Chapter Text
It is a truly dreary afternoon in Oriflamme. Rain pelts steadily against the cobblestone streets of the old city center making the trek to The Shelves rather more treacherous than usual. Despite the wet weather there are still many people out and about on their daily errands. Dion notes that they are mostly university students judging by the number of knapsacks and hoodies emblazoned with the university crest. A few of them glance his way as he passes, eyebrows raised and whispers following him as he passes out of earshot. Dion ignores them with practiced ease as his destination comes into view at the end of the street.
The building is quite unassuming from the outside with old, flaking paint on the wooden frame and a sign which is weatherworn and cracked slightly in two places hanging over the entrance. At first glance, it doesn’t look much like a bookstore; if he didn’t already know what it was, Dion doubts that he would have looked twice at it, much less decide to go inside. Although the window display includes some books, they are nearly lost amid the veritable trove of other oddities which include everything from fountain pens to stolas quills and inkpots, prints of old paintings, little iron cauldrons, and even an old typewriter. It is an eclectic mix of old and new that Dion has long ago come to appreciate for its individuality.
A bell tingles above him as he pushes the door open. The proprietor is the only other person in the room. He looks up as Dion carefully shakes the excess rain off his umbrella just outside the threshold and clasps it shut.
“Welcome back, Dion,” the old man says with a smile. His wispy white hair peeks out from beneath his scholar’s cap. Dion hasn’t seen him without it since he was a child. “It has been some time since you last visited my humble shop.”
“My deepest apologies, Harpocrates,” Dion says. “I’ve been busy as of late.”
The old man merely chuckles and regards him over the tops of his spectacles. “Of course, of course, I’m only teasing. I understand that you have much more important things to do than visit this old place. I’m honored you patronize it at all.”
Dion feels a pang of regret that he hasn’t been able to visit more frequently. He knows Harpocrates is being truthful when he says that he values any time that Dion could spare to visit the shop but that somehow makes him feel worse for not having made the time for it sooner. It has always been such a welcoming place, like a second home when his father’s house felt too oppressive and the university dormitory felt too open. The Shelves, on the other hand, although quite small was always blessed retreat. True to its name, shelves run along each of the walls and reach all the way to the ceiling while narrow aisles covered in a thick blue carpet dominate the rest of the space. There are sections devoted to every possible subject: history, language, fiction, autobiographies, self-help, horror, classics, poetry, philosophy, and likely more than a dozen other subjects that Dion cannot possibly name from memory.
That is what he likes best about the place—there is always something new to learn, something to pique his interest and a tutor who is all too happy to give him small lectures on the subject at hand. He treasures the many fond memories of curling up in an old chair in the far corner of the shop with a book in hand and reading about something he hadn’t known before while Harpocrates hums old Sanbrequois folk songs and rings through the few customers that pop in.
“Is there something in particular you’re looking for today?”
“Actually, yes, there is.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and ignores the seven missed messages on the screen. Work can wait—this is important and it might be the only chance he will have all week to stop by. “I’m looking for the next book in the Eikon series. I believe it’s called Leviathan the Lost—do you have it?”
“I’m afraid not.” Harpocrates’ eyes twinkle. “It doesn’t come out until two weeks from now. The original publication date was delayed, you see.”
“Oh,” Dion says, feeling rather let down. “I see. That is indeed unfortunate.”
Harpocrates considers him for a moment. “I never took you for a fantasy reader, Dion.”
“It’s not for me. It is a gift for Kihel.” Dion shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “It’s her birthday at the end of the week. She’s quite enamoured by those books.”
“Is that right?” The old man smiles wider and points to a sign sitting beside the register that Dion hadn’t noticed. “Then perhaps this might be of interest to you.”
Book Signing & Meet and Greet
Join us at The Shelves to celebrate the release of Leviathan the Lost, the fourth installment of Lord Margrace’s series Rise of the Eikons.
