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Sofia liked to come here at sunset on occasion, finding comfort in the golden light splattering the ground through the trees and the flowers circling the grotto in a sweet-smelling embrace. Her memories of Justana had faded into nothingness, but here… here, Sofia could pretend she knew the woman who never got a chance to raise her. It was a quiet little ritual. She came to the grotto adorned in all her gold finery—circlets and bangles, rings and anklets—with only one hint of silver: the simple necklace around her neck, a stark contrast against the tinkling riches she wore to honor her mother. The necklace, too, commemorated the mysterious woman she would never know. It had belonged to Justana, and her daughter rarely took it off.
Sofia looked almost ethereal, surrounded by all that golden light, white silk peplos flowing nearly to the ground. “Mother,” she called softly, green eyes wide and earnest, even as the wind blew silently through the clearing. At fifteen, what Sofia of Marikas wanted more than anything was to impress Justana. She wanted to be beautiful and graceful and worthy of carrying on her family’s legacy as the only daughter. She wanted to look like Justana, to honor her, to find the familial love that her father did not seem to want to provide. The small statue in front of her could not give her that, though she often searched for a spark in the blank stone eyes. A small hand reached out anyway, gliding across the white marble cheek. None of the warmth she was seeking, and minimal facial resemblance. Instead, she replaced the slightly wilted circlet of flowers on the statue’s head, kneeling to make sure the new crown was perfectly aligned.
Far from satisfied, she backed away, taking in the whole grotto. In the light of a dying day, it did look magical, fit for the woman it was built to honor. But, though she had spent countless evenings here over the years, sometimes it felt cold. Spring air whispered warmly around her bare arms and she shivered anyway, woefully aware of her solitude. “Mother,” Sofia murmured again, eyes lingering on each lonely flower, “How do I learn to be a woman, without you here to teach me?”
It was one of her deepest worries. Strong and passionate already, Sofia of Marikas liked to project an aura of power, bordering on chaos. But here, alone with her thoughts and the beautiful statue of her mother, she allowed herself to be afraid. In a family of men, it was difficult to become a proud woman. She easily learned lessons of strength and power and justice, and the nursemaids taught her to braid her hair and stand tall, but who was there to teach her of the subtler arts of femininity? To tell her of virtue and love and feeling? Not Sera, and who else was there? "I want to learn."
Instead, the young royal took to gathering flowers, careful not to disturb the ones ringing the clearing, but wandering a few steps deeper into the woods, collecting only the most idyllic spring blooms. The process soothed her saddened mind and soon she was humming lullabies to herself, accepting, if not content, of her unanswered wishes.
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Sofia liked to come here at sunset on occasion, finding comfort in the golden light splattering the ground through the trees and the flowers circling the grotto in a sweet-smelling embrace. Her memories of Justana had faded into nothingness, but here… here, Sofia could pretend she knew the woman who never got a chance to raise her. It was a quiet little ritual. She came to the grotto adorned in all her gold finery—circlets and bangles, rings and anklets—with only one hint of silver: the simple necklace around her neck, a stark contrast against the tinkling riches she wore to honor her mother. The necklace, too, commemorated the mysterious woman she would never know. It had belonged to Justana, and her daughter rarely took it off.
Sofia looked almost ethereal, surrounded by all that golden light, white silk peplos flowing nearly to the ground. “Mother,” she called softly, green eyes wide and earnest, even as the wind blew silently through the clearing. At fifteen, what Sofia of Marikas wanted more than anything was to impress Justana. She wanted to be beautiful and graceful and worthy of carrying on her family’s legacy as the only daughter. She wanted to look like Justana, to honor her, to find the familial love that her father did not seem to want to provide. The small statue in front of her could not give her that, though she often searched for a spark in the blank stone eyes. A small hand reached out anyway, gliding across the white marble cheek. None of the warmth she was seeking, and minimal facial resemblance. Instead, she replaced the slightly wilted circlet of flowers on the statue’s head, kneeling to make sure the new crown was perfectly aligned.
Far from satisfied, she backed away, taking in the whole grotto. In the light of a dying day, it did look magical, fit for the woman it was built to honor. But, though she had spent countless evenings here over the years, sometimes it felt cold. Spring air whispered warmly around her bare arms and she shivered anyway, woefully aware of her solitude. “Mother,” Sofia murmured again, eyes lingering on each lonely flower, “How do I learn to be a woman, without you here to teach me?”
It was one of her deepest worries. Strong and passionate already, Sofia of Marikas liked to project an aura of power, bordering on chaos. But here, alone with her thoughts and the beautiful statue of her mother, she allowed herself to be afraid. In a family of men, it was difficult to become a proud woman. She easily learned lessons of strength and power and justice, and the nursemaids taught her to braid her hair and stand tall, but who was there to teach her of the subtler arts of femininity? To tell her of virtue and love and feeling? Not Sera, and who else was there? "I want to learn."
Instead, the young royal took to gathering flowers, careful not to disturb the ones ringing the clearing, but wandering a few steps deeper into the woods, collecting only the most idyllic spring blooms. The process soothed her saddened mind and soon she was humming lullabies to herself, accepting, if not content, of her unanswered wishes.
Sofia liked to come here at sunset on occasion, finding comfort in the golden light splattering the ground through the trees and the flowers circling the grotto in a sweet-smelling embrace. Her memories of Justana had faded into nothingness, but here… here, Sofia could pretend she knew the woman who never got a chance to raise her. It was a quiet little ritual. She came to the grotto adorned in all her gold finery—circlets and bangles, rings and anklets—with only one hint of silver: the simple necklace around her neck, a stark contrast against the tinkling riches she wore to honor her mother. The necklace, too, commemorated the mysterious woman she would never know. It had belonged to Justana, and her daughter rarely took it off.
Sofia looked almost ethereal, surrounded by all that golden light, white silk peplos flowing nearly to the ground. “Mother,” she called softly, green eyes wide and earnest, even as the wind blew silently through the clearing. At fifteen, what Sofia of Marikas wanted more than anything was to impress Justana. She wanted to be beautiful and graceful and worthy of carrying on her family’s legacy as the only daughter. She wanted to look like Justana, to honor her, to find the familial love that her father did not seem to want to provide. The small statue in front of her could not give her that, though she often searched for a spark in the blank stone eyes. A small hand reached out anyway, gliding across the white marble cheek. None of the warmth she was seeking, and minimal facial resemblance. Instead, she replaced the slightly wilted circlet of flowers on the statue’s head, kneeling to make sure the new crown was perfectly aligned.
Far from satisfied, she backed away, taking in the whole grotto. In the light of a dying day, it did look magical, fit for the woman it was built to honor. But, though she had spent countless evenings here over the years, sometimes it felt cold. Spring air whispered warmly around her bare arms and she shivered anyway, woefully aware of her solitude. “Mother,” Sofia murmured again, eyes lingering on each lonely flower, “How do I learn to be a woman, without you here to teach me?”
It was one of her deepest worries. Strong and passionate already, Sofia of Marikas liked to project an aura of power, bordering on chaos. But here, alone with her thoughts and the beautiful statue of her mother, she allowed herself to be afraid. In a family of men, it was difficult to become a proud woman. She easily learned lessons of strength and power and justice, and the nursemaids taught her to braid her hair and stand tall, but who was there to teach her of the subtler arts of femininity? To tell her of virtue and love and feeling? Not Sera, and who else was there? "I want to learn."
