as a shrike to your thorn
ÂŤ anniversary 2025 Âť â reason +1 â zephia & griss.
Stay, in a curt, sharp command. Obedient Griss was to only a select few, but in the blink of an eye, he's lost decades from his life, rewound until he hardly has enough years to amount to one of them. Stay, says the old priest who holds his wrist tight enough to break it. It's later winter in Elusia, and the streets are empty of bystanders to witness the deed. A child sold for a handful of coin.
"We're leaving." It's not Zephia's voice though. Zephia isn't here. She won't be for quite some time. His parents turn their backs on him, holding their gold like it's more precious than life. More precious than the son they'd left black and blue and bloody. Griss wants to go with them.
Wants to go with her.
But the old priest repeats Stay as if commanding a too-eager dog. The grasp tightens, it pulls, and Griss digs in his heels because he doesn't want to be abandoned a second time a third time. But that old resignation creeps in like the cold: he would never be good enough to be loved.
"We're leaving." Without him. Thrown away again. The chains tug roughly at his wrists and he staggers after the old man.
"We're leaving." Louder now than the whispered Stay. Close enough to encompass him within it. We. Not abandoned, saved. Brought into a new family's arms. Zephia has his hand. She wouldn't leave him here.
The forest, dark as it, swells in blindingly. Griss squints up at her crescent halo like he's just come out of a long dream. All around them, the trees screech with some disembodied voice and the water in the spring roils until it's muddy.
"Zephia?" Griss slurs, then shakes his head. It's as clear as ever, except for all that wailing. "What the hell is happening? Hey, Zephia!" He grabs her hand and squeezes hard enough to crack the bones of a normal human. "You hearing me?"
And that's... right. It's right. The way he calls her name. The way he holds onto her. (It's desperation, and it's fear, and it's everything that makes a child so easy to love. Desperate children do not stray; terrified children do not let go. Griss is not a child, but he must have learned the lesson all the same, because he has stayed, and he has never once let go.)
He grasps her hand with such force that she can hardly even flex her fingers. Had it been anyone elseâeven traitorous Mauvier, who would never hold onto her like this to begin with; even wretched Marni, who would cling to her now and flit away laterâshe would have crushed their fingers in turn. But it's Griss, her darling Griss, all flesh and blood and alive, and so:
"There's no need to yell, Griss. I'm here."
She gives her one and only warning for him to ease his grip with a brush of her thumb against his skin. (See? She has always been terribly patient and accommodating to those she loves. She spoils them so.)
"Why?" It's the same voice that bid them to stay, trembling and sweet, drifting all around them as if it is the fog itself that speaks. "You're here. Why won't you stay?"
And how awful, to hear that. In a way, she understands.
âbut she is not one with an open and bleeding heart, letting in all those who might commiserate with her. She might have, once, before she was hurt and hurt again until she finally learned not to. Lightning gathers in violent sparks within her free palm, and without further warning, it arcs off her hand to crash through the fog and into the trees. It is more miracle than not that it doesn't spark a fire, but she doesn't seem to care.
Instead, she gives Griss' hand another pull, dragging him if she must down the path she's opened.
"Stay," comes the voice again, closer this time. Just behind them, dragging itself out of the springs they were just in, is the image of a child. It's a ratty thing, with long, tangled hair torn in patches at the scalp, dressed in cheap satins instead of rich silks. In its arms is a cracked mirror. "I can be good. Please. I can be anything you want. I can show you what you want to see. Won't you stay?"