Event starts at 6:00PM on 16th Saturday
Interview with the author followed by a short Q&A
Bring your books to be signed and add the latest adventure to your collection!
We look forward to seeing you!
“A book signing with the author?” Dion returns his gaze back to Harpocrates. “Here, at The Shelves?”
“Just so,” the scholar agrees happily. “I became acquainted with the author some time ago. He is quite a lovely gentleman. In fact, it was he who suggested this event in the first place. Unfortunately, her special day will have already passed, but if she might be persuaded to wait for her gift it would certainly make for an exceptional copy.”
Dion reads the sign again. Kihel’s favourite author is none other than the Lord Margrace himself, and she gushes about his books with her friends all time. They play at being Eikons themselves all throughout the house during sleepovers—Tett always insists on being Ifrit while Crow and Kihel trade places being Garuda and Leviathan, and more often than not they leave all the pillows and couch cushions strewn about the floor by the time they fall asleep. Dion doesn’t mind that, though; she smiles more often now than she did when she first came to live with him, so a small hurricane blowing through his living room is hardly worth noting.
Besides, he has other gifts for her already, so it isn’t as though she won’t have anything to open on her actual birthday. He is quite sure she will jump at the chance to meet the author and have him sign each of her well-worn copies of the three previous books.
“I will ask her. I am sure she would be delighted to attend the event.” Dion feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and subtly slides his hand down to silence it. “Perhaps this event will give The Shelves better visibility in the public eye.”
Harpocrates chuckles behind his wrinkled hand. “Lord Margrace said the same thing. Truly, I’m happy with things as they are, Dion. Part of the charm of this place is that it isn’t so well-known; a diamond in the rough, you could call it.”
“You are right, of course.” His phone begins vibrating again. Dion sighs and pulls it out just enough to peer at the screen. “I must apologize, Harpocrates. I am needed back at the office now. Rest assured, Kihel and I will come and see you soon.”
“I’m glad of it,” his old mentor says, smiling again. He makes a gentle shooing motion toward the door. “Go on, then, my boy. Give my warmest birthday wishes to your little girl, all right?”
My little girl. Dion smiles, one hand hovering over the worn brass doorhandle and the other ready to flick his umbrella back open. Sometimes, it still gives him pause to think that he has a daughter, that they are a family. That is something Dion has always longed for as he hovered uncertainly at the edges of his own family, well loved by his father and not quite shunned by his relatives. After all she has been through, Kihel deserves better than what he went through growing up. He will do anything to see her smile.
He definitely must to bring her to the book signing.
The rain continues to drench Oriflamme throughout the rest of the week. That isn’t unusual; Sanbreque is prone to wet springs, especially in the north, before the heat of summer arrives. It makes for perfect planting weather even if it means that the city folk find themselves forced to remain indoors if they don’t want to be soaked to the bone. People are always moody during the spring rains, though, which makes Dion’s work drag even worse than usual. He finds himself forced to work late into the night from home, long after Kihel has gone to bed, frowning over the contract from Barnabas Tharmr’s legal team and wishing there was something that could rid him of the migraine that blazes between his temples.
Not for the first time, Dion bitterly wishes that he could have gone into something other than the family business. It isn’t that he is not good at his job; in fact, he is extremely competent at it. Few people reach the heights that he has in such a short time and Dion is, on the whole, very proud of his accomplishments in that regard. Yet, his work is simply that: work. It isn’t particularly fulfilling or exciting, there is nothing inherently interesting about it, and—most importantly—it often keeps him from spending as much time as he would like with Kihel. If he hadn’t spent so much of his youth working toward this to make his father proud, Dion likes to think that he might have abandoned this role to pursue something he actually enjoys.
