Chapter 439 Avery
Chapter 439 Avery
Avery - Little Markus
Markus wants to know everything.
Everything.
There is no object too ordinary, no sound too insignificant, no person too busy and absolutely no answer complete enough to prevent another question.
I look down at my son.
Markus grins and immediately toddles ahead of me through the gardens.
“Careful.”
“I careful.”
He is not careful.
Markus exists somewhere between his sisters when it comes to temperament.
Markus depends entirely on the minute.
Sometimes he's wild.
Absolutely feral.
He'll chase Lilian through the Verrath wing until they're both shrieking, climb Kuro like the poor creature is a mountain, fling himself at Damien from furniture with complete confidence that his father will catch him.
Then suddenly he'll become quiet.
He'll crawl into Ezra's lap during a council report, put his head against his chest and stay there for an hour, listening to a conversation he couldn't possibly understand.
But mostly?
He talks.
Gods, does my son talk.
“What dat?”
“A butterfly.”
“Why?”
I blink.
“Why is it a butterfly?”
“Yes.”
“Because... that's what it is.”
He accepts that remarkably terrible answer.
“Oh.”
He follows it.
“Markus.”
“Butterfly.”
“Yes, but stay on the path.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I hear Damien in my own voice and nearly recoil.
Markus crouches suddenly.
“What dat?”
“A rock.”
He picks it up.
Immediately brings it toward his mouth.
“No.”
His hand stops.
I walk over and hold mine out.
“Give it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because we don't eat rocks.”
“I not eat.”
“You were absolutely about to eat it.”
“No.”
“Markus.”
He gives me a beautiful, innocent smile.
This child has Ezra's ability to look like he has never committed a crime in his entire life while actively committing one.
“Give Mama the rock.”
He puts it into my palm.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Then he spots something else.
“Ooh.”
He runs.
“What did you find?”
“Flower!”
“Yes, that's—Markus, no.”
He opens his mouth.
I catch his wrist before the flower gets there.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
“Why are you trying to eat the garden?”
“Hungry.”
“You ate fifteen minutes ago.”
“Hungry.”
“You had berries.”
“More berries?”
“No.”
“Bread?”
“No.”
“Cake?”
“Absolutely not.”
His face falls.
“Papa D give cake.”
Of course he does.
“Papa Damien is weak.”
“Weak.”
“Yes.”
“Papa D big.”
I laugh.
“Very big.”
“Not weak.”
“Emotionally, sweetheart. You'll understand someday.”
Markus nods as though I've just imparted profound wisdom.
Then he repeats, “Papa D motional.”
Close enough.
We continue through the gardens.
It's beautiful today.
Warm without being hot, a light breeze stirring through the flowering vines climbing the stone walls, sunlight making the fountains sparkle. The Institute has changed so much over the last few years. There are still places where the stone doesn't quite match after the rebuilding, little reminders of what happened here, but life has filled those cracks.
Children run through the gardens now.
Warriors laugh between training sessions.
Healers grow herbs in neat little rows.
And my son is currently trying to lick a leaf.
“Markus.”
He freezes.
Slowly turns his head toward me.
The leaf is still touching his tongue.
I put my hands on my hips.
He pulls away.
“Wasn't eating.”
I stare at him.
He smiles.
Gods help me.
We still haven't seen any real power from him.
Not yet.
Except the shadows.
Ezra noticed it before I did.
Whenever Markus gets upset, the darkness around him seems... thicker.
Corners deepen.
Shadows stretch toward him when they shouldn't.
Once, during a particularly impressive tantrum because I wouldn't let him stick his fingers into the fireplace, the entire room seemed to dim.
Then he stopped crying and everything returned to normal.
Ezra had looked so ridiculously pleased.
He's got shadows.
We don't know that yet.
But I think he does.
Which means one day I'll have a daughter with Damien's strength, another with Rowan's fire and a son who can disappear into darkness like Ezra.
I'm going to need wine.
A lot of wine.
“Mama.”
I look down.
Markus has stopped walking.
“What is it?”
He rubs one eye.
Then yawns.
The enormous kind of toddler yawn that takes over his entire face.
I smile.
“Tired?”
“No.”
Another yawn.
“Clearly.”
“No nap.”
“Oh, I think it's nap time.”
“No.”
He lifts both arms.
“Up.”
I laugh softly.
“Ah. No nap, but you want me to carry you.”
“Up, Mama.”
There are certain things I am apparently incapable of refusing.
I lift him.
He immediately melts against me.
Two years old and already so much bigger than the impossibly tiny baby the healers first placed near me, but still small enough that I can tuck him comfortably against my chest.
His arms go around my neck.
His cheek lands against my shoulder.
“Tree.”
“You want to sit under the tree?”
“Mhm.”
There's a huge old tree near the edge of the gardens, its branches spreading wide enough to cast a pool of shade over the grass.
I carry him there and sit against the trunk.
Markus settles into my lap.
For perhaps ten seconds.
Then—
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Story.”
I smile.
“What kind?”
“Warrior.”
My heart does something strange.
Markus loves warrior stories.
Of course he does.
He lives in an Institute filled with them.
