The Fae Court with its impossible beauty?
The Academy with its brutal trials?
Or something simpler—the absence of anywhere that simply felt right?
"So I thought, what's the point if I'll never experience what it's like to belong?"
The question hangs between us, unanswered because some questions don't have answers—only echoes that remind us we're not alone in asking.
I frown, my small hands closing into fists. The urge to hug him is strong—child instinct that says physical comfort solves emotional pain. But I hesitate, uncertainty making my arms feel too heavy to lift.
"But," he continues, lifting his head to meet my eyes directly. Tears stream freely now, no longer hidden or held back. "WhenI was about to fall into a sea of lava, I had nothing but regret and fear."
His voice gains strength, as if the admission gives rather than takes power.
"I didn't want to die. I hadn't accomplished what I've yearned for. To be powerful, accepted, loved, and to prove to my heritage that I can be more than what I was born to be. That I'm beyond just an 'heir.'"
Each word builds on the last, constructing truth from syllables and certainty.
"That I can become someone they can't be disappointed in. And in a flash, all those thoughts came to mind as I was inches from my own demise."
He reaches out suddenly, his hand gentle as it wipes at my cheek. I hadn't realized I was crying—silent tears that match his own, born from recognition rather than sympathy.
"And I remembered," he says, voice dropping to whisper that carries more force than any shout. "I never truly apologized for my cowardness, Gwenivere."
The words land like keys in locks I didn't know existed.
"That could be one of many reasons, whether voluntary or involuntary, as to why you hate me now. But the least I can do is make sure I apologize for abandoning you that day."
Each word precisely chosen, carefully delivered, carrying weight of truth long avoided.
"For letting you be mocked before peers who didn't deserve to speak to you. I should have stood my ground and not cared about being outcast and judged... but I did."
The admission costs him—I can see it in the way his shoulders tighten, then release, as if confession has physical weight.
"I stood behind, thinking it wouldn't hurt. That you're a strong cookie who'd simply bounce back from it."
His laugh is bitter, self-directed mockery that hurts to hear.
"But I forgot that just because a cookie can look delicious to eat doesn't mean it'll taste good after it's been stabbed, stomped, and soaked in words of envy, hatred, and belittlement."
The metaphor is strange but perfect—capturing something about destruction that straightforward words couldn't reach.
"Soak the cookie in lava, and it's no longer sweet. It's simply turned to coal or ash."
He wipes more tears from my cheeks, movements gentle despite the tremor in his hands.
Maybe he's right. Maybe all this while I've been carrying anger from that day, letting it manifest and grow into hate that spiraled beyond control.
The resentment feeding on itself until even I couldn't remember its source, only its presence.
"So I'm sorry, my little Solstice."
The nickname comes easier this time, carried on breath that tastes of truth and possibility.
"I wronged you, and it wasn't right. I should have apologized right away, but prideful as I was, I didn't expect my actions to hurt you."
He pauses, seeming to weigh whether the next admission is too much. But we're past the point of holding back now, truth flowing like blood from opened veins.
