jamie
from the destruction, out of the flame
To itself, she answers, a sentiment that he does not understand.
He has spent his entire life trying to determine exactly who it is that he belongs to. Autonomy is as foreign a concept as rigid edges. As an idea, it is almost impossible for him to understand what it must mean to belong to oneself.
But he does not ask her to explain the concept to him. He will merely dream about it later.
And perhaps it will be easier now that the pain has gone. Now that he can move freely without the crippling exhaustion that has plagued him since birth. Perhaps he will have no trouble understanding it now that he is not searching so feverishly for someone to blame.
The children belong to the water as she belongs to the water, as he belongs to the darkness, as Beyza belongs to the light, as his sister belongs to smoke, as his mother belongs to the shadows, as his father belongs to death. This he understands. This he has always understood. But he does not nod or flash ehr that ink-black, shark-tooth smile. He offers no indication that he understands. No, he waits for her to answer her question in the fashion in which he’d asked it.
And she does, finally. Ivar. He does not know the name, though this is not surprising. He has spent so little time near the water. It does not call to him the way it calls to her. He wonders how many children she has birthed him but does not ask.
“Ivar,” he echoes and studies her face a long beat. “You love him,” he says. It is not a question but an observation.
Just as he does not understand autonomy, he does not understand love. Or the absence of it.
you need a villain, give me a name
