a time, I can no longer see you, just keep drifting from candle glow to candle glow. Exasperated and weary. Then I hear you: a guttural shriek followed by what sounds like the howl of a man. I hurtle myself in your direction, prickly bushes and chipped tombstones lash and brush against my arms, my pants, scrapes stinging.

I come upon a hooded figure curled on the ground. Rocking, whimpering.

“Ma?” I call out.

A few rows away, behind a tombstone, you call back, “Aici, Starla. Sunt aici.”

I press forward in the direction of your voice, confused and hating myself for leaving the injured person behind. What did you do, ma? What did you do?

A cellphone’s glow illuminates your form in the dark. You’re snarling, pawing at the screen.

“What are you…”

“Trebuie să vorbim, Starla. Am nevoie să înțelegi. De ce nu înțelegi?”

“I don’t understand because you weren’t there to teach me! Fuck!”

I take the phone in my shaking hand, stare at the lock screen. It’s a blur at first, my eyes adjusting to the influx of light, then a young couple. Crisp. Smiling. Bright. The phone slips from my hand — or I let it go. I don’t know. But it lands with a thump on the cobblestone. Cracks. And I teeter to the side, lean against a tombstone. It’s cold and solid and the greatest comfort. I slide down until my butt meets the earth. Just sit there.

“Starla. Dragă.” You come beside me, nuzzle your nose into my leg.

I want to brush you off. I don’t. You’re warm and here and alive. And I don’t. But I don’t embrace you either. Just let you be. Be beside me. You’re here…

“What did you do, ma? Ce ai făcut?”

A growl is your response. Bristling.

I look up. Scream.

A man stands over me. Us. No longer hooded. A deep, clawed-gash marks his left eye. Red pulses and dribbles down his face, splashes against dirtied sneakers and the ground. He yells. Hits me. Shoves me against the tombstone, his grip dizzyingly strong. I can’t think. I let him. I can’t think. I let him. I can’t think.

You don’t let him. You nip, snarl, and claw.

He turns, tries to grab you. You nick his hand. He shuffles, goes to kick you. And I don’t know where you land, only hear the thump. The wheezing that follows.

“Ma,” I say through tight breaths. “Ma.”

I don’t see when he leaves, just know that he’s gone. Phone, too.

Once my feet are under me again, I go to find you. Your breath is sharp, soft, and all I can hear. Neither of us says anything as I scoop you into my arms, hold you to my chest.

“I’m sorry, ma. I’m sorry.”

What I apologize for, I don’t know. Just seems right.

You lick my hand.

All I can think about is getting you someplace safe where I can take care of you. We’ll figure everything else out later.

We have a later…

I trudge towards the exit, draw near. You weigh heavier in my arms, fur stiffens, and streaks of grey ripple across you. You’re turning to stone and your shriek stills my heart. Stills me.

“Nu pot pleca,” your voice is a whisper, cuts deep. It takes all I have not to fall to my knees. “Nu pot. Nu… Nu pot.”

Not knowing what else to do, the blue moon fading from the sky, I take you back, place you where I first found you. The missing cat. And as stone takes you, you say, “Te iubesc, Starla. Draga mea. Te iubesc.”

“Te iubesc, ma.” A tremor in my chest. “Te iubesc.”

I follow the rising sun to leave, pass a still flickering candle and stumble upon that crinkly bag the older woman had given me. Treats fill it, wrapped in packaging with words in your tongue. Some I know. More I don’t. And so, I’ll learn them. One at a time.

“Until the next blue moon, ma… Ne vedem curând.”

February 24, 2026
The Last Dance

(Originally published on Medium on February 4th, 2025)

A shiver like a familiar touch spreads across Charles’ shoulder—in the place where she had always touched him. He glances right, and the space beside him on the bed is empty. Still empty. He takes a breath, slow and deep, fills his chest.

His son says, closing the bedroom door behind him, “Goodnight, father.” He pauses. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

In the morning.

He nods to his son. Somehow already knowing.

Alone, now, in the room they had shared, he sits up—his arms frail and quivering under him.

