It was several hours after midnight when Cyrus finally tore himself from the nightmare, the first in a long time heād not been able to shape to his own will as easily as he pleased. For once, it had seemed that for all his somniari capability, he had been utterly at the mercy of the Fade. But of course, the Fade was nothing more or less than he willed it to be, and so what heād really been at the mercy of was his own fear, his own worry, and it laid him low. He woke with a gasp, his brow gleaming with sweat, his face wan and pale in the dim light of his tent, his chest heaving for breath, air skittering in and out of his lungs with great shudders. He groaned low in his throat, reaching both hands up and smoothing his hair out of his face and over his crown, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium as the adrenaline died down.
On the other side of the tent, Thalia was up, having rolled out of her cot and grabbed the knife that she slept beside. He looked at her with unfocused eyes, not sure what had her on the defensive, but then he sat up and noticed the fact that something had blown apart the chairs and several of the blankets in the tent, and pieces of fabric were still drifting, utterly shredded, to the ground. That was probably his fault.
The fact that he didnāt know for sure, that he might have done that while fighting his nightmare, was perhaps the most unnerving thing of all. That hadnāt happened to him since he was a boyāit was a sign that heād lost control of his own magic. Admittedly, his hold on it had never been perfect, but most of the time, it was containable, stable enough that he could let himself sleep at least. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he ran his hands down his face.
āWhat the fuck was that, shem?ā Thaliaās tone was harsh, and he didnāt even blame her for it. She hadnāt exactly entered into their little deal expecting that he was an obvious health hazard to her. He only shook his head, swallowing thickly. Though it was cold in the tent, he was still sweating through his shirt, hunched forward in his cot and trying to contain what naturally desired to be free and unconstrained. He needed grounding, anchor. He neededā
āEstella.ā The word was rasped, harsh, raw. āBring Estella here.ā
Thaliaās brow furrowed, but she evidently decided the errand was worth her time, because she sheathed the knife and nodded, wrapping a cloak around herself and stepping out of the tent and into the night. Probably sheād be waking his sister, if it was that dark out, but sheād come anyway. He knew she would. And right now, that was exactly what he needed. Cyrus threw his blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the cot. At first, heād intended to try cleaning the mess, at least moving the largest chunks of debris away from the direct path to the entrance, but he found himself utterly without the energy or motivation to do so. Awakening had done nothing to aid his pallor, and despite his efforts to the contrary, his hair hung haphazardly on either side of his face, something only worsened by the fact that he was bowed over so far that his head was halfway to his knees.
It was several more minutes before Thalia returned, but when she did, Estella was in tow, and as soon as his sister took one look at the scene, she stepped swiftly in front of the elven woman and picked her way over splintered wood and torn wool to him, easing to her knees in front of where he sat so she could look into his face. Her own wore an expression of undisguised worry. āCyrus? Whatās wrong? What happened?ā She placed a careful hand on his knee, searching his visage for the answer.
āYou were dead.ā His voice hardly sounded like his own, barely registering in his ears, even. āYou were dead and I couldnāt save you.ā In the future Cassius had sent them to, in the nightmare heād just had, in all his darkest fears and imaginings. But those had never had this kind of weight to them before, this kind of possibility, even. Because it had always been obvious to him before that she would be all right. She had himāand he would give anything and everything he could get his grasping hands on to keep her safe. Heād always believed that would be enough. It had been enough, for a very long time. The things heād done to protect her did not make him proud, but that heād accomplished it did.
Heād decided quite early in his life that she was the only thing that mattered to him, besides himself. But even that comparison was ridiculousāshe mattered so much more to him than he ever had. Ever would. Cyrus was useful and important for what he could doāthings no one else could. Estella was important, and good, for who she was, and thus it had always been. āYou canāt die, Stellulam. You canāt.ā
She was the only thing heād ever lived for.
āCy,ā she started, eyes bright in the dim illumination afforded by the tent. Her lips parted, as though there were something else she meant to add there, but in the end, she fell silent and instead rose, only so she could sit right beside him. Her arms wrapped around his middle from the side, and she pressed her forehead into his shoulder. āIām not dead. You did save me. You pushed me out of the way of Cassiusās spell, remember?ā
He did remember. It hadnāt even been a thought for him, only an instinct. He hadnāt planned it or calculated it or considered it. Heād simply acted, without knowing the consequences or pausing to inventory the reasons. As someone who thought carefully about everything he ever said or did, even when he let others think he was simply ruled by impulse, the power of that instinct was almost staggering. But he couldnāt bring himself to be wary of it. Cyrus turned himself in the cot so he could pull her into a closer hug, burying his face in her hair and shuddering. A strangled sound escaped himāa sob.