That is nothing more than a fantasy, of course. If it weren’t for working so hard in his youth, Dion would never have been able to take in Kihel at all. He is only able to provide her with a good life because he followed the path his father laid before him. It doesn’t matter that the rest of the family still treats him as something of a black sheep despite all he has achieved because at least he can put those accolades (and the money that came with them) to good use. He has long ago made peace with the fact that his aunts and uncles will always look at him with a little bit of disdain for the circumstances with his birth. There is nothing at all he could do to change that so there is no point in wasting his energy worrying about it.
Dion sighs and leans back in his chair, hands tightly gripping the leather armrests as if to anchor himself. His eyes are starting to go fuzzy from staring at a computer screen for the better part of three hours and having comparatively little to show for it. Tharmr’s demands are absurd; Dion knows he will have to work through counteroffers on the morrow if the whole acquisition doesn’t simply fall through before that. He almost wishes it would, if only to save himself the hassle of having to deal with changing everything yet again.
He is startled to attention when his phone buzzes insistently against the dark wood of his desk. The screen lights up with a familiar face and Dion feels his own mouth quirk up at the corners as he slides the button to answer it.
“This is awfully late to call,” he says by way of greeting. “What if I had been asleep?”
The man on the other side of the call laughs, a wry chuckle that is as familiar to Dion as the back of his own hand. “We’ve been friends long enough that I know you wouldn’t be in bed before midnight, Dion.”
“I suppose that’s true enough,” Dion agrees, frowning once more at the computer screen. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure? Don’t you have a game tomorrow, Terence?”
“That’s right. Not until five-thirty, though; Rosalith has the early game against Dalimil.” Terence pauses. Dion can imagine the way he slouches along the couch, one leg tossed over the edge. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing. How Kihel is doing.”
His voice is hesitant, as though he is afraid to hear the answer. Dion supposes he can’t blame Terence for that; it isn’t as though parenthood is easy. He knew that when he first resolved to begin the adoption process. Over the years, he has listened to countless colleagues talk about their children over lunch and in between meetings, watched his cousins grow up and have children of their own, heard all the good and bad that comes with being a parent; Dion knew what to expect. Or, he should have; once Kihel came home with him, it became abundantly clear very quickly that no amount of preparation could have actually prepared him for this.
Not that he would give her up for the world, though. She is worth all the hardships of parenthood.
“We’re fine.” Non-committal and brief, and not even a lie. It is far too late in the night to begin to delve into the complicated relationship that they are still navigating just a short year and half since the day he picked her up from the orphanage in Twinside. “Kihel watches all your games, you know. Said she wants to play midfield like you one day.”
“She’ll be a force to be reckoned with, I’m sure,” Terence says solemnly. “Really, Dion, I’m glad that things are going well. I’m sorry that I…” His voice trails off for a brief moment. Dion’s chest feels tight. The words on the computer screen are completely out of focus, all thoughts of Barnabas Tharmr and the acquisition entirely gone from his mind. “I’m sorry that I can’t be there tomorrow.”
Dion lets out a silent breath of relief. They’ve had that conversation many times now and Dion is not keen to repeat it again. It is so much easier to focus on Kihel instead.
“There is no need to apologize, Terence. She understands.” Which is true; the two of them had discussed it over dinner and Kihel, despite her disappointment, agreed that it wouldn’t be fair to expect Terence to leave his team in the lurch for her. “Your gift arrived a couple of days ago. That’s more than enough.”
“I’ll visit next time I’m in Oriflamme,” he says, but Dion knows that such promises are easier said than done. Terence has obligations to his team, to his sponsors, to his fans—it is not so simple for him to just leave all that behind for a day to spend time with them. At least, not until the off-season. “Teach her a few tricks, maybe. We could go out for dinner after.”
“I would like that.” Terence is a good man. Dion knows it would be better for them to have had a clean break, but their friendship spans decades. Neither of them wanted to throw it away even when it was time to go their separate ways. “We could go to Lulu’s. Sit on the patio, enjoy a finely aged Sanbrequois vintage.”