He says to the emptiness of the room, “I feel you.” His voice is no more than a rough whisper, weighed with a longing borne of too much time spent on his own. Without her. “I’m here, Rosalynn, dear… I’m here.”

He scans the room, searching for her. She does not appear.

Through the patio door a moonlit glow washes over him, suffusing the room, gleaming off the glass of the clock on the wall. The clock he had made for her. Its bells ring, soft and soothing, calling him to a place, to a time he remembers from long ago.

Charles closes his eyes and basks in the moon-beam light, in the gentle sounding of the bells.

…

He opens his eyes. Rapt by the light outside, he moves, slipping slowly off the bed, his withered steps not always steady, not always sure. The crick in his hip flames for a moment, almost as if a reminder of the pain he has willingly, happily endured, biding his time. Waiting.

For her.

He opens the patio door and steps out. Steps again. And again.

And in the span of a breath, he’s at the park. Their park—where they had been young and had first met. The lawn is wet and his feet squish and sink into the muddied grass, but by some sort of miracle he manages not to slip as he hobbles towards the bench. The bench where they had sat, where they had talked, where those first buds of knowing had bloomed between them. He lolls himself down, pressing the curve of his back against the seatback. He huffs for a moment, catching soft breaths, fading breaths.

The light of the full moon glistens atop the water, painting dazzling white streaks across the rippling black canvas.

Sitting in the quiet, Charles stares for a moment; he takes in all the sounds of nothing as they play in the background. He is alone here. Alone and waiting.

Then, as if pouring out from the white streaks of moonlight dancing across the lake, he hears a symphony’s song. It begins as a hum of strings and wind but grows melodically; a rich accompaniment of brass merges with the strings and wind, crescendoing into an orchestral effect so brilliant he cannot help but to stand.

A pulling sensation tugs at the fabric of the black suit he is now wearing. And, led by the symphonious sounds, he lets himself be lulled toward the lakeshore. He bends over, peering into the water, into that shining bright white. It is not his face he sees. It is hers.

He does not permit himself to cry, though tears well and swell in his eyes. He will not cry. “It’s all in your head, Charles,” he says to himself. “Yes—Yes, that’s right. All in your head.”

He closes his eyes, resides in the darkness for the span of a few strung strings. When he opens his eyes again, he sees she’s still there. She says nothing—but her face says it all. Her tells, which he had come to know well during their lifetime together, give everything away. Just as they always had. The quiver at the edges of her eyes. The slight parting of her lips. The faintest tilt of her head to the left.

Come, her tells seem to say. Come and find me. Charles, find me.

He does not hesitate. He steps down into the lake; the water parts like curtain veils before him. He expects to feel wet, to be swallowed by the water. But no. No, he’s dry. Dry and walking now across a dance floor. Couples twirl and dance around him, lovers caught in the melody of a song so impossibly beautiful, so impossibly elegant as it suffuses the grand golden ballroom Charles finds himself in. Calming. Until he remembers…

I must find her. My dear Rosalynn.

He thinks he sees her. There! She was just there, twirling so close he could have almost reached for her. He does, and his hand falls through the empty air.

She isn’t there. Not anymore.

He starts across the dance floor, minding the dancers, minding his steps—each one stronger than the last, sturdier, more confident. Bolder. He passes by a wall adorned with mirrors, all framed in gold, resplendent with rubies and emeralds, glittering in the amorous chandelier light. His reflection changes, though he does not notice. His posture straightens, taller, leaner. The thin white wisps atop his head become richly dark curls, thick and tousled and tumbling just past the edge of his broadened jaw. The milky haze coating his eyes dissipates, replaced by a youthful forest-green gleam as he scours the dance floor; his mind sharper now than it had been moments before, more focused than ever. On Rosalynn.

Where are you, love? Where?

This way and that way he wanders; a maze of bodies surround him, all stepping in perfect harmony, in time with the beat of a song so familiar it is nearly on the precipice of his remembering.

And then, with a spin… she’s there.