āNot in that world.ā His voice cracked over the sentence, ragged and trembling. That world where sheād been tormented and experimented upon and burned on a pyre, and the whole time hoping, believing he would help her. He couldnāt stand the thought that in that world, she might have been waiting for him to appear even as she died, and then forgiving him when she realized he would not. The thought of failing her in such a way, in this time, was now backed by a reality he could not deny. He could no longer believe with his former certainty that he wouldnāt, and the weight of that doubt was crushing, like something had reached inside his ribcage and squeezed his heart until it was near to bursting. The idea that she would die was paralyzing by itself, that it might be because heād failed her was a pain he had not the words to describe.
Estella sighed softly, one of her hands reaching up to run through his hair gently, combing through it with her fingers, and the other moved circles around his back, as sheād done fairly often when they were both yet little orphans scared and alone in the Chantry, before he was a Magisterās apprentice or she was a lay sister or a mercenary, before everything else, back when all theyād had to count on had been each other. When he was just a terrified little boy with dreams too big for him, and she a tiny girl who cried about everything and followed him everywhere like his shadow. A small sniffle gave away that he was not the only one having difficulty containing his emotions, but hers had always been soft and subtle in the expression.
She was steady, though, and let him shake and sob against her, breathing slowly and deliberately, leaning the side of her head against his where it was pressed to her neck and hair. āThat world isnāt real anymore, Cyrus. You came back. You made sure thatās not the future.ā From the way she said it, someone had told her at least some of the details, because what heād said about it all didnāt seem to surprise her.
For many more minutes, she held him thus, while he attempted to center himself, to regain what heād lost in the nightmare and in that futureāhis assurance, for one. It wasnāt ready to him this time, though, and he struggled even to pull the magic back within his own physical bounds, to reassert his control over it. Her reality, her solidity, these things helped, but it was no small task to stop the shaking, the emotional overflow. Eventually, his grip on her eased, and he matched his breathing to hers, remembering many nights in their childhood when things had been exactly the same. He let his eyes close, and eased into the soothing feel of her hands carding through his hair.
He imagined it was the sort of thing a mother might do, but Cyrus had never had a mother. Heād only ever had a sister.
It went both ways, but he admitted to himself that she more often saved him than he saved her. He worried, sometimes, that she didnāt need him at all, not the way he needed her. If she didnāt, then he was a burden to her, and heād never desired to be that. Slowly, he drew himself back up to his natural height, straightening from the slump that had dropped him so easily onto the strength of her shoulders. His face was a mess, he knew, his eyes red-rimmed, his cheeks streaked with the tears heād shed, and he looked at her like she had all the answers. She had, after allāat least the ones he couldnāt divine.
He swore to himself that the future heād seen would never come to pass. He didnāt care what he had to do to guarantee it.
āBetter?ā Estella smiled softly up at him, her tone equally mild, reaching up to thumb away the liquid tracks that remained over his sharp cheekbones, her expression faltering when she felt over the hollows of his cheeks themselves. āYouāre not eating enough,ā she scolded gently. āI know you get busy and forget, Cyrus, but I worry about you.ā She let her hands fall to his shoulders, giving a brief comforting squeeze, before she drew them back into her lap.
If heād been in a better frame of mind, that would have coaxed a smile out of him. As it was, he couldnāt muster even a false one, which sheād have seen through anyway. āYou worry about me. Iām not the one taking all the risks here, Stellulam.ā That future had only come about because of the mark on her hand. Because she couldnāt resist the temptation to do as much as she could. More than anything about his poor habits, that was a danger. And heād been powerfully reminded of how high the stakes were. The only thing that had gotten him through that future was the knowledge that he could reverse the spell, and his anger at Cassius for casting itā¦ and at himself. For the discovery of the magic had been in part his own work as well.