“Just like the old days.” There is another pause, longer this time. Dion taps out an email to Thierry while Terence takes a long sip of something on the other end of the line—whiskey, probably—and then asks, quietly, “Are you happy, Dion?”
The question doesn’t register with him right away, distracted as he is by the mess that is the acquisition of Akashic Industries. When Terence’s words sink in, Dion’s fingers freeze in place. It isn’t something that he consciously thinks about so he doesn’t have an answer at the ready. He isn’t unhappy—he smiles with Kihel, laughs with her, sleeps well enough (when he makes it to bed, anyway), and he doesn’t feel depressed when he is alone. He’s just tired, stretched thin between his work and his family. He needs to be better at setting boundaries and sticking to them rather than taking on work that he could delegate to his staff.
He's definitely happy. He’ll be even happier when he finally closes his laptop and slides into bed.
“Dion?” Terence prods. His voice is soft, laced with sad concern.
“Sorry,” he mutters quickly, resuming his typing while he speaks. The migraine is getting worse and he doubts he will be able to sleep it off. It’s Kihel’s birthday tomorrow; he cannot afford not to be well-rested for it so he will just have to endure the pain. “Work has been difficult lately. Of course I’m happy, Terence. What brought that on all of a sudden?”
“I just worry about you.” Terence is choosing his words carefully. “Remember to take care of yourself too, okay? You’ll be no good to Kihel otherwise.”
“I will,” Dion assures him. His email to Thierry is done and sent; just a few more to the others on his team and he can let them deal with preparing renegotiations and proposals for counteroffers over the weekend while he spoils his daughter. “You too, all right? I know it’s not easy being in the spotlight all the time.”
He can hear Terence’s smile through the phone.
“I will, too.”
Kihel’s birthday passes in a flurry of activity.
Dion shuts his phone off so that he will be completely unreachable for the duration of the event. He makes her breakfast—eggs that are only slightly overcooked, sausage that is only slightly charred, and toast that is pretty close to perfectly golden-brown—and then she waits eagerly for her friends to arrive for the party. She watches out the front window for Tett and Crow to come running up the driveway while Dion fumbles to reattach the large Happy Birthday banner back on to the wall.
“Don’t worry about that,” Kihel says, sitting on her knees and staring at him from over the back of the couch. “I like the balloons better anyway.”
“I should hope so.” He eyes the dozens of balloons she helped him blow up earlier that morning even as he slaps another piece of tape over the flimsy banner string. They’re mostly in shades of pink, purple, and pale blue, and they fill every corner of the house. There are even some tied to iron gate that stands open and ready for their guests. “The neighbours must think we’ve become a balloon emporium.”
Satisfied that the banner is finally firmly attached to the wall, Dion steps back and ruffles Kihel’s hair. There is still no sign of Tett or Crow or any of her other classmates coming up the drive, so he takes a seat beside her and changes the channel on the TV from Junction! to the Champion’s League. He knows that the Oriflamme Dragoons aren’t scheduled to play until much later, but the dark horse of this year’s league, the Rosalith Shields, are currently winning against the Dalimil Couerls three to one. Kihel settles in beside him to watch as a Rosalith forward kicks the ball just shy of the Dalimil net.
“When do you think they will come?” Kihel asks in a small voice. She snuggles in close to his side, fingers curling into his shirt.
Dion glances at his watch. “It is only quarter-to-one, Kihel. I’m sure they will be here soon.”
Despite how much she loves football, she can’t focus on the TV. Eventually, she turns to lean over the armrest of the couch to stare out the front window. It’s a clear, sunny day for once; the rain that blanketed Oriflamme all week has passed and given bloom to all the beautiful flowers in their garden. Dion tries not to fidget in his seat but Kihel’s anxiety is palpable. It is the first birthday party where she has invited her friends from school—her second birthday since she came into Dion’s care—so it needs to be perfect.