Instead, the young royal took to gathering flowers, careful not to disturb the ones ringing the clearing, but wandering a few steps deeper into the woods, collecting only the most idyllic spring blooms. The process soothed her saddened mind and soon she was humming lullabies to herself, accepting, if not content, of her unanswered wishes.
Though he was often loath to admit it for fear of appearing less in front of those obsequious men with which he surrounded himself, the youngest Marikas son was often lonely when he came to spend his days at his Thesnian home. He enjoyed the power and prestige which came with the role of baron, and, aged twelve, had adored prancing around the court with his new title and letting all of his friends know that he was now far more powerful than they because he was not only of royal blood but a baron to boot. But the months away from the capital city, when Papa and Pavlos and Sofia still had reason to remain, took their toll, and he only wanted the companionship.
It was, in part, why he had demanded they erect the memorial to Mama in the garden. Though he loved his sister dearly, and he supposed he held some affection for both his father and brother, nothing could ever amount to how much the boy had adored his mother, and the loss of her at such a young age was something he never had quite managed to get over. At least, with the carefully maintained grotto and the statue carved in her likeness, when he was alone in his province, he could pretend that she was still there to some extent, and he could visit and share all his worries as if she might rise from the stone and respond. Rafail may not have been the most compassionate soul, but even he needed the kindness every so often.
Today was different from most, because it was one of those days when Sofia, at least, was in the home, but they were still separated by the mound of work presented to him. It seemed that, although he could foist the majority of things for which he did not care onto those designated to help him with his tasks, there would always be something else which could only be handled by the baron himself, be it some monetary matter or a petty dispute which required blind justice. By the time the sun was setting in the orange-painted sky, Rafail was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to settle in his chambers with someone pretty and maybe enjoy a calming massage and a soothing fuck until he could sleep the night away. He would have given the command to one of his more trustworthy servants to organise just that, in fact, had he not been so adamant about an inevitable part of his daily schedule in Thesnia. So far as he was concerned, it was more important than those prayers offered to the gods each day, although he would never admit it.
"Have something sent to my chambers for later," he had commanded the staff as he passed the grand dining hall where he might have eaten otherwise, the phrase only half referring to a meal. Without waiting to ensure comprehension of the statement, he passed them by, crossing the interior courtyard of the home to exit into the gardens, and then directing himself towards the makeshift shrine. Usually, it was empty, bar perhaps a gardener or two tending the flowers but, tonight, it was otherwise occupied.
It was odd to see Sofia gathering the flowers if solely because Rafail was unused to the sight of any, and he paused where he stood a moment, arms crossed as he watched his sister work, absentmindedly humming the same recognisable tune as her. "Mama used to sing us that, when you were very small. You likely won't remember it."
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Though he was often loath to admit it for fear of appearing less in front of those obsequious men with which he surrounded himself, the youngest Marikas son was often lonely when he came to spend his days at his Thesnian home. He enjoyed the power and prestige which came with the role of baron, and, aged twelve, had adored prancing around the court with his new title and letting all of his friends know that he was now far more powerful than they because he was not only of royal blood but a baron to boot. But the months away from the capital city, when Papa and Pavlos and Sofia still had reason to remain, took their toll, and he only wanted the companionship.
It was, in part, why he had demanded they erect the memorial to Mama in the garden. Though he loved his sister dearly, and he supposed he held some affection for both his father and brother, nothing could ever amount to how much the boy had adored his mother, and the loss of her at such a young age was something he never had quite managed to get over. At least, with the carefully maintained grotto and the statue carved in her likeness, when he was alone in his province, he could pretend that she was still there to some extent, and he could visit and share all his worries as if she might rise from the stone and respond. Rafail may not have been the most compassionate soul, but even he needed the kindness every so often.
Today was different from most, because it was one of those days when Sofia, at least, was in the home, but they were still separated by the mound of work presented to him. It seemed that, although he could foist the majority of things for which he did not care onto those designated to help him with his tasks, there would always be something else which could only be handled by the baron himself, be it some monetary matter or a petty dispute which required blind justice. By the time the sun was setting in the orange-painted sky, Rafail was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to settle in his chambers with someone pretty and maybe enjoy a calming massage and a soothing fuck until he could sleep the night away. He would have given the command to one of his more trustworthy servants to organise just that, in fact, had he not been so adamant about an inevitable part of his daily schedule in Thesnia. So far as he was concerned, it was more important than those prayers offered to the gods each day, although he would never admit it.
"Have something sent to my chambers for later," he had commanded the staff as he passed the grand dining hall where he might have eaten otherwise, the phrase only half referring to a meal. Without waiting to ensure comprehension of the statement, he passed them by, crossing the interior courtyard of the home to exit into the gardens, and then directing himself towards the makeshift shrine. Usually, it was empty, bar perhaps a gardener or two tending the flowers but, tonight, it was otherwise occupied.
It was odd to see Sofia gathering the flowers if solely because Rafail was unused to the sight of any, and he paused where he stood a moment, arms crossed as he watched his sister work, absentmindedly humming the same recognisable tune as her. "Mama used to sing us that, when you were very small. You likely won't remember it."
Though he was often loath to admit it for fear of appearing less in front of those obsequious men with which he surrounded himself, the youngest Marikas son was often lonely when he came to spend his days at his Thesnian home. He enjoyed the power and prestige which came with the role of baron, and, aged twelve, had adored prancing around the court with his new title and letting all of his friends know that he was now far more powerful than they because he was not only of royal blood but a baron to boot. But the months away from the capital city, when Papa and Pavlos and Sofia still had reason to remain, took their toll, and he only wanted the companionship.
It was, in part, why he had demanded they erect the memorial to Mama in the garden. Though he loved his sister dearly, and he supposed he held some affection for both his father and brother, nothing could ever amount to how much the boy had adored his mother, and the loss of her at such a young age was something he never had quite managed to get over. At least, with the carefully maintained grotto and the statue carved in her likeness, when he was alone in his province, he could pretend that she was still there to some extent, and he could visit and share all his worries as if she might rise from the stone and respond. Rafail may not have been the most compassionate soul, but even he needed the kindness every so often.
Today was different from most, because it was one of those days when Sofia, at least, was in the home, but they were still separated by the mound of work presented to him. It seemed that, although he could foist the majority of things for which he did not care onto those designated to help him with his tasks, there would always be something else which could only be handled by the baron himself, be it some monetary matter or a petty dispute which required blind justice. By the time the sun was setting in the orange-painted sky, Rafail was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to settle in his chambers with someone pretty and maybe enjoy a calming massage and a soothing fuck until he could sleep the night away. He would have given the command to one of his more trustworthy servants to organise just that, in fact, had he not been so adamant about an inevitable part of his daily schedule in Thesnia. So far as he was concerned, it was more important than those prayers offered to the gods each day, although he would never admit it.
"Have something sent to my chambers for later," he had commanded the staff as he passed the grand dining hall where he might have eaten otherwise, the phrase only half referring to a meal. Without waiting to ensure comprehension of the statement, he passed them by, crossing the interior courtyard of the home to exit into the gardens, and then directing himself towards the makeshift shrine. Usually, it was empty, bar perhaps a gardener or two tending the flowers but, tonight, it was otherwise occupied.
It was odd to see Sofia gathering the flowers if solely because Rafail was unused to the sight of any, and he paused where he stood a moment, arms crossed as he watched his sister work, absentmindedly humming the same recognisable tune as her. "Mama used to sing us that, when you were very small. You likely won't remember it."
Even though her mother could not answer, and never would, there was something immensely comforting about the grotto. She could pretend the tight circle of trees was a warm embrace, the sunset light a sign from the gods that her mother was alright. Her movements were fluid and automatic, guided as if by a steadying hand. This place was the very essence of peace. No angst of adolescence, no anger. Worry, yes, but soothed by the scent of each lovely flower.