She sighed again, and shook her head. āCyrus, donāt you thinkā¦ donāt you think that maybe you shouldā¦ā She was clearly struggling with what she wanted to say, and the look she was giving him was tentative, extremely so. Likely she suspected that whatever she was about to utter would not go over well. āItās justā¦ you care so much, and so deeply, and thatās not bad, itās justā¦ if something does happen to me, I donāt wantā¦ I donāt want you to have no one.ā Her eyes softened. āYou understand, donāt you? I love you, and I donāt want you to be alone. Even ifā¦ā
āEstella.ā His voice was harder now, and perhaps because of that, more familiar to his own ears. Heād dropped the endearment, in part because he felt it necessary that she understand just how serious he was. āI donāt care about other people. It doesnāt matter to me how many of them are around or how many of them I know. If anything happens to you, I will be alone in the world.ā That was the simple truth of the matter, and equally true was that he preferred things that way. She was right, in one senseāhe did tend to feel deeply, whenever he felt at all. Sometimes, he hated how vulnerable his attachment to her made him. She was obviously a major weakness of his, and though she was far from the only one, she was much, much easier to spot than any of the others, because he could hide the weaknesses in his character. He could not hide her. This was a fact that had already been exploited more than once.
But he couldnāt help how he felt about his sister, and he didnāt want to. He knew heād be a complete monster if he ever stopped caring about her, and he was cognizant enough to know he didnāt desire that. But nor did he desire to have yet more obvious weaknesses, quite independently of the fact that he believed he was incapable of caring about anyone else in the first place.
āThatās not fair,ā she replied softly, pulling her legs up underneath her on the cot. They were essentially facing each other still, but her repositioning made it a bit more comfortable. āTo anyone. Cy, youāre my brother, and Iāll never stop caring about you, butā¦ I canāt be everything you have in the world. Itās unfair to youāyou have so much to share with others, things that should be out there, carried by other people, known by someone who isnāt me.ā She looked at him imploringly, worrying at her bottom lip between her teeth. āIām better for knowing you, better for loving you and being close to you, but thereās no way Iām enough for you, not really.ā
She took a pause, visibly steeling herself, before she continued. āAnd itās notā¦ itās not fair to me, either.ā Her eyes fell, and she swallowed thickly, audibly in the stillness. āI canātā¦ I canāt be the only one you care about. I canāt matter to you to the exclusion of all else. Donāt you know how heavy that is? How difficult it is? Iām notā¦ā She didnāt seem to know how to finish the thought. āIām not the person you think I am.ā
He didnāt want to hear any of this. He wasnāt sure he could handle it, but that apparently wasnāt enough to stop her from saying it. The worst part was, he didnāt know how to respond. He really was a burden to her, and if anything had become clear, it was that she didnāt need him the way he needed her. The words hit him like heād slammed into a stone wall at full sprint, and he was fairly sure the breath left his lungs in one fell swoop, leaving him deflated and sunken in on himself, stricken with something not unlike grief.
And then anger rose in the empty places grief had vacatedānot at her, not as suchāanger for the same things that had angered him before, after sheād risked her life against that Avvar brute. Anger at whatever part of her insisted she was inferior to anyone or anything. Somehow, it always came back to this. āYouāre not the person you think you are, either.ā He was surprised by the amount of venom in his own tone, and he gritted his teeth, struggling again to modulate himself, if for different reasons this time. It was a lot to process, some for reasons he didnāt truly understand, and he couldnāt help but feel a bit betrayed by the suddenness of it. All he wanted to do was keep her safeāwhat was so wrong about that?
āWhatā¦ Estella, what do I have to do? I donāt understand.ā He shook his head faintly, his strickenness clearly scrawled over his face. He had no idea where this was coming from, and no concept of how to make it right again. But more than anything, more even than his feeling of hurt and betrayal, there was what thereād always been: he loved her, and he trusted her to guide him, and there was nothing he could name that he would not do for her sake. If she needed something from him that he was not currently doing, then he would simply have to start doing it.
She looked troubled, and for a long moment, said nothing at all. In the end, though, she sighed. āIām sorry, Cyrus. I didnāt mean toā¦ to cause you pain. I justā¦ā She was clearly uncomfortable now, unsure what to say, and she grimaced. āItās notā¦ I donāt know what to tell you, exceptā¦ I think you should have friends. Other people to rely on and care about. Other people to talk to, to share yourself with. Thatās all. Iāll still be your family, always, butāitās okay for there to be other people you care about, too, right?ā
He wasnāt so sure of that. Part of him thought this was a terrible idea, and bound to end poorly. Cyrus had never had friends in his life. They were unnecessary and exploitable, and much of his time had been spent trying to make himself stronger, not weaker, as exploitable weaknesses would make him. But she was asking it of him, and heād never been able to deny her anything. It was with great reservation and some resentment that he at last forced himself to speak, reaching out with a sigh to fluff her hair with his hand. He couldnāt promise he would succeed in this, but perhaps that wasnāt the point. It certainly wasnāt for him.