He thinks Damien's armor is the greatest thing ever created. He likes sitting beside Rowan while he cleans his weapons. He follows guards through corridors until somebody retrieves him. He watches training from the balconies and mimics every movement with whatever stick he has inevitably found.
“A warrior?”
“Strong warrior.”
I look down at him.
His eyes are already growing heavy.
“Okay.”
I smooth his hair away from his forehead.
“Once, there was a very strong warrior.”
Markus smiles.
“Big?”
“Very big.”
“Like Papa D?”
I laugh quietly.
“Not quite that big. This warrior was very brave,” I continue. “But that wasn't what made him special.”
Markus's fingers play sleepily with the fabric of my shirt.
“What special?”
“He was kind.”
He looks up.
I swallow.
“He made people laugh. He protected people, even when they didn't ask him to.”
The garden begins to blur slightly.
I blink.
“He had friends he loved very much. And they were warriors too. They were always together.”
I can see them.
Gods.
Even after all this time, I can see them.
Markus, Jakob and Kael standing outside the Verrath wing.
Their stupid jokes.
Their laughter.
The way Markus stood between me and danger because that was his job, even when I was furious with him for it.
My son shifts.
“What happen?”
I look down at him.
“He met a girl.”
Markus's sleepy eyes brighten slightly.
“Princess?”
A laugh catches in my throat.
“No.”
I think about it.
“Actually... maybe.”
“Pretty?”
“She was okay.”
He giggles.
I kiss the top of his head.
“He was supposed to protect her.”
“From monsters?”
“Sometimes.”
His eyes widen.
“And the warrior never scared?”
I smile sadly.
“Oh, I'm sure he was scared.”
Markus frowns.
“Then not brave.”
“No, baby.”
I run my fingers gently through his hair.
“That's exactly what brave means.”
He watches me.
“Being brave doesn't mean you aren't scared. It means something matters enough that you do what you have to do even though you're scared.”
He thinks about this.
For once, no immediate question comes.
I continue quietly.
“The warrior cared about that girl very much. More than she realized at first.”
My voice gets softer.
“And when something terrible happened, when she was in danger and there was nobody else who could save her... he did.”
“How?”
My chest aches.
“He protected her.”
“Fight monster?”
“Yes.”
“Did he win?”
There it is.
The question I knew was coming.
My fingers still in his hair.
For a moment, I listen to the leaves moving overhead.
“He saved the girl.”
Markus smiles.
“He win.”
A tear slips down my cheek.
I wipe it away before he notices.
“Yeah.”
My voice comes out quieter.
“He won.”
Because that's how I want to tell it to him.
Not that Markus died.
Not yet.
He's two.
Someday I'll tell him everything.
I'll tell him about the forest.
About the sword.
About a man who was dying and still used the last of his strength to crawl toward me.
About the things he told me before he went.
About the grief that followed me for years afterward and still finds me unexpectedly sometimes.
But today?
Today he gets the story of a warrior who won.
“What girl do?”
“She lived.”
His eyes are nearly closed now.
“Because warrior?”
“Because of the warrior.”
“Happy?”
I look out across the gardens.
Lilian's laughter carries faintly from somewhere inside the Institute.
I think Nyx is with Rowan today.
Ezra is probably buried in council work.
Damien will come looking for us the second he realizes we've missed lunch.
And my son is warm and heavy in my arms.
“Yes.”
I kiss his hair.
“She became very happy.”
Markus smiles sleepily.
“Warrior happy too?”
That one hurts.
I close my eyes.
“I hope so.”
His breathing is slowing.
I keep stroking his hair.
“He was strong, and brave, and funny, and kind. And when it mattered most, he was completely selfless.”
Markus's fingers curl against me.
I look down at his little face.
“So when Mama found out she was going to have a little boy...”
His eyelashes flutter.
“I knew exactly what I wanted to call him.”
His eyes open a fraction.
“What?”
I smile through the tears gathering again.
“Markus.”
He goes very still.
“You.”
His sleepy little brow furrows.
“Me?”
“You.”
I brush my thumb across his cheek.
“That's where you got your name.”
He stares at me for a long moment, fighting sleep with everything he has.
Then he whispers, “Strong warrior?”
“The strongest.”
“Brave?”
“So brave.”
“Kind?”
“The kindest.”
His eyes finally close.
I think he's asleep.
Then—
“I be brave too.”
My heart cracks completely open.
I lean down and kiss his forehead.
“You already are.”
A few seconds later, he's gone.
Completely asleep.
His little mouth falls open, one hand still gripping my shirt, his entire body limp and trusting against mine.
The shadows beneath the tree seem to stretch toward him.
Just slightly.
They gather softly around my legs and his little shoes, dark and cool beneath the afternoon sun.
I stare at them.
Then at him.
My beautiful boy.
My curious, talkative, wild, gentle little boy who tries to eat flowers and asks why butterflies are butterflies.
I hold him a little tighter.
And for one fleeting second, with the breeze moving through the trees and the warmth of my son against my chest, I can almost hear another Markus laughing somewhere nearby.
I smile.
“You'd have loved him,” I whisper.