evening past….
Sun was trying to beat back the night, Niko could see it through his window. He
had not even been able to return with a body. His beloved spirit-twin would be
denied the honor of a hero’s fiery bier. He could not cry; he simply sat,
huddled, amputated, diminished and cold upon his bed, watching a sunray inch its
way toward one of his sandaled feet.
Thus he did not see Tempus approaching with the first light of day haloing his
just-bathed form as if he were some god’s own avatar, which at times-despite his
better judgment-his curse, and his battle with it, forced him to become. The
tall, autumnal figure stooped and peered in the window, sun gilding his yarrow
honey hair and his vast bronze limbs where they were free of his army-issue
woolen chiton. He wore no arms or armor, no cloak or shoes; furrows deepened on
his brow, and a sere frown tightened his willful mouth. Sometimes, the
expression in his long, slitted eyes grew readable: this was such a time. The
pain he was about to face was a pain he had known too well, too often. It
brought to features not brutal enough by half for their history or profession
the slight, defensive smile which would empty out his eyes. When he could, he
knocked. Hearing no reply, he called softly, “Niko?” And again. …
Having let himself in, he waited for the Stepson, who looked younger than the
quarter-century he claimed, to raise his head. He met a gaze as blank as his
own, and bared his teeth.
The youth nodded slowly, made to rise, sank back when Tempus motioned “stay” and