āAll right, Stellulam. I will try, for you.ā
On the other side of the tent, Thalia was up, having rolled out of her cot and grabbed the knife that she slept beside. He looked at her with unfocused eyes, not sure what had her on the defensive, but then he sat up and noticed the fact that something had blown apart the chairs and several of the blankets in the tent, and pieces of fabric were still drifting, utterly shredded, to the ground. That was probably his fault.
The fact that he didnāt know for sure, that he might have done that while fighting his nightmare, was perhaps the most unnerving thing of all. That hadnāt happened to him since he was a boyāit was a sign that heād lost control of his own magic. Admittedly, his hold on it had never been perfect, but most of the time, it was containable, stable enough that he could let himself sleep at least. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he ran his hands down his face.
āWhat the fuck was that, shem?ā Thaliaās tone was harsh, and he didnāt even blame her for it. She hadnāt exactly entered into their little deal expecting that he was an obvious health hazard to her. He only shook his head, swallowing thickly. Though it was cold in the tent, he was still sweating through his shirt, hunched forward in his cot and trying to contain what naturally desired to be free and unconstrained. He needed grounding, anchor. He neededā
āEstella.ā The word was rasped, harsh, raw. āBring Estella here.ā
Thaliaās brow furrowed, but she evidently decided the errand was worth her time, because she sheathed the knife and nodded, wrapping a cloak around herself and stepping out of the tent and into the night. Probably sheād be waking his sister, if it was that dark out, but sheād come anyway. He knew she would. And right now, that was exactly what he needed. Cyrus threw his blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the cot. At first, heād intended to try cleaning the mess, at least moving the largest chunks of debris away from the direct path to the entrance, but he found himself utterly without the energy or motivation to do so. Awakening had done nothing to aid his pallor, and despite his efforts to the contrary, his hair hung haphazardly on either side of his face, something only worsened by the fact that he was bowed over so far that his head was halfway to his knees.
It was several more minutes before Thalia returned, but when she did, Estella was in tow, and as soon as his sister took one look at the scene, she stepped swiftly in front of the elven woman and picked her way over splintered wood and torn wool to him, easing to her knees in front of where he sat so she could look into his face. Her own wore an expression of undisguised worry. āCyrus? Whatās wrong? What happened?ā She placed a careful hand on his knee, searching his visage for the answer.
āYou were dead.ā His voice hardly sounded like his own, barely registering in his ears, even. āYou were dead and I couldnāt save you.ā In the future Cassius had sent them to, in the nightmare heād just had, in all his darkest fears and imaginings. But those had never had this kind of weight to them before, this kind of possibility, even. Because it had always been obvious to him before that she would be all right. She had himāand he would give anything and everything he could get his grasping hands on to keep her safe. Heād always believed that would be enough. It had been enough, for a very long time. The things heād done to protect her did not make him proud, but that heād accomplished it did.
Heād decided quite early in his life that she was the only thing that mattered to him, besides himself. But even that comparison was ridiculousāshe mattered so much more to him than he ever had. Ever would. Cyrus was useful and important for what he could doāthings no one else could. Estella was important, and good, for who she was, and thus it had always been. āYou canāt die, Stellulam. You canāt.ā
She was the only thing heād ever lived for.
āCy,ā she started, eyes bright in the dim illumination afforded by the tent. Her lips parted, as though there were something else she meant to add there, but in the end, she fell silent and instead rose, only so she could sit right beside him. Her arms wrapped around his middle from the side, and she pressed her forehead into his shoulder. āIām not dead. You did save me. You pushed me out of the way of Cassiusās spell, remember?ā
He did remember. It hadnāt even been a thought for him, only an instinct. He hadnāt planned it or calculated it or considered it. Heād simply acted, without knowing the consequences or pausing to inventory the reasons. As someone who thought carefully about everything he ever said or did, even when he let others think he was simply ruled by impulse, the power of that instinct was almost staggering. But he couldnāt bring himself to be wary of it. Cyrus turned himself in the cot so he could pull her into a closer hug, burying his face in her hair and shuddering. A strangled sound escaped himāa sob.