Swaying in an open space on the dance floor, she’s garbed in a gown of tulle and white. Her wedding gown. A wonder, she is, to behold. Here and real and wholly his. At last, my sweet Rosalynn. At last…

She waits for him, alight in a glow such as only her own beauty could equal. Her brown eyes shine, flecked with amber flames; hers is an enveloping gaze, one which wraps its way around Charles as he nears, piercing into his soul and holding it—holding him—firm and warm and dear in an embrace sewn from all the love and joy and laughter of a lifetime lived happily together. She proffers her cheek. He steps to her, pulls her close with arms strong and with no trace of their former quivering. Charles kisses her cheek, smiling as his wife’s face blossoms sunset red.

They dance. Slow at first, recalling the placement of hands, the pattern of steps they once knew. With time and new familiarity, their movements find their vigor. A surety shows in the confidence of their steps in time with the beating of their hearts, of the strange, familiar song carrying them across the dance floor. A song Charles remembers now, though he’s never before heard.

The music slows, as do their steps, and time all but ceases to pass. She leans in, rests her head on his shoulder. He can refrain, now, no longer. Charles cries. He lets the welled-up tears fall. And they fall. And they fall. And they fall. A lake he could fill with his tears, and it would be the sweetest lake. She wipes his tears away, absorbing them as though she was absorbing—absolving—all the pain, all the yearning his soul has had to carry all these long years he has spent without her.

“Are you ready, Charles?” Rosalynn asks, her voice as warm now as ever it was, softer than petals on water.

“Ready for what?”

Her eyes say it all.

“Yes,” he says, taking a breath that never comes.

I want to be with you… Light blazes around them.

To be with you… Music plays, everlasting.

Be with you… A new dawn rises.

And he sleeps.

…

His son walks in, says, “Good morning, father.”

A soft melody plays, one he knows, though he’s never heard.

He cannot hear it. Not yet. But someday. Someday far away.

“Father?”

January 22, 2026
When Gods Feel (An Elspar Story)

It was a vicious summer-storm night when he swam from home. Not alone.

He carried the voices with him, prowling through his mind like an invasive species — wild and sharp of bite. Soon to overwhelm him…

Had overwhelmed him…

Their voices — resonant and cruel, contradicting and pestering. Unyielding.

So unyielding…

He gave himself to the waves. To their justified karmic thrashing as they pummeled against his tail and chest, ripping scales from his flesh. White-foam punches. Over and over. Beating him down. No reprieve — not even to breathe. Not that he deserved to.

Not for what he had done.

Sink it down, he thought. Gods aren’t supposed to… feel.

Lightning split the sky; thunder howled with the wind.

And everything hurt. He was grateful for that.

Another wave crashed down on him, like a verdict.

His vision blurred, and pain bloomed in sweet numbing.

The voices — finally — quieting…

Until…

A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him under. Deep, deep under.

Through slitted eyes, he glimpsed a familiar figure.

Ullian…? Damn. Thought I had escaped you…

He let himself be pulled, and sank.

Summer’s warmth was fainter here, in the darker, calmer deep — where the storm’s punches couldn’t reach. Typically, he didn’t mind. He often preferred the cold. Made him feel alert and alive. Powerful.

But those were all things he wanted no part in tonight.

Please, he thought, just one night away…

“What’s the matter with you, Revion!?” Ullian held him by the shoulders, his black-gold-blue marbled face twisted with fury — and something resembling concern.

No “my Rising”… hm? You must really be upset. Revion smirked.

As Revion’s Right-Hand — sworn to protect and serve — Ullian’s tendency skewed towards reverent formality. Something he rarely deviated from except for when his emotions flared, which was becoming more and more common lately. Almost like he cared…

Revion glanced surfaceward, choosing to ignore Ullian’s stern, nostril-flared gaze. He wanted to return to the surface, to his prior — and much preferred — predicament, being pummeled, punished, and bruised. The physical hurt less.

“Revion,” Ullian said, forcing calm, “what are you doing? It’s not like you to compel Reefguards and take off like this.” Then realization struck, and his fierce eyes narrowed. “Something happened…”

Revion grimaced, not wanting to remember.

No. Not at all. Just learned that I’d unwittingly shamed a general into sending two hundred new recruits to their deaths. You know, like some brain-slit cretin.

And worst of all — he felt. He just didn’t know what. Rage? Remorse? Pride? Even his siblings were roused to feel. Divided mostly. Their defining trait. Pim, his older brother and the reigning Emperion Emperor, had slunk from the haze of Pleasure Rooms to deliver a scalding reprimand so pointed and wrathful it burned itself into memory. Aleida, though… She says that’s just what Reefguards are for — to live and die in service to the empire. ‘Obedient and inconsequential.’

His hands twitched, and the voices warred like thunder.

Once more he flitted his eyes surfaceward. I just want to hurt so as to feel nothing. Nothing at all.

Because there was more.

Just before the storm broke, a report had come in from his rudimentary spy network. The boy who Revion had decided would be his future was apparently “emotionally entangled” with an Inkleon. A poorly-crafted, eight-armed poet — of all things! What does my love think he is, to sink so low? Autumn-rotted scum? Revion didn’t know whether to feel heartbroken, embarrassed — gods-forbid jealous! — or some sick warping of the three. It was all too much to hear. Too much to feel.

And the voices. Won’t. Shut. Up!

He said none of that, of course — honesty was unbecoming of the Imperial Heir. To anyone. Ever. His siblings’ one consensus.

Ullian maintained a vice-like grip on Revion’s shoulder as though he were some quiver-fish intent on slithering away, which wasn’t far from the truth. Revion wanted to get away. That’s why he left. To get away from the mind-whirling misalignment of values in his imperial family. Away from his failures and heartache. And away from himself — something he had no doubt another foam-fisted ocean punch could assist him with.

His problems were his to suffer. Alone. He knew that.

But I’m never alone. He peered into Ullian’s annoyingly attentive eyes. Not even when I slither and sneak like a cowardly eel.

“Don’t you ever want to slip away?” Revion asked. “Stretch your tail. Or test your strength against a storm?”

“That wasn’t strength I saw. It was surrender.”

That last word stung.

Revion curled his lips in a sinister smile, but his heart thumped with a sick desire — for the very thing he could never have.

“I’m a god,” he snarled. “Surrender has no place in my vocabulary.”

Ullian nodded, seeming appeased. Though, his grip didn’t lighten.

Not until Revion yanked himself free and rolled his shoulders back, head high, his tail stretched long. His whole body ached — he let none of it show.

A god? He thought. Or a performer?

“Shall we head back, my Rising?” Ullian asked with a bow, slipping back into formality.

Revion remained where he was, floating amidst the ocean’s steady sway.

I’m not ready. He chuckled to himself. All the power in the world, and there’s still so much I cannot do…

Cal’s blue moonlight spilled across the surface, high above. And cunning struck.

Revion could do nothing about the two hundred Reefguards — all of whom were probably already devoured and dead. Nor could he sever himself from the strangling snare that was his family.

But… he thought, a smile tugging his lips, I can remind my love of his worth.

“My Rising?” Ullian was respectfully insistent.

“We’ll start back, yes. But once we get to the palace, I’ll need you to send a Messenger for me.”

Ullian cocked his head. “Of course, my Rising. May I ask — where to?”

“The Inkleon Library. My future believes he can settle for amethysts before I’m able to offer him my sapphires…” Revion kicked his tail and started home. “So, to remind him who he is — and what he means to me — I’ll need to shatter that amethyst.”

The voices raged on in his mind, between demanding propriety and insisting on retribution. Yet his own purpose was anchoring enough to focus. There were some choices still left to him. Feeble graspings for control that his siblings would undoubtedly deem too petty and “inconsequential” to yank away or begrudge him for. One life was nothing, after all, when compared to two hundred.

And it’ll be fun — breaking all eight arms…

April 15, 2025
The Weight of Expectations (An Elspar Story)

White orbs, oblong—and not an option. Yet their soft shimmer calls to me. Captivates.

I lean closer, my nose nearly brushing their seafoam-fragile shells. And for a breath, I am weightless—adrift in the cool hush of the cavern deep beneath my family’s palace. Weightless, like a decision made. A calm surety—something I’m not sure I’ve ever really known…

Then—

“Tristyn!” my sister calls. And doubt rushes back in. “Come away from there, please.”

I linger a moment longer, swaying with the water’s gentle tide. Then I kick my tail lightly, and swim away—the weight pressing in once more.

The cavern is tight, its walls craggy and pocked with dozens of small holes. Each one vanishes into the extensive tunnel network the ancient Hinni Snails call home. A handful of them slither about, nibbling at the algae clumps nestled in the cavern’s crevices—their cleaning a salty, slimy feast. Bright red-gold sunlight filters into the cavern, washing dim their already soft, colorful bioluminescence.

It’s the eggs, though, I find more striking. Four large clusters hug the walls, each with the pulsing glow of a thousand tiny lives. All eager and waiting to hatch.

Yet today, only one life will twine with mine.

I hope we can become friends. Whoever you are…

Once at my sister’s side, she takes my webbed-hands and squeezes.

“There is no wrong choice. Okay?” She offers me a warm smile. I feel only chills.

But there is. Just nobody will say it.

I resist the urge to glance back at the cluster of white snail eggs. It’s hard, like trying to ignore some extension of myself.

Such a fool for hoping…

We turn as one to face Syllis—a wizened black Hinni Snail, dappled with small purple spots and large enough to fit comfortably in my palm. Perched on a narrow ridge halfway up the cavern wall, her long antennae-eyes sway, assessing us. It is her duty to oversee the pairings, to ensure her kin are paired with responsible Dhargonian matches.

All I know is how to be “responsible.” There was never another option…

When she realizes she has our attention, Syllis begins flashing her purple spots to communicate: Welcome Tideress Orawyn. Rising Tristyn.

We both nod politely.

Will Tidal Elwryn be joining us? Excited flashes.

I bite my lip to keep silent, tension lining my jaw.

“I’m afraid not,” Orawyn says, obviously wanting to make light of our brother’s absence. “Resolving disputes in the outer territory.”

It’s not every day a Rising chooses his Hinni-match. The slow rhythm of disappointment.

“He would be here if he could,” Orawyn adds, her tone placating.

Would he?

Syllis’ eyes narrow and glance at each other before focusing on me.

I trust you understand the significance of this day?

“I do.” My voice cracks. Heat flushes my cheeks and I tuck my chin to my shoulder.

Syllis flashes joyously. This is a special time in any Dhargonian’s life, young Rising. There is no shame in growing older—time comes for us all in the end.

I manage a nod, still looking away.

We are four. Syllis’ gesture to each cluster in turn with her antennae-eyes.

I know their kind well.

There are the blue-spiked protectors, I think, eyeing the pulsing blue cluster—fearless, focused, routinely temperamental, like Elwryn’s companion. The green-spiraled nurturers. I glance at the soft green glow behind Orawyn’s ear, where her companion tends to perch. Caringly assertive, patient, always meaning to be supportive, but… Then there are the purple-spotted tradition-keepers—like Airyn’s companion, before she passed and Elwryn ascended the throne. Clever, methodical, almost bitterly stern.

My gaze settles again on the white cluster.

And then there’s you guys—the white-splotched academics, like…

I sigh.

No one.

Leaders act. That was Elwryn’s lesson—his scolding, still fresh, thunders through my mind. We do not laze about, cowering behind scrolls, or lose days to wasteful ponderings, as you seem so aggravatingly prone to do. We are to be focused and committed. Decisive. There are wrong choices in life, brother. But it is a leader’s commandment—one that will one day irrevocably become yours—to make as few of them as gods-willingly possible. Understand?

I had understood then, just as I understand now.

And while most Dhargonians view choosing a Hinni Snail companion as a symbolic rite of passage, in my family, the long-standing—and suffocating—belief is that this choice reveals the callings of our hearts and defines the kind of leader we are meant to become.

And consequences ripple through every choice…

Take your time, Syllis flashes. But do be attentive. As we are deep in spring, many eggs have already begun to hatch. And while we believe the choice should reside with your kind, we connect with him whose face is first we see. So, consider. And hurry.

I nod with a smile, then take a deep breath. Once more, my gaze drifts between the four pulsing clusters—all the countless snails waiting, my decision weighing…

And, mind blank, I hesitate. Considering.

Hinni Snails live for decades—longer even than we Dhargonians. And they can reincarnate. Fragments of their past lives cling to them like stubborn barnacles, granting them insight, memories, and invaluable perspective.

That’s the true weight of this choice.

I’m not just choosing a companion—but a mentor, an advisor, a guide. Specialized by lifetimes of honing the skills they know best.

We give them the world beyond their cavern. In return, they give us what time would otherwise forget.

There is no wrong choice.

But there always is…

I glance again at the blue-spiked cluster, my heart heavy with Elwryn’s absence.

Maybe if I chose one of them, he and I might finally have something in common. Or at least, maybe I wouldn’t miss him so much…

The sincerity—more than the thought itself—catches me by surprise.

If he were here, he would just pick one for me. Wouldn’t that be so much easier?

Orawyn rests a hand on my shoulder, rousing me from my thoughts.

“This one”—she directs me to a black egg with purple spots like fluffy clouds—“reminds me of Airyn’s companion. The pattern is just like hers, don’t you think?”

I nod, but say nothing. There’s no spark, looking at the egg. No fascination or intrigue. No connection. Just that heavy weight pressing against my chest.

That one’s not for me…

The thought feels ungrateful, but feelings are what they are. Sometimes they carry their own truth.

My mind returns again to the white-splotched cluster.

To the Hinni Snail academics.To my own bright experiences sifting through scrolls in the family library, the lectures I’ve attended, the curiosities that have stirred through my mind for as long as I can remember.

They are what steer me.

Seeking answers…

But what room is there for dreams and curiosity in the life of a leader? I wonder. We’re supposed to be focused. To know everything—or at least conduct ourselves as if we do…

A faint clicking from behind startles me.

Without thinking, I spin around, my long seaweed-like appendages—one of either shoulder blade and another two low on the base of my back—rustle through the water as I do.

And my eyes meet another’s.

Glorm.

The name appears in my mind like the popping of a tiny bubble.

Orawyn gasps. “Tristyn, turn away from it. Now!”

Syllis is silent, one antenna-eye on the Tideress, the other on me. Observing.

“He’s so small…” I say, leaning in. “A hollow pearl would suit him like a palace.”

“Tristyn, please.” Orawyn swims up behind me, rests her hand on my shoulder. “The longer he sees you, the harder it will be for him…”

I swallow, chest tight, my heart growing numb.

But then I really look at him. This adorable, tiny snail.

And that weightless feeling returns—slow at first, then all at once.

The numbness fades.

A spark flickers within.

Calming.

Exhilarating.

Decided.

I turn back to Syllis. “What would happen to him—if I chose another?”

The old snail’s eyes glance at each other, then back to me.

He will live, she flashes. And he will hurt. We’ve never managed to figure out why, but the connection is stronger in us than in you.

She hesitates.

You would not be the first to deny one of us… choosing one of you.

I look to Orawyn. Her face is scrunched. Even her own companion—green antennae-eyes peeking over her ear—is flashing frantically.

“What would you have me do?”

She flits her eyes between Syllis and me, then says, almost begrudgingly, “Abide by your values.” Tenderness in her eyes, a tightness in her lips. “If this is your choice, then commit.”

I turn back.

“Glorm…”

The tiny white-splotched snail flickers wildly.

Glorm am I.

I exhale. Laugh.

“Yes you are,” I say, bending down and offering Glorm my finger. “Yes you are.”

You… accept his choosing? Syllis flashes, curious and slow.

“I do.”

Then, before Orawyn can object, I add:

“A leader protects those who choose to follow him—Elwryn’s words.”

Wonderful! Syllis flashes, a flurry of bright excitement—she’d jump, if she could.

I smile up at Orawyn, anxious, yes, yet giddy as Glorm slithers up my arm, leaving a trail of warm tingles as he goes.

She says nothing at first.

Her face is stern. Her hand still lingers on my shoulder.

I brace. Expecting a lecture. Or an argument. Or… something.

But all she says is:

“Wise words to quote. And a wonderful choice, indeed.”

Her tone is polite, yet…

If you really mean that, then why is your grip so tight?

Gently, I shrug Orawyn’s hand off and focus on Glorm—so new, so full of potential.

And mine.

My choice.

My truth.

April 15, 2025