What if they don’t come? Dion wonders, his migraine flaring unhelpfully. He has heard of parents RSVPing to birthday parties and then they don’t bring their children at all, without any notice or reason. He doesn’t want that to happen to Kihel. How do I fix it if no one shows up to celebrate with her?
None of the parenting books he has read told him what to do if such a thing were to happen. How can he alone make her day special when all she wants is to play with her friends? Dion says a silent prayer to Great Greagor that the guests will start arriving soon. He has prepared everything with meticulous care—chips sit ready on the kitchen table in colourful plastic bowls, the cake waits in the fridge (chocolate with buttercream frosting and sugary purple wyvern tails), and party favours tied with pink ribbons are laid out in a basket in the foyer for when the celebration is over. He’ll order pizza once most of the children have arrived.
He suddenly wishes that he wasn’t alone, that there was someone else with him to help soothe his nerves so he can, in turn, reassure Kihel. But Terence—his oldest friend—is not here; their lives no longer intersect the way they used to growing up. Dion has no brothers or sisters to guide him through these feelings. His other friends are kind and supportive, but most of them don’t have children around her age nor have they gone through the adoption process; sometimes they don’t know exactly what advice to give him either. It’s really, really hard being a single parent but Dion is doing his best. He is afraid that his best isn’t enough.
Will Kihel resent him? He doesn’t want that.
“There!” Kihel cries suddenly, her voice bright and sharp. She points out the window. “Look, look! Hildemarie is here!”
She scrambles off the couch and rushes to the front door. Dion follows close behind. Relief floods him. Hildemarie is shorter than Kihel but she proudly hands over a sparkly gift bag with green tissue paper sticking out the top the moment she walks through the door, shrieking “Happy birthday Kihel!” as she kicks off her shoes and throws her arms around her friend. They run off moments later, giggling and talking over each other. Dion manages a smile that he thinks is calm and collected for Hildemarie’s mother.
“Thank you for bringing her,” he says with full sincerity. “Kihel has been excited all day for this.”
Hildemarie’s mother smiles back. “They always are. You’re going to have your hands full today, Dion.”
“It is nothing I cannot handle,” Dion replies. He is sure that he can handle taking care of the children for a few hours. Even if it would be nice to have someone by his side to help manage things and to allay his own irrational fears, Dion has always been able to succeed at anything to which he put his mind.
“I’m glad to hear it. In that case, I’ll return in a few hours to pick her up.” The woman adjusts the purse hanging from her shoulder. She gives Dion an unsubtle once over, a calculating look in her eyes. “Take care.”
After she departs, the other guests start arriving one after another until all eight of the attendees are there. Kihel is happier than he has ever seen her, conversing easily with children her own age. They run around the expansive backyard playing at being Eikons, devouring the food Dion sets out for them, and splitting into two teams so they can play a game of football. The day is chaotic and fun, full of laughter and joy; in short, it is exactly what Dion hoped it would be. He takes as many photos as he can with the digital camera he has only used three times since he bought it and treasures each of Kihel’s smiles. He decides to have the photos printed when all is done so he can fill a scrapbook full of her happiness.
Kihel is spoiled by her friends—she receives dolls, hair accessories, earrings, sketchbooks, and pencil crayons. She is overwhelmed by the attention, unused to receiving so much at once. Her gratitude is sincere; she hugs each of her friends in turn, little arms squeezing them tightly as she whispers her thanks. They eat most of the cake, savouring the rich taste of chocolate and chasing it down with a side of vanilla ice cream. As Dion clears away the dishes, they rush back outside to continue their game (it is now an Eikon versus Eikon football match and Dion doesn’t understand any of the rules which govern it) and all he can do is watch with a simple joy.
He thinks he has brought about some good in the world. His heart swells with pride to see Kihel happy.
Dion, though, is also selfish. He holds back his gift until the guests are gone and night has fallen. They’re sitting together on the couch again watching the tail end of Oriflamme Dragoons game against the Stonhyrr Behemoths. They’re still tied nothing-nothing when Dion fetches her gift from where he’d hidden it in his closet. Kihel tears the paper apart excitedly and tosses the lid of the box aside without much care. Nestled inside is a set of expensive paints that he thought she might enjoy, thick paper to use when she tries them, and a set of brushes that the shopkeeper at the art store assured Dion were the best available.
“I have one more gift for you,” Dion says when she looks back up at him. “But you’ll have to wait for it.”
Kihel nods eagerly, eyes shining. She is in a good mood.
“We’re going to a book signing in a couple of weeks. Lord Margrace will be there to autograph your books.” Dion can’t hold back his smile at the way her mouth drops open in surprise. “And we’ll buy the next one from him, too.”
“Really?” Kihel breathes, eyes wide. “I’ll get to meet Lord Margrace? He’s going to sign my books?”
“He will,” Dion assures her.
“Wow,” she says, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing as tightly as her small frame allows. Dion slowly brings his arms up to squeeze her back. “Wow, wow, wow! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I can’t wait to meet him.”
Dion holds her close, smiling softly. My little girl.
“Happy birthday, Kihel.”
On the day of the book signing, Kihel can hardly keep her excitement in check.
She spent the entire week leading up to the event deciding on the perfect outfit (tearing her closet apart in the process until Dion had to tell her to tidy it up again) and rereading the last novel in the series so she is completely prepared to start the fourth book as soon as they get back home. By Saturday morning, all three of her copies are stacked carefully into a cotton tote bag on the kitchen table. Kihel is practically vibrating with excitement, popping in and out of Dion’s study every twenty minutes since the moment she finishes her breakfast.
Work is mostly a lost cause so Dion doesn’t scold her or send her away. There is only so much he can do about the acquisition at this point, what with Tharmr’s lawyers standing firm on outrageous demands and their own still trying to sort out an appropriate response. Such things never proceed smoothly so it will likely be months before a new proposal is made and reviewed by both parties. It’s fine though—there is always other work to be done with integrating previous acquisitions and seeking out others to add to the already impressive Lesage Corporation portfolio.
They leave the house at quarter to five because the traffic in Oriflamme is awful at the best of times and this way they will have time to stop for a quick bite to eat. Kihel enjoys the take-out burgers from Chef’s Knife, a chain restaurant originating in Twinside, so Dion parks the car in an underground lot and they walk the rest of the way through the narrow streets of the old city. Once their hunger has been satisfied, Dion takes her hand and they slowly weave their way through the crowds on the street toward The Shelves.
Since the shop is located on a dimly lit street in the depths of the old city, there is less and less foot traffic the closer they come to their destination. Kihel pulls on his hand, urging Dion to walk faster lest they somehow miss an event that is still twenty minutes ahead of its scheduled start. When Dion pushes the door open, the bell jingling merrily, there are only a few people within. The reading section at the back of the shop has been cleared and set with several chairs arranged in a half circle facing a wooden table stacked with copies of Leviathan the Lost as well as the previous three installments of the series. Kihel impatiently tugs Dion toward the display where he belatedly notices Harpocrates standing beside a man with the softest hair Dion has ever seen.
“Oh, there you are, my boy.” His teacher smiles and beckons them closer. Kihel doesn’t hesitate and Dion is helpless but to follow in her wake. “You’re early, you know.”
“Kihel has been counting down the minutes,” Dion begins, eyes flicking toward the other man who is turning to greet them. “We’ll browse until it’s time to…”
His voice dies in his throat.
I know you, Dion thinks as their eyes meet. I’d know you anywhere.
It has been nearly twenty years since they last saw each other. Sixteen since the last letter Dion received penned by his hand. He’s so much taller than Dion remembers but his face is still kind and gentle. They are close enough that Dion can see the freckles that dance across his nose and the red eyeliner that makes his beautiful blue irises stand out all the more. Even as a child, Dion knew that he would grow up to be beautiful and every picture he’s managed to find over the years has only confirmed that but there is something indescribably different about seeing him in the flesh once more. Photographs don’t do him justice; they don’t quite capture the slope of his nose or the plushness of his lips. Dion is still as transfixed by him as he was twenty years ago.
“It’s been a long time, Dion.” Joshua Rosfield’s voice cracks over the words. They stare at each other for a long moment before he tentatively extends his hand. “Well met.”
Dion feels like a man beset by raging winds, buffeted from one emotion to another: shock, longing, wonder, hurt, joy. His body is not his own; he raises his hand and blindly reaches forward, his eyes never leaving Joshua’s lovely face. Their hands miss and they instead manage to grasp forearms instead, not unlike the ancient Valisthean greeting between princes. Joshua’s grip burns him; he feels fire travel from the very tips of his fingers up his arm and down his spine. The moment hangs suspended between them, endless and electric.
“Indeed,” Dion croaks, mind still reeling.
“Oh, so you already know each other.” Harpocrates’ voice draws Dion out of his trance. Abruptly, he lets go of Joshua’s forearm and lets his hand fall to his side. “I did not realize you were acquainted with Lord Margrace.”
“You’re Lord Margrace?” Kihel cries, clutching her tote bag close to her chest. She looks positively dazzled; Dion can relate.
Joshua tears his eyes away from Dion and crouches down to Kihel’s level. He smiles at her, soft and sweet, just the way Dion remembers it from their childhood. “That’s right. And what is your name?”
“Kihel,” she whispers, looking shy. She shuffles closer to Dion’s leg and he rubs her hair reassuringly.
“Kihel,” Joshua repeats, letting the name roll off his tongue. “It is good to meet you. I’m honoured you came to see me today.”
Dion is as surprised as Kihel to hear that Joshua, of all people, is the enigmatic author Lord Margrace. Never would he have thought it possible that his one-time friend was the genius behind one of the most acclaimed children’s series of the last decade. The last thing he expected was to be reunited with him here at The Shelves.
“You must forgive me,” Joshua adds apologetically as the bell jingles again and four more people step into the shop. They make a beeline toward the reading section. “I must don my mask now, before anyone else sees me like this.”
He pulls out a red face mask from the pocket of his black jeans and loops it over his ears. With his face obscured, Dion watches his blue eyes crinkle into happy crescents even as his smile is hidden from them. Joshua points to a seat in the front row and speaks softly to Kihel. “Why don’t you sit there? I’ll be over soon.”
“Yes!” she agrees, nodding seriously. With a glance at Dion—who gives her an encouraging shove in that direction—she hurries to claim her seat.
Joshua rises and meets Dion’s eyes once more. The shop is filling up now but Dion doesn’t notice anyone else in the room. He stares openly at Joshua, taking in his lean body and the red blouse that that exposes both the nubs of his collarbones and the long column of his throat. Feelings he thought long buried have resurfaced with the fierce intensity of a raging inferno and Dion doesn’t know how to handle them. He doesn’t even know Joshua anymore; they have both changed tremendously over the intervening years.
Dion wants to know him, though. He wants so much of him that it hurts.
“My lord.” The voice startles him out of his reverie. A woman with dark hair approaches and holds out a bottle of water to Joshua. She eyes Dion up and down before turning her attention back to Joshua. “It is nearly time. Have you—?”
“Yes,” Joshua interrupts, accepting the bottle from her hand. “Thank you, Jote. I took them on time, I promise.” He turns back to Dion and fixes him with a burning stare. “It may be presumptuous of me to say but…I’m glad you came tonight. Will you…” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “Will you stay until the end?”
Dion doesn’t even need to think about that.
“Of course.”
Joshua’s eyes look relieved, his red eyeliner uplifted like wings as he smiles again. Dion wishes he could see his lips. With a grateful nod, he turns and walks forward past the chairs that have been filled with excited guests and takes a seat behind the wooden table. Jote remains beside Dion but she doesn’t say anything to him and Dion doesn’t know what to say to her. He wonders, briefly, who she is to Joshua but it would be rude to ask so he doesn’t. There are so many things he wants to know but now is not the time. Kihel is bouncing excitedly in her seat, legs swinging back and forth as Joshua settles in and pulls a copy of his newest book in front of him.
“Thank you all for coming,” he says, glancing around at all the people who have turned out to meet him. The seats are full and there are parents like Dion lingering at the back of the room while their children murmur excitedly to each other. “I appreciate your patience as I worked on the next volume. Professor Harpocrates has kindly allowed me the use of his shop to meet you all tonight. I am very grateful to him for this opportunity. Before we begin with the signing, I thought it would be nice to start by reading a short excerpt from the book.”
Joshua opens the book in front of him to the first page and clears his throat. He hesitates for a moment, staring at the words before him—words Dion has no doubt are seared into his memory already—as if it is the first time he is even seeing them. Beside him, Jote glances sidelong at Dion but her expression is entirely unreadable.
Finally, Joshua begins to read, his gentle voice filling the room with warmth:
After the fall of Caer Norvent, Leviathan was left entirely alone. The steadfast courage of Ifrit had been extinguished as the soldiers hauled him away. She hugged her knees close to her body and tried not cry; Ifrit had warned her that it would be dangerous to try and free her friends from within the keep by herself but Leviathan hadn’t listened. Her magic was powerful; she could summon waves or drain away all the water surrounding the keep—her pride was great and so she failed to heed Ifrit’s words.
“It is all my fault,” Leviathan murmured, tears staining her face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “He shouldn’t have come. It should be me in shackles.”
A wind tickled the back of her neck as Garuda alighted on the ground beside her. Her wings were as black as night but her eyes glowed with aether. She stood quietly and waited for the worst of Leviathan’s sobs to pass.
“Why are you crying?” Garuda demanded with hands on her hips. “Ifrit made his own choice, you know. Your friends are free, just as you wished.”
“But now he is trapped,” Leviathan said morosely. “He is my friend, too.”
“Then there is only one thing to do.”
Leviathan looked up at Garuda.
“You can make it up to him by rescuing him.”
Dion is lost in Joshua’s voice. There is something utterly captivating about the faint Rosarian accent that sometimes bleeds into his words. More than once, Joshua absently brushes a stray strand of hair back behind his ear and Dion finds his eyes following the movement of those slim fingers. Everything feels so unreal; seeing Joshua again (his cheeks no longer round with baby fat), listening to his sweet voice (no longer so high), realizing that (for the first time in nearly two decades) he can talk to Joshua again stirs up so many feelings within him that Dion isn’t sure how to handle them.
He has longed to reconnect with Joshua but was always too much of a coward to do it. Now that the chance lays before him, Dion still hesitates.
Is this what Joshua wants? Dion wonders, hands laced tightly behind his back. He watches carefully as Joshua sets aside the book and smiles behind his mask at the crowd before him. He listens closely as Harpocrates facilitates the interview and question period, entranced by the sound of his voice. Then, Joshua motions for Kihel to come up to the table first while Harpocrates herds the others to form a neat line behind her. He kept his distance from me all this time. Perhaps he was only being polite earlier.
Kihel runs up to him after and proudly shows Dion her brand new copy of Leviathan the Lost. Joshua’s signature on the inner page is so much more elegant than the awkward scrawl of his boyhood.
Kihel,
May your smile always light your way even in the darkest times. I hope you will treasure this book and remember that no matter how bleak things may seem, dawn will always come.
Yours Sincerely,
Lord Margrace
“He’s so kind,” Kihel whispers into Dion’s ear. She clutches the book protectively against her chest.
“That he is,” Dion agrees, chancing a glance up at Joshua. Their eyes lock briefly, enough to once again stoke the flames that burn in Dion’s long-locked heart. “Just as he always has been.”