āNot in that world.ā His voice cracked over the sentence, ragged and trembling. That world where sheād been tormented and experimented upon and burned on a pyre, and the whole time hoping, believing he would help her. He couldnāt stand the thought that in that world, she might have been waiting for him to appear even as she died, and then forgiving him when she realized he would not. The thought of failing her in such a way, in this time, was now backed by a reality he could not deny. He could no longer believe with his former certainty that he wouldnāt, and the weight of that doubt was crushing, like something had reached inside his ribcage and squeezed his heart until it was near to bursting. The idea that she would die was paralyzing by itself, that it might be because heād failed her was a pain he had not the words to describe.
Estella sighed softly, one of her hands reaching up to run through his hair gently, combing through it with her fingers, and the other moved circles around his back, as sheād done fairly often when they were both yet little orphans scared and alone in the Chantry, before he was a Magisterās apprentice or she was a lay sister or a mercenary, before everything else, back when all theyād had to count on had been each other. When he was just a terrified little boy with dreams too big for him, and she a tiny girl who cried about everything and followed him everywhere like his shadow. A small sniffle gave away that he was not the only one having difficulty containing his emotions, but hers had always been soft and subtle in the expression.
She was steady, though, and let him shake and sob against her, breathing slowly and deliberately, leaning the side of her head against his where it was pressed to her neck and hair. āThat world isnāt real anymore, Cyrus. You came back. You made sure thatās not the future.ā From the way she said it, someone had told her at least some of the details, because what heād said about it all didnāt seem to surprise her.
For many more minutes, she held him thus, while he attempted to center himself, to regain what heād lost in the nightmare and in that futureāhis assurance, for one. It wasnāt ready to him this time, though, and he struggled even to pull the magic back within his own physical bounds, to reassert his control over it. Her reality, her solidity, these things helped, but it was no small task to stop the shaking, the emotional overflow. Eventually, his grip on her eased, and he matched his breathing to hers, remembering many nights in their childhood when things had been exactly the same. He let his eyes close, and eased into the soothing feel of her hands carding through his hair.
He imagined it was the sort of thing a mother might do, but Cyrus had never had a mother. Heād only ever had a sister.
It went both ways, but he admitted to himself that she more often saved him than he saved her. He worried, sometimes, that she didnāt need him at all, not the way he needed her. If she didnāt, then he was a burden to her, and heād never desired to be that. Slowly, he drew himself back up to his natural height, straightening from the slump that had dropped him so easily onto the strength of her shoulders. His face was a mess, he knew, his eyes red-rimmed, his cheeks streaked with the tears heād shed, and he looked at her like she had all the answers. She had, after allāat least the ones he couldnāt divine.
He swore to himself that the future heād seen would never come to pass. He didnāt care what he had to do to guarantee it.
āBetter?ā Estella smiled softly up at him, her tone equally mild, reaching up to thumb away the liquid tracks that remained over his sharp cheekbones, her expression faltering when she felt over the hollows of his cheeks themselves. āYouāre not eating enough,ā she scolded gently. āI know you get busy and forget, Cyrus, but I worry about you.ā She let her hands fall to his shoulders, giving a brief comforting squeeze, before she drew them back into her lap.
If heād been in a better frame of mind, that would have coaxed a smile out of him. As it was, he couldnāt muster even a false one, which sheād have seen through anyway. āYou worry about me. Iām not the one taking all the risks here, Stellulam.ā That future had only come about because of the mark on her hand. Because she couldnāt resist the temptation to do as much as she could. More than anything about his poor habits, that was a danger. And heād been powerfully reminded of how high the stakes were. The only thing that had gotten him through that future was the knowledge that he could reverse the spell, and his anger at Cassius for casting itā¦ and at himself. For the discovery of the magic had been in part his own work as well.
She sighed again, and shook her head. āCyrus, donāt you thinkā¦ donāt you think that maybe you shouldā¦ā She was clearly struggling with what she wanted to say, and the look she was giving him was tentative, extremely so. Likely she suspected that whatever she was about to utter would not go over well. āItās justā¦ you care so much, and so deeply, and thatās not bad, itās justā¦ if something does happen to me, I donāt wantā¦ I donāt want you to have no one.ā Her eyes softened. āYou understand, donāt you? I love you, and I donāt want you to be alone. Even ifā¦ā
āEstella.ā His voice was harder now, and perhaps because of that, more familiar to his own ears. Heād dropped the endearment, in part because he felt it necessary that she understand just how serious he was. āI donāt care about other people. It doesnāt matter to me how many of them are around or how many of them I know. If anything happens to you, I will be alone in the world.ā That was the simple truth of the matter, and equally true was that he preferred things that way. She was right, in one senseāhe did tend to feel deeply, whenever he felt at all. Sometimes, he hated how vulnerable his attachment to her made him. She was obviously a major weakness of his, and though she was far from the only one, she was much, much easier to spot than any of the others, because he could hide the weaknesses in his character. He could not hide her. This was a fact that had already been exploited more than once.