Sofia did not startle when her brother joined her quiet humming, nor did she turn from her work until she was satisfied with the little bouquet, scattering the remainder of the flowers on the ground around the bust of her mother. But Rafail’s words pierced her heart a little.
Turning to stare at him, she stopped humming and tried to keep her voice steady, nonchalant. It came out a note too high and a beat too fast. “Did she?” Sofia could not remember. She had always assumed the lullabies in her head came from the endless parade of nursemaids, or perhaps even her father. It had never occurred to her that, buried deep in the recesses of her mind, she remembered her mother.
But then a hint of panic rose within her. If the songs were her mother’s… if this was all her memories contained… what were the words? How could she forget the words to the most soothing songs she knew? Were there words? Sofia could not remember. She took a step back, away from the bust, as though ashamed to be in its presence. “What…” she faltered and looked at Raf for help. He always helped her, even when he was cross at her. Even when there were a thousand other things he wanted to do. “What were the words?”
Green eyes pleaded with him, even as she tried to picture him younger, both of them in their mother’s lap, listening to the song that now threatened to drown itself back into her subconscious. But Raf was tall and his face held little reminders of the child he must once have been. And she could not fill the color back into her mother’s outline.
“What was she like?” Sofia pressed on, fingers clutching at the silver necklace, though she had each edge and bump memorized. She felt like an imposter here, in all her finery, dressed to honor a woman she could not remember.
They didn’t talk about her much. Sofia knew that Raf had loved her dearly, more than anything in the world, but she had always been afraid to ask. To ask would be to admit that she didn’t know anything. To ask would be to risk hurting her brother, by making him recount stories of all that he had lost. She did not know what gave her the courage that night, either. But it felt right that she should learn here, in a place that felt like what a mother should be.
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Even though her mother could not answer, and never would, there was something immensely comforting about the grotto. She could pretend the tight circle of trees was a warm embrace, the sunset light a sign from the gods that her mother was alright. Her movements were fluid and automatic, guided as if by a steadying hand. This place was the very essence of peace. No angst of adolescence, no anger. Worry, yes, but soothed by the scent of each lovely flower.
Sofia did not startle when her brother joined her quiet humming, nor did she turn from her work until she was satisfied with the little bouquet, scattering the remainder of the flowers on the ground around the bust of her mother. But Rafail’s words pierced her heart a little.
Turning to stare at him, she stopped humming and tried to keep her voice steady, nonchalant. It came out a note too high and a beat too fast. “Did she?” Sofia could not remember. She had always assumed the lullabies in her head came from the endless parade of nursemaids, or perhaps even her father. It had never occurred to her that, buried deep in the recesses of her mind, she remembered her mother.
But then a hint of panic rose within her. If the songs were her mother’s… if this was all her memories contained… what were the words? How could she forget the words to the most soothing songs she knew? Were there words? Sofia could not remember. She took a step back, away from the bust, as though ashamed to be in its presence. “What…” she faltered and looked at Raf for help. He always helped her, even when he was cross at her. Even when there were a thousand other things he wanted to do. “What were the words?”
Green eyes pleaded with him, even as she tried to picture him younger, both of them in their mother’s lap, listening to the song that now threatened to drown itself back into her subconscious. But Raf was tall and his face held little reminders of the child he must once have been. And she could not fill the color back into her mother’s outline.
“What was she like?” Sofia pressed on, fingers clutching at the silver necklace, though she had each edge and bump memorized. She felt like an imposter here, in all her finery, dressed to honor a woman she could not remember.
They didn’t talk about her much. Sofia knew that Raf had loved her dearly, more than anything in the world, but she had always been afraid to ask. To ask would be to admit that she didn’t know anything. To ask would be to risk hurting her brother, by making him recount stories of all that he had lost. She did not know what gave her the courage that night, either. But it felt right that she should learn here, in a place that felt like what a mother should be.
Even though her mother could not answer, and never would, there was something immensely comforting about the grotto. She could pretend the tight circle of trees was a warm embrace, the sunset light a sign from the gods that her mother was alright. Her movements were fluid and automatic, guided as if by a steadying hand. This place was the very essence of peace. No angst of adolescence, no anger. Worry, yes, but soothed by the scent of each lovely flower.
Sofia did not startle when her brother joined her quiet humming, nor did she turn from her work until she was satisfied with the little bouquet, scattering the remainder of the flowers on the ground around the bust of her mother. But Rafail’s words pierced her heart a little.
Turning to stare at him, she stopped humming and tried to keep her voice steady, nonchalant. It came out a note too high and a beat too fast. “Did she?” Sofia could not remember. She had always assumed the lullabies in her head came from the endless parade of nursemaids, or perhaps even her father. It had never occurred to her that, buried deep in the recesses of her mind, she remembered her mother.
But then a hint of panic rose within her. If the songs were her mother’s… if this was all her memories contained… what were the words? How could she forget the words to the most soothing songs she knew? Were there words? Sofia could not remember. She took a step back, away from the bust, as though ashamed to be in its presence. “What…” she faltered and looked at Raf for help. He always helped her, even when he was cross at her. Even when there were a thousand other things he wanted to do. “What were the words?”
Green eyes pleaded with him, even as she tried to picture him younger, both of them in their mother’s lap, listening to the song that now threatened to drown itself back into her subconscious. But Raf was tall and his face held little reminders of the child he must once have been. And she could not fill the color back into her mother’s outline.
“What was she like?” Sofia pressed on, fingers clutching at the silver necklace, though she had each edge and bump memorized. She felt like an imposter here, in all her finery, dressed to honor a woman she could not remember.
They didn’t talk about her much. Sofia knew that Raf had loved her dearly, more than anything in the world, but she had always been afraid to ask. To ask would be to admit that she didn’t know anything. To ask would be to risk hurting her brother, by making him recount stories of all that he had lost. She did not know what gave her the courage that night, either. But it felt right that she should learn here, in a place that felt like what a mother should be.
Sometimes, Rafail felt pity for his younger sister. He had enjoyed several years with Mama, whereas she had enjoyed far fewer (and neither had had the time Pavlos had had, although perhaps they were lucky that neither of them had been there during her prolonged illness). This was one of those times, where his lips stretched into a sad sort of smile as he nodded in answer to Sofia’s question. He could tell that she had always wanted more time with their mother, especially now that she was permanently stuck in a family surrounded mostly by men and woman who, although wise, was somewhat out of touch with modern standards. Aunt Ivra was not quite the influence that Mama could have been. At least she had her nieces and sister-in-law to provide some degree of comfort.
“The words?” he repeated, throwing his mind back to when he too had been younger, attempting to recall those songs which their mother had sang them. There were plenty of lullabies which never quite stuck in his head, and which he had never had to reproduce with age (women were traditionally less impressed by men who sang songs for small children), but this had been less sung to them as an attempt to ensure they went to bed when was demanded of them, and more as one of her sweet warnings. He had heard elsewhere too, a few times, so it had lingered in his mind more quickly than other tunes. Now, he unfolded his arms and dropped one to his hip, recreating the song as best he could, though his voice was far more profound than Mama’s had ever been, and the lower pitch did not quite have the same ring to it as her higher one.
“As long as you live, shine forth; do not at all grieve. Life exists for a short while; time takes its course.”
It was not the cheeriest of tunes, but it was pretty in an odd way, and its link to Mama only increased the beauty which Rafail perceived in the music. It was, at least, what Sofia had wanted to hear.
Talking about Mama was not something the pair of siblings did often enough, but it was an activity which Rafail would never turn down. He crossed past his sister, offering the statue a nod of respect as if the woman it displayed were, in fact, still present and watching them, then took a seat on a stone bench positioned nearby. “Come,” he told his sister, patting the seat beside him, though he was already speaking before she had a chance to do so. “You have a lot of Mama in you, did you know that? I think you must remind Papa of her more often than not, especially now that you are growing up.” That much was right: as she grew into womanhood, Sofia had started to look much more like their mother, though she might not have noticed herself for lack of memory.
“She was wonderful in every way. Whenever I had any trouble – trivial things, of course, at that age – she would soothe me, no matter what.” There had been few incidents like that, whether it was an accidental slip and a hurt knee or some petty fight with one of his friends. “Oh, and she was the most delightful musician. She would sing to us almost every day.” That was likely where Rafail had gotten his own talents. Turning back to Sofia as though questioning, he smiled reassuringly, reaching a hand to rest on her own. “Do you remember anything about Mama?”
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Sometimes, Rafail felt pity for his younger sister. He had enjoyed several years with Mama, whereas she had enjoyed far fewer (and neither had had the time Pavlos had had, although perhaps they were lucky that neither of them had been there during her prolonged illness). This was one of those times, where his lips stretched into a sad sort of smile as he nodded in answer to Sofia’s question. He could tell that she had always wanted more time with their mother, especially now that she was permanently stuck in a family surrounded mostly by men and woman who, although wise, was somewhat out of touch with modern standards. Aunt Ivra was not quite the influence that Mama could have been. At least she had her nieces and sister-in-law to provide some degree of comfort.
“The words?” he repeated, throwing his mind back to when he too had been younger, attempting to recall those songs which their mother had sang them. There were plenty of lullabies which never quite stuck in his head, and which he had never had to reproduce with age (women were traditionally less impressed by men who sang songs for small children), but this had been less sung to them as an attempt to ensure they went to bed when was demanded of them, and more as one of her sweet warnings. He had heard elsewhere too, a few times, so it had lingered in his mind more quickly than other tunes. Now, he unfolded his arms and dropped one to his hip, recreating the song as best he could, though his voice was far more profound than Mama’s had ever been, and the lower pitch did not quite have the same ring to it as her higher one.
“As long as you live, shine forth; do not at all grieve. Life exists for a short while; time takes its course.”
It was not the cheeriest of tunes, but it was pretty in an odd way, and its link to Mama only increased the beauty which Rafail perceived in the music. It was, at least, what Sofia had wanted to hear.
Talking about Mama was not something the pair of siblings did often enough, but it was an activity which Rafail would never turn down. He crossed past his sister, offering the statue a nod of respect as if the woman it displayed were, in fact, still present and watching them, then took a seat on a stone bench positioned nearby. “Come,” he told his sister, patting the seat beside him, though he was already speaking before she had a chance to do so. “You have a lot of Mama in you, did you know that? I think you must remind Papa of her more often than not, especially now that you are growing up.” That much was right: as she grew into womanhood, Sofia had started to look much more like their mother, though she might not have noticed herself for lack of memory.
“She was wonderful in every way. Whenever I had any trouble – trivial things, of course, at that age – she would soothe me, no matter what.” There had been few incidents like that, whether it was an accidental slip and a hurt knee or some petty fight with one of his friends. “Oh, and she was the most delightful musician. She would sing to us almost every day.” That was likely where Rafail had gotten his own talents. Turning back to Sofia as though questioning, he smiled reassuringly, reaching a hand to rest on her own. “Do you remember anything about Mama?”
Sometimes, Rafail felt pity for his younger sister. He had enjoyed several years with Mama, whereas she had enjoyed far fewer (and neither had had the time Pavlos had had, although perhaps they were lucky that neither of them had been there during her prolonged illness). This was one of those times, where his lips stretched into a sad sort of smile as he nodded in answer to Sofia’s question. He could tell that she had always wanted more time with their mother, especially now that she was permanently stuck in a family surrounded mostly by men and woman who, although wise, was somewhat out of touch with modern standards. Aunt Ivra was not quite the influence that Mama could have been. At least she had her nieces and sister-in-law to provide some degree of comfort.
“The words?” he repeated, throwing his mind back to when he too had been younger, attempting to recall those songs which their mother had sang them. There were plenty of lullabies which never quite stuck in his head, and which he had never had to reproduce with age (women were traditionally less impressed by men who sang songs for small children), but this had been less sung to them as an attempt to ensure they went to bed when was demanded of them, and more as one of her sweet warnings. He had heard elsewhere too, a few times, so it had lingered in his mind more quickly than other tunes. Now, he unfolded his arms and dropped one to his hip, recreating the song as best he could, though his voice was far more profound than Mama’s had ever been, and the lower pitch did not quite have the same ring to it as her higher one.
“As long as you live, shine forth; do not at all grieve. Life exists for a short while; time takes its course.”
It was not the cheeriest of tunes, but it was pretty in an odd way, and its link to Mama only increased the beauty which Rafail perceived in the music. It was, at least, what Sofia had wanted to hear.
Talking about Mama was not something the pair of siblings did often enough, but it was an activity which Rafail would never turn down. He crossed past his sister, offering the statue a nod of respect as if the woman it displayed were, in fact, still present and watching them, then took a seat on a stone bench positioned nearby. “Come,” he told his sister, patting the seat beside him, though he was already speaking before she had a chance to do so. “You have a lot of Mama in you, did you know that? I think you must remind Papa of her more often than not, especially now that you are growing up.” That much was right: as she grew into womanhood, Sofia had started to look much more like their mother, though she might not have noticed herself for lack of memory.
“She was wonderful in every way. Whenever I had any trouble – trivial things, of course, at that age – she would soothe me, no matter what.” There had been few incidents like that, whether it was an accidental slip and a hurt knee or some petty fight with one of his friends. “Oh, and she was the most delightful musician. She would sing to us almost every day.” That was likely where Rafail had gotten his own talents. Turning back to Sofia as though questioning, he smiled reassuringly, reaching a hand to rest on her own. “Do you remember anything about Mama?”
Sofia did not like the look in Raf’s eyes. Gentle and kind but pitying and sad all at once. The young royal girl felt a hint of anger bubbling in her stomach. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair in the slightest that their mother had been torn away so soon, leaving so few memories for Sofia to treasure. Mostly, Sofia remembered feelings. A gentle kiss on her forehead, the tinkle of lullabies, the warmth of her blankets after Mama tucked her in. And that, she supposed, was why feelings had always been much more important to her than anything else. Words were easily forgotten, images faded into dust, but feelings were forever.
Sofia knew she would always remember the safety her mother had given her. She felt it again every time Raf smiled at her.
But the words were sad and ironic, and Sofia couldn’t help but wonder if Justana had sung her children that song to prepare them for her death. She knew there had been an illness, a slow fade rather than an explosion of thunder. Perhaps her mother knew she would be leaving, and left them instructions for mourning. Do not at all grieve. The anger bubbled again. How could she not grieve her dead mother? How could she not grieve the feelings and experiences she would never share with the woman who gave her life?
The song left a chill on her arms, though the breeze did not blow. Raf was so much more musical than she would ever be. She could sing fairly, yes, but there was none of the power or passion in her voice that would make a great musician. Sofia sat beside her brother but stared hard at the statue in front of them, as though his words could breathe life back into the marble.
“I do?” Sofia had wanted nothing more than to be like her mother. But it was impossible to be like a woman she did not know; like trying to emulate a story she’d once heard as a toddler. Though, being like her mother might explain the sad look Papa gave her sometimes, when he thought she wouldn’t notice. He was always busy doing official business, but maybe her presence was a remnant of her mother that brought him grief. Sofia did not know how she felt about that.
“…I’m not a delightful musician, Raf, you know that,” Sofia laughed a bit, fingers curling up beneath his hand. Her attempts to learn the harp had been disastrous. She felt a pang; she ought to have tried harder. If Mama was a musician… maybe she could find a connection there. But the constant singing explained, at least, all the lovely little lullabies that appeared in her dreams every now and again. “Perhaps I should give the harp another try,” she mumbled regretfully, already wincing at the thought of the numerous strings and tedious lessons.
It was lovely to hear Raf speak of their mother. The marble statue seemed to shine brighter in the dying light. But her own memories? There were precious few. “I…” she hesitated, glancing sideways at her brother. “She used to braid my hair at bedtime, so that there would be lots of extra curls,” Sofia said after a moment, eyes wide. Was that right? She remembered the feeling of soft hands gently tugging, a voice humming quietly… It could have been a nursemaid. The anger burned once again. She couldn’t remember anything, not really.
“I don’t remember much.” The words hurt to say, but Sofia knew Raf would never judge her. The pity might come back into his eyes, but he would soothe her just as Mama had soothed him, she knew it. “But I want to be like her, Raf. So that she exists somewhere besides this little grotto.”
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Sofia did not like the look in Raf’s eyes. Gentle and kind but pitying and sad all at once. The young royal girl felt a hint of anger bubbling in her stomach. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair in the slightest that their mother had been torn away so soon, leaving so few memories for Sofia to treasure. Mostly, Sofia remembered feelings. A gentle kiss on her forehead, the tinkle of lullabies, the warmth of her blankets after Mama tucked her in. And that, she supposed, was why feelings had always been much more important to her than anything else. Words were easily forgotten, images faded into dust, but feelings were forever.
Sofia knew she would always remember the safety her mother had given her. She felt it again every time Raf smiled at her.
But the words were sad and ironic, and Sofia couldn’t help but wonder if Justana had sung her children that song to prepare them for her death. She knew there had been an illness, a slow fade rather than an explosion of thunder. Perhaps her mother knew she would be leaving, and left them instructions for mourning. Do not at all grieve. The anger bubbled again. How could she not grieve her dead mother? How could she not grieve the feelings and experiences she would never share with the woman who gave her life?
The song left a chill on her arms, though the breeze did not blow. Raf was so much more musical than she would ever be. She could sing fairly, yes, but there was none of the power or passion in her voice that would make a great musician. Sofia sat beside her brother but stared hard at the statue in front of them, as though his words could breathe life back into the marble.
“I do?” Sofia had wanted nothing more than to be like her mother. But it was impossible to be like a woman she did not know; like trying to emulate a story she’d once heard as a toddler. Though, being like her mother might explain the sad look Papa gave her sometimes, when he thought she wouldn’t notice. He was always busy doing official business, but maybe her presence was a remnant of her mother that brought him grief. Sofia did not know how she felt about that.
“…I’m not a delightful musician, Raf, you know that,” Sofia laughed a bit, fingers curling up beneath his hand. Her attempts to learn the harp had been disastrous. She felt a pang; she ought to have tried harder. If Mama was a musician… maybe she could find a connection there. But the constant singing explained, at least, all the lovely little lullabies that appeared in her dreams every now and again. “Perhaps I should give the harp another try,” she mumbled regretfully, already wincing at the thought of the numerous strings and tedious lessons.
It was lovely to hear Raf speak of their mother. The marble statue seemed to shine brighter in the dying light. But her own memories? There were precious few. “I…” she hesitated, glancing sideways at her brother. “She used to braid my hair at bedtime, so that there would be lots of extra curls,” Sofia said after a moment, eyes wide. Was that right? She remembered the feeling of soft hands gently tugging, a voice humming quietly… It could have been a nursemaid. The anger burned once again. She couldn’t remember anything, not really.
“I don’t remember much.” The words hurt to say, but Sofia knew Raf would never judge her. The pity might come back into his eyes, but he would soothe her just as Mama had soothed him, she knew it. “But I want to be like her, Raf. So that she exists somewhere besides this little grotto.”
Sofia did not like the look in Raf’s eyes. Gentle and kind but pitying and sad all at once. The young royal girl felt a hint of anger bubbling in her stomach. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair in the slightest that their mother had been torn away so soon, leaving so few memories for Sofia to treasure. Mostly, Sofia remembered feelings. A gentle kiss on her forehead, the tinkle of lullabies, the warmth of her blankets after Mama tucked her in. And that, she supposed, was why feelings had always been much more important to her than anything else. Words were easily forgotten, images faded into dust, but feelings were forever.
Sofia knew she would always remember the safety her mother had given her. She felt it again every time Raf smiled at her.
But the words were sad and ironic, and Sofia couldn’t help but wonder if Justana had sung her children that song to prepare them for her death. She knew there had been an illness, a slow fade rather than an explosion of thunder. Perhaps her mother knew she would be leaving, and left them instructions for mourning. Do not at all grieve. The anger bubbled again. How could she not grieve her dead mother? How could she not grieve the feelings and experiences she would never share with the woman who gave her life?
The song left a chill on her arms, though the breeze did not blow. Raf was so much more musical than she would ever be. She could sing fairly, yes, but there was none of the power or passion in her voice that would make a great musician. Sofia sat beside her brother but stared hard at the statue in front of them, as though his words could breathe life back into the marble.
“I do?” Sofia had wanted nothing more than to be like her mother. But it was impossible to be like a woman she did not know; like trying to emulate a story she’d once heard as a toddler. Though, being like her mother might explain the sad look Papa gave her sometimes, when he thought she wouldn’t notice. He was always busy doing official business, but maybe her presence was a remnant of her mother that brought him grief. Sofia did not know how she felt about that.
“…I’m not a delightful musician, Raf, you know that,” Sofia laughed a bit, fingers curling up beneath his hand. Her attempts to learn the harp had been disastrous. She felt a pang; she ought to have tried harder. If Mama was a musician… maybe she could find a connection there. But the constant singing explained, at least, all the lovely little lullabies that appeared in her dreams every now and again. “Perhaps I should give the harp another try,” she mumbled regretfully, already wincing at the thought of the numerous strings and tedious lessons.
It was lovely to hear Raf speak of their mother. The marble statue seemed to shine brighter in the dying light. But her own memories? There were precious few. “I…” she hesitated, glancing sideways at her brother. “She used to braid my hair at bedtime, so that there would be lots of extra curls,” Sofia said after a moment, eyes wide. Was that right? She remembered the feeling of soft hands gently tugging, a voice humming quietly… It could have been a nursemaid. The anger burned once again. She couldn’t remember anything, not really.
“I don’t remember much.” The words hurt to say, but Sofia knew Raf would never judge her. The pity might come back into his eyes, but he would soothe her just as Mama had soothed him, she knew it. “But I want to be like her, Raf. So that she exists somewhere besides this little grotto.”
"You look like her," Rafail clarified, though it seemed an unnecessary comment to make when the statue before them bore the woman's face clearly enough for Sofia to make a judgement of her own. He was quiet for another moment, brooding in the melancholy of the moment as his sister shared her fragmented memories, drawing up those few well-beloved recollections of his own. Long hours spent in her company as she fixed her brown locks in a mirror and dabbed makeup onto her cheeks herself because she did not always trust her ladies; countless adventures where he had dragged her outside to watch him play so that she could be the pretty princess he rescued; and all the stories she would tell him about their past and their future. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Whether or not it had been Mama that had braided Sofia's hair all those years ago, Rafail could not confirm, but the action seemed entirely in line with the woman's usual activities and small expressions of love. She had always liked his pretty blonde curls, and would run her fingers through them in a caring manner, and he would let her, even though pride had always made him wary of those who attempted to do the same. She had been fussy about her own looks at times, so it stood to reason she would have acted the same when it came to Sofia's. All in all, it seemed more than likely that her faded memory featured their mother rather than some nameless nursemaid.
He chose to agree and give her hope, nodding his head in response as if he remembered, because he almost wished he did so that he would have yet another something about her to recall. "Mama used to say that she was blessed with beautiful children - I assume she only meant you and I, of course - and that if we had been endowed with such a gift, then it only made sense to nourish it." Perhaps that was why Rafail himself was so frequently hung up on the intricacies of his own appearance, then.
A thought struck him as she finished her reminiscing and commented that she wished to be like their mother, though he had already reassured her that she resembled the woman more closely than she believed. A lack of skill in music regardless - it made sense that Rafail should have inherited some ability himself, after all - there were plenty of other ways in which she emulated the woman. It made her brother feel much more protective than usual (and that was already rather a lot).
"Sofi," he started, using the shortened form of her name that he favoured on those occasions when he was feeling exceptionally sentimental. His gaze shifted from the statue before them to face his sister more fully, and his expression bent into something more serious as he spoke. "I think you're underestimating yourself. You are not aware of what you have, but your beauty is a special breed, like Mama's, and you should never let any foolish man take advantage of it." He paused, wondering if was an over-generalisation, perhaps, for he had noticed often that women liked to think of all men as foolish when they gossiped among themselves, and the lord searched for a clarification, reaching for that which he knew the best. "No man like me, do you understand? I do not want them to ruin you when you have so much to give."
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"You look like her," Rafail clarified, though it seemed an unnecessary comment to make when the statue before them bore the woman's face clearly enough for Sofia to make a judgement of her own. He was quiet for another moment, brooding in the melancholy of the moment as his sister shared her fragmented memories, drawing up those few well-beloved recollections of his own. Long hours spent in her company as she fixed her brown locks in a mirror and dabbed makeup onto her cheeks herself because she did not always trust her ladies; countless adventures where he had dragged her outside to watch him play so that she could be the pretty princess he rescued; and all the stories she would tell him about their past and their future. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Whether or not it had been Mama that had braided Sofia's hair all those years ago, Rafail could not confirm, but the action seemed entirely in line with the woman's usual activities and small expressions of love. She had always liked his pretty blonde curls, and would run her fingers through them in a caring manner, and he would let her, even though pride had always made him wary of those who attempted to do the same. She had been fussy about her own looks at times, so it stood to reason she would have acted the same when it came to Sofia's. All in all, it seemed more than likely that her faded memory featured their mother rather than some nameless nursemaid.
He chose to agree and give her hope, nodding his head in response as if he remembered, because he almost wished he did so that he would have yet another something about her to recall. "Mama used to say that she was blessed with beautiful children - I assume she only meant you and I, of course - and that if we had been endowed with such a gift, then it only made sense to nourish it." Perhaps that was why Rafail himself was so frequently hung up on the intricacies of his own appearance, then.
A thought struck him as she finished her reminiscing and commented that she wished to be like their mother, though he had already reassured her that she resembled the woman more closely than she believed. A lack of skill in music regardless - it made sense that Rafail should have inherited some ability himself, after all - there were plenty of other ways in which she emulated the woman. It made her brother feel much more protective than usual (and that was already rather a lot).
"Sofi," he started, using the shortened form of her name that he favoured on those occasions when he was feeling exceptionally sentimental. His gaze shifted from the statue before them to face his sister more fully, and his expression bent into something more serious as he spoke. "I think you're underestimating yourself. You are not aware of what you have, but your beauty is a special breed, like Mama's, and you should never let any foolish man take advantage of it." He paused, wondering if was an over-generalisation, perhaps, for he had noticed often that women liked to think of all men as foolish when they gossiped among themselves, and the lord searched for a clarification, reaching for that which he knew the best. "No man like me, do you understand? I do not want them to ruin you when you have so much to give."
"You look like her," Rafail clarified, though it seemed an unnecessary comment to make when the statue before them bore the woman's face clearly enough for Sofia to make a judgement of her own. He was quiet for another moment, brooding in the melancholy of the moment as his sister shared her fragmented memories, drawing up those few well-beloved recollections of his own. Long hours spent in her company as she fixed her brown locks in a mirror and dabbed makeup onto her cheeks herself because she did not always trust her ladies; countless adventures where he had dragged her outside to watch him play so that she could be the pretty princess he rescued; and all the stories she would tell him about their past and their future. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Whether or not it had been Mama that had braided Sofia's hair all those years ago, Rafail could not confirm, but the action seemed entirely in line with the woman's usual activities and small expressions of love. She had always liked his pretty blonde curls, and would run her fingers through them in a caring manner, and he would let her, even though pride had always made him wary of those who attempted to do the same. She had been fussy about her own looks at times, so it stood to reason she would have acted the same when it came to Sofia's. All in all, it seemed more than likely that her faded memory featured their mother rather than some nameless nursemaid.
He chose to agree and give her hope, nodding his head in response as if he remembered, because he almost wished he did so that he would have yet another something about her to recall. "Mama used to say that she was blessed with beautiful children - I assume she only meant you and I, of course - and that if we had been endowed with such a gift, then it only made sense to nourish it." Perhaps that was why Rafail himself was so frequently hung up on the intricacies of his own appearance, then.
A thought struck him as she finished her reminiscing and commented that she wished to be like their mother, though he had already reassured her that she resembled the woman more closely than she believed. A lack of skill in music regardless - it made sense that Rafail should have inherited some ability himself, after all - there were plenty of other ways in which she emulated the woman. It made her brother feel much more protective than usual (and that was already rather a lot).
"Sofi," he started, using the shortened form of her name that he favoured on those occasions when he was feeling exceptionally sentimental. His gaze shifted from the statue before them to face his sister more fully, and his expression bent into something more serious as he spoke. "I think you're underestimating yourself. You are not aware of what you have, but your beauty is a special breed, like Mama's, and you should never let any foolish man take advantage of it." He paused, wondering if was an over-generalisation, perhaps, for he had noticed often that women liked to think of all men as foolish when they gossiped among themselves, and the lord searched for a clarification, reaching for that which he knew the best. "No man like me, do you understand? I do not want them to ruin you when you have so much to give."
You look like her. It was enough. Sofia felt the anger and sadness fade away into pride, if only for a moment. Everyone said that Mama was beautiful, and that she was beautiful too, and now to have confirmation that they shared the same beauty? Her heart positively soared. She smiled softly to herself, though her eyes never left the statue, searching for every possible similarity. Their eyes, perhaps, and the bride of their noses? What did Mama’s smile look like? Her own mouth felt suddenly strange, foreign, as she tried to imagine the shapes her mother’s might have made. There was no way to know, no way to see the legendary woman again to be sure. Stories would have to be enough. It was good that Raf had enough memories and love for the both of them.
Sofia giggled a bit at Raf’s sleight towards Pavlos. Like Father, their oldest brother was always working and seldom smiled. Frowns weren’t beautiful. She tried to fit Pavlos’s face into the statue before her, faded gently into the oncoming darkness, but couldn’t. She and Raf were what remained of their beautiful, perfect mother. All that remained, perhaps, since Papa hardly dared speak her name in front of them.
She squeezed his hand when he spoke her nickname, sensing the turn in the conversation once more. She turned to meet his eyes, her own wide with anticipation. This whole conversation was something of an oddity; they were close, so close, but this time felt like something new, more real. Sofia wondered how Raf could tell that this was what she needed. There must have been something in her face when he arrived that let him know she needed him. She was lost, drifting, scared, and there was her brother to guide her along. “Thank you,” she mumbled, smiling gratefully at him. Special. Like Mama’s. Her heart soared again, even as she fought the temptation to laugh. No man would ever dare take advantage of her. She would sooner yell at any would-be suitor than let them treat her the way she had seen women treated all her life. She might hold herself to a higher standard, to Mama’s impossible standard, but she intended to hold men to that standard, too.
“You’re a wonderful man, Raf,” Sofia protested, with a laugh this time, though she knew what he meant and her nose wrinkled a bit. “But have some faith in me, alright? No man could ever ruin me, no man would even try. He’d be too scared. If not of me, then of you.” It was simply a fact. Sofia would only pick good, decent men with adventure in their hearts and kindness in their eyes. But if she picked the wrong one, she had no doubt at all that Rafail would send him running back home with his tail between his legs. “I trust you, you have to trust me too.”
She winked a bit and squeezed his hand again, wondering if she should try to bring up her questions. It seemed like the right time. She had begun to catch men looking at her on occasion at the market or outside court, and their gaze burned uncomfortably. Sofia wanted to be able to tell the difference. “How can you… tell… a man’s intentions?” She blushed and looked down. Maybe talking about this with her brother—her womanizing brother, no less—was a poor decision. “You know, so I can scare him off if he’s rotten.”
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You look like her. It was enough. Sofia felt the anger and sadness fade away into pride, if only for a moment. Everyone said that Mama was beautiful, and that she was beautiful too, and now to have confirmation that they shared the same beauty? Her heart positively soared. She smiled softly to herself, though her eyes never left the statue, searching for every possible similarity. Their eyes, perhaps, and the bride of their noses? What did Mama’s smile look like? Her own mouth felt suddenly strange, foreign, as she tried to imagine the shapes her mother’s might have made. There was no way to know, no way to see the legendary woman again to be sure. Stories would have to be enough. It was good that Raf had enough memories and love for the both of them.
Sofia giggled a bit at Raf’s sleight towards Pavlos. Like Father, their oldest brother was always working and seldom smiled. Frowns weren’t beautiful. She tried to fit Pavlos’s face into the statue before her, faded gently into the oncoming darkness, but couldn’t. She and Raf were what remained of their beautiful, perfect mother. All that remained, perhaps, since Papa hardly dared speak her name in front of them.
She squeezed his hand when he spoke her nickname, sensing the turn in the conversation once more. She turned to meet his eyes, her own wide with anticipation. This whole conversation was something of an oddity; they were close, so close, but this time felt like something new, more real. Sofia wondered how Raf could tell that this was what she needed. There must have been something in her face when he arrived that let him know she needed him. She was lost, drifting, scared, and there was her brother to guide her along. “Thank you,” she mumbled, smiling gratefully at him. Special. Like Mama’s. Her heart soared again, even as she fought the temptation to laugh. No man would ever dare take advantage of her. She would sooner yell at any would-be suitor than let them treat her the way she had seen women treated all her life. She might hold herself to a higher standard, to Mama’s impossible standard, but she intended to hold men to that standard, too.
“You’re a wonderful man, Raf,” Sofia protested, with a laugh this time, though she knew what he meant and her nose wrinkled a bit. “But have some faith in me, alright? No man could ever ruin me, no man would even try. He’d be too scared. If not of me, then of you.” It was simply a fact. Sofia would only pick good, decent men with adventure in their hearts and kindness in their eyes. But if she picked the wrong one, she had no doubt at all that Rafail would send him running back home with his tail between his legs. “I trust you, you have to trust me too.”
She winked a bit and squeezed his hand again, wondering if she should try to bring up her questions. It seemed like the right time. She had begun to catch men looking at her on occasion at the market or outside court, and their gaze burned uncomfortably. Sofia wanted to be able to tell the difference. “How can you… tell… a man’s intentions?” She blushed and looked down. Maybe talking about this with her brother—her womanizing brother, no less—was a poor decision. “You know, so I can scare him off if he’s rotten.”
You look like her. It was enough. Sofia felt the anger and sadness fade away into pride, if only for a moment. Everyone said that Mama was beautiful, and that she was beautiful too, and now to have confirmation that they shared the same beauty? Her heart positively soared. She smiled softly to herself, though her eyes never left the statue, searching for every possible similarity. Their eyes, perhaps, and the bride of their noses? What did Mama’s smile look like? Her own mouth felt suddenly strange, foreign, as she tried to imagine the shapes her mother’s might have made. There was no way to know, no way to see the legendary woman again to be sure. Stories would have to be enough. It was good that Raf had enough memories and love for the both of them.
Sofia giggled a bit at Raf’s sleight towards Pavlos. Like Father, their oldest brother was always working and seldom smiled. Frowns weren’t beautiful. She tried to fit Pavlos’s face into the statue before her, faded gently into the oncoming darkness, but couldn’t. She and Raf were what remained of their beautiful, perfect mother. All that remained, perhaps, since Papa hardly dared speak her name in front of them.
She squeezed his hand when he spoke her nickname, sensing the turn in the conversation once more. She turned to meet his eyes, her own wide with anticipation. This whole conversation was something of an oddity; they were close, so close, but this time felt like something new, more real. Sofia wondered how Raf could tell that this was what she needed. There must have been something in her face when he arrived that let him know she needed him. She was lost, drifting, scared, and there was her brother to guide her along. “Thank you,” she mumbled, smiling gratefully at him. Special. Like Mama’s. Her heart soared again, even as she fought the temptation to laugh. No man would ever dare take advantage of her. She would sooner yell at any would-be suitor than let them treat her the way she had seen women treated all her life. She might hold herself to a higher standard, to Mama’s impossible standard, but she intended to hold men to that standard, too.
“You’re a wonderful man, Raf,” Sofia protested, with a laugh this time, though she knew what he meant and her nose wrinkled a bit. “But have some faith in me, alright? No man could ever ruin me, no man would even try. He’d be too scared. If not of me, then of you.” It was simply a fact. Sofia would only pick good, decent men with adventure in their hearts and kindness in their eyes. But if she picked the wrong one, she had no doubt at all that Rafail would send him running back home with his tail between his legs. “I trust you, you have to trust me too.”
She winked a bit and squeezed his hand again, wondering if she should try to bring up her questions. It seemed like the right time. She had begun to catch men looking at her on occasion at the market or outside court, and their gaze burned uncomfortably. Sofia wanted to be able to tell the difference. “How can you… tell… a man’s intentions?” She blushed and looked down. Maybe talking about this with her brother—her womanizing brother, no less—was a poor decision. “You know, so I can scare him off if he’s rotten.”
It was only Sofia who could call Rafail a wonderful with such a sense of honesty about the words, and he could not help but smile, even as she let out a laugh. He was the furthest thing from a wonderful man, and he was perfectly aware of the fact, even if he did little to remedy it. Perhaps it was not so difficult to change his ways enough that the title would suit him, but then he would lose so many of his greatest joys, and he would not really be Rafail of Marikas any longer. Besides, then his few bursts of kindness would not take others by surprise as they currently did, and he enjoyed the added benevolence people attributed them when they did not appear all too common.
"That is correct," he told his sister, moving closer to wrap an arm around her shoulders, the action soft so that he would not startler her, and half designed to shield her from the cool evening breeze that had begun to spread through the grotto. "If any man should try and hurt my little sister, then he shall find himself wishing he had never taken his first steps unto this earth." Rafail was not merciless, and he tended to shy away from any task which would dirty his hands both metaphorically and physically, but there was little he would not do for Sofia. She was all he had left of Mama, after all. "But I do trust you. I know you better than most, and I know you're intelligent. You wouldn't do something stupid."
Her question took him by some surprise, and he frowned, as if attempting to work out why she was asking, though the answer was evident to him. He did not like to think about how often his sister would be interacting with other men that she needed advice as to identify their intentions, but he was not going to leave her without thorough and clear instructions as to how she should deal with men. Rafail would not allow a single thing to be left to chance when it came to his sister's wellbeing.
"Men are strange, and we often make foolish assumptions that you are aware of what we desire without saying a word, thus you can only ask. You ask, and you ensure that he tells you exactly what he wants with you, and if he does not wish to tell you, then you either insist until he does, or you leave him. You do not leave these things to chance, not ever." That was something to be adamant about. Rafail knew himself well enough that he did not trust any other man. "And - and this is important, Sofi - you make sure you're clear to him. You tell him what you want and what you are comfortable with, and you are as specific as possible, and if he does not listen to you, then you leave him, and you come straight to me." And then Rafail would handle them, because he was not about to allow any man to take advantage of his sister like that.
He raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, his expression quizzical. "Have you a particular man in mind, Sofia? Somebody I should be watching out for?"
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It was only Sofia who could call Rafail a wonderful with such a sense of honesty about the words, and he could not help but smile, even as she let out a laugh. He was the furthest thing from a wonderful man, and he was perfectly aware of the fact, even if he did little to remedy it. Perhaps it was not so difficult to change his ways enough that the title would suit him, but then he would lose so many of his greatest joys, and he would not really be Rafail of Marikas any longer. Besides, then his few bursts of kindness would not take others by surprise as they currently did, and he enjoyed the added benevolence people attributed them when they did not appear all too common.
"That is correct," he told his sister, moving closer to wrap an arm around her shoulders, the action soft so that he would not startler her, and half designed to shield her from the cool evening breeze that had begun to spread through the grotto. "If any man should try and hurt my little sister, then he shall find himself wishing he had never taken his first steps unto this earth." Rafail was not merciless, and he tended to shy away from any task which would dirty his hands both metaphorically and physically, but there was little he would not do for Sofia. She was all he had left of Mama, after all. "But I do trust you. I know you better than most, and I know you're intelligent. You wouldn't do something stupid."
Her question took him by some surprise, and he frowned, as if attempting to work out why she was asking, though the answer was evident to him. He did not like to think about how often his sister would be interacting with other men that she needed advice as to identify their intentions, but he was not going to leave her without thorough and clear instructions as to how she should deal with men. Rafail would not allow a single thing to be left to chance when it came to his sister's wellbeing.
"Men are strange, and we often make foolish assumptions that you are aware of what we desire without saying a word, thus you can only ask. You ask, and you ensure that he tells you exactly what he wants with you, and if he does not wish to tell you, then you either insist until he does, or you leave him. You do not leave these things to chance, not ever." That was something to be adamant about. Rafail knew himself well enough that he did not trust any other man. "And - and this is important, Sofi - you make sure you're clear to him. You tell him what you want and what you are comfortable with, and you are as specific as possible, and if he does not listen to you, then you leave him, and you come straight to me." And then Rafail would handle them, because he was not about to allow any man to take advantage of his sister like that.
He raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, his expression quizzical. "Have you a particular man in mind, Sofia? Somebody I should be watching out for?"
It was only Sofia who could call Rafail a wonderful with such a sense of honesty about the words, and he could not help but smile, even as she let out a laugh. He was the furthest thing from a wonderful man, and he was perfectly aware of the fact, even if he did little to remedy it. Perhaps it was not so difficult to change his ways enough that the title would suit him, but then he would lose so many of his greatest joys, and he would not really be Rafail of Marikas any longer. Besides, then his few bursts of kindness would not take others by surprise as they currently did, and he enjoyed the added benevolence people attributed them when they did not appear all too common.
"That is correct," he told his sister, moving closer to wrap an arm around her shoulders, the action soft so that he would not startler her, and half designed to shield her from the cool evening breeze that had begun to spread through the grotto. "If any man should try and hurt my little sister, then he shall find himself wishing he had never taken his first steps unto this earth." Rafail was not merciless, and he tended to shy away from any task which would dirty his hands both metaphorically and physically, but there was little he would not do for Sofia. She was all he had left of Mama, after all. "But I do trust you. I know you better than most, and I know you're intelligent. You wouldn't do something stupid."
Her question took him by some surprise, and he frowned, as if attempting to work out why she was asking, though the answer was evident to him. He did not like to think about how often his sister would be interacting with other men that she needed advice as to identify their intentions, but he was not going to leave her without thorough and clear instructions as to how she should deal with men. Rafail would not allow a single thing to be left to chance when it came to his sister's wellbeing.
"Men are strange, and we often make foolish assumptions that you are aware of what we desire without saying a word, thus you can only ask. You ask, and you ensure that he tells you exactly what he wants with you, and if he does not wish to tell you, then you either insist until he does, or you leave him. You do not leave these things to chance, not ever." That was something to be adamant about. Rafail knew himself well enough that he did not trust any other man. "And - and this is important, Sofi - you make sure you're clear to him. You tell him what you want and what you are comfortable with, and you are as specific as possible, and if he does not listen to you, then you leave him, and you come straight to me." And then Rafail would handle them, because he was not about to allow any man to take advantage of his sister like that.
He raised an eyebrow at the suggestion, his expression quizzical. "Have you a particular man in mind, Sofia? Somebody I should be watching out for?"
Sofia rested her head on her brother’s shoulder and smiled again. She believed most of the things Raf told her—except for the tales of some of his more outlandish exploits—but these words she believed most of all. Raf would never let any man hurt her, or escape her brother’s Raf if he did. But he trusted her, too, and that was enough to warm her heart against the rising nighttime breeze. Sofia knew she was incredibly lucky to have him.
Men are strange, she thought as her brother spoke again. There was so much duality in everyone, but men in particular seemed to have too many different sides, Rafail included. She had seen the way he preened and performed for women, but saw too that she was the only one who actually mattered. It was the same with other men: they enjoyed women and sought after them, but did not always hold the right amount of respect. And so her brother’s words made sense once again, though the prospect of being so direct was daunting. She had no doubt that she could speak the words, or frame them in a playful way, or even turn her back on a man completely, but… would he listen? That was where Raf came in, she supposed, and the heartwarming feeling faded a bit. It was wonderful to know he would protect her, no matter what. But he shouldn’t have to. His words and actions would always matter more than hers.
The injustice of it all caused her to sit up straight again, shrugging his arm from her shoulders in favor of wrapping her own arms around herself. She was angry at herself, too, for ruining the moment. There were too many feelings. “No, no one in particular.” The words came out bitter and short. Her nose wrinkled. Not that she would tell him if there was. Raf seemed unlikely to wait until Sofia was hurt to scare off potential suitors. But she had seen the military parades and festivals and spoