To an omniscient with a bit of empathy, Draco and Ghaul might be the saddest pair of siblings. They, on occasion, exist in a limbo between when their father was and when their father wasn’t. Ghaul, having taken a liking to other adults, seems to adjust better; but Draco? Oh, Draco . . . how he harbors such bitterness so close to his heart. How he worships the skewed perspective it gifts him.
Still, even as Ghaul finds his own brand of adoration in Anaxarete, he finds an ache where his father once was. Draco sleeps but when his brother urges him awake, he senses something is different. This isn’t some late night mischief to be torn into or annoyed by, no—Ghaul is muted and distant. Draco blinks bleary eyes awake and lifts himself to peer at the large, mourning form of his brother.
He’s never there.
Draco lets that phrase spin around and around in his head. Litotes is never there, no matter how much the pair may long for him. It seems as if no amount of desire or magic will bring their shadowed father back. A frown curls Draco’s lips but a melancholic softness dims the typical cruel glow of his eyes.
It is an odd image, staring down a pair of ruthless and exhaustive men while they sit in their shame and sadness. Normally, Draco would spit at himself for being so weak, but sitting in this misery with family he considers an equal—the weight on his back lightens. They might not know what they carry—generations of mourning, anxiety, and indecisiveness—but they lean on each other to bear the weight nonetheless.
“I don’t think he’s coming back, Ghaul,” Draco murmurs, downturned eyes picking out dark pebbles in the Pangean clay. He gave up a long time ago, after one too many mistaken cremellos and lost scents. It was easier to grow bitter and mean. “But I look for him, too,” this more a whisper than the last, followed by turning his gaze up to Ghaul’s. “I wish he’d come back.” Draco rolls his shoulders in what he wants to be a noncommittal shrug, but looks more like a sign of defeat.
That gentility grows, just the tiniest bit, expanding his heart and lungs to enough to take a deep, peaceful breath. “We can look for him soon, or now, if you want. I haven’t really tried looking in Hyaline,” Draco offers, the ghost of a smile on his face. He turns his head to peer up at the moon, crimson eyes reflecting the blinding silver. “I don’t think he’s left Beqanna, I just . . . think he’s very good at hiding.”