But he couldnāt help how he felt about his sister, and he didnāt want to. He knew heād be a complete monster if he ever stopped caring about her, and he was cognizant enough to know he didnāt desire that. But nor did he desire to have yet more obvious weaknesses, quite independently of the fact that he believed he was incapable of caring about anyone else in the first place.
āThatās not fair,ā she replied softly, pulling her legs up underneath her on the cot. They were essentially facing each other still, but her repositioning made it a bit more comfortable. āTo anyone. Cy, youāre my brother, and Iāll never stop caring about you, butā¦ I canāt be everything you have in the world. Itās unfair to youāyou have so much to share with others, things that should be out there, carried by other people, known by someone who isnāt me.ā She looked at him imploringly, worrying at her bottom lip between her teeth. āIām better for knowing you, better for loving you and being close to you, but thereās no way Iām enough for you, not really.ā
She took a pause, visibly steeling herself, before she continued. āAnd itās notā¦ itās not fair to me, either.ā Her eyes fell, and she swallowed thickly, audibly in the stillness. āI canātā¦ I canāt be the only one you care about. I canāt matter to you to the exclusion of all else. Donāt you know how heavy that is? How difficult it is? Iām notā¦ā She didnāt seem to know how to finish the thought. āIām not the person you think I am.ā
He didnāt want to hear any of this. He wasnāt sure he could handle it, but that apparently wasnāt enough to stop her from saying it. The worst part was, he didnāt know how to respond. He really was a burden to her, and if anything had become clear, it was that she didnāt need him the way he needed her. The words hit him like heād slammed into a stone wall at full sprint, and he was fairly sure the breath left his lungs in one fell swoop, leaving him deflated and sunken in on himself, stricken with something not unlike grief.
And then anger rose in the empty places grief had vacatedānot at her, not as suchāanger for the same things that had angered him before, after sheād risked her life against that Avvar brute. Anger at whatever part of her insisted she was inferior to anyone or anything. Somehow, it always came back to this. āYouāre not the person you think you are, either.ā He was surprised by the amount of venom in his own tone, and he gritted his teeth, struggling again to modulate himself, if for different reasons this time. It was a lot to process, some for reasons he didnāt truly understand, and he couldnāt help but feel a bit betrayed by the suddenness of it. All he wanted to do was keep her safeāwhat was so wrong about that?
āWhatā¦ Estella, what do I have to do? I donāt understand.ā He shook his head faintly, his strickenness clearly scrawled over his face. He had no idea where this was coming from, and no concept of how to make it right again. But more than anything, more even than his feeling of hurt and betrayal, there was what thereād always been: he loved her, and he trusted her to guide him, and there was nothing he could name that he would not do for her sake. If she needed something from him that he was not currently doing, then he would simply have to start doing it.
She looked troubled, and for a long moment, said nothing at all. In the end, though, she sighed. āIām sorry, Cyrus. I didnāt mean toā¦ to cause you pain. I justā¦ā She was clearly uncomfortable now, unsure what to say, and she grimaced. āItās notā¦ I donāt know what to tell you, exceptā¦ I think you should have friends. Other people to rely on and care about. Other people to talk to, to share yourself with. Thatās all. Iāll still be your family, always, butāitās okay for there to be other people you care about, too, right?ā
He wasnāt so sure of that. Part of him thought this was a terrible idea, and bound to end poorly. Cyrus had never had friends in his life. They were unnecessary and exploitable, and much of his time had been spent trying to make himself stronger, not weaker, as exploitable weaknesses would make him. But she was asking it of him, and heād never been able to deny her anything. It was with great reservation and some resentment that he at last forced himself to speak, reaching out with a sigh to fluff her hair with his hand. He couldnāt promise he would succeed in this, but perhaps that wasnāt the point. It certainly wasnāt for him.
āAll right, Stellulam. I will try, for you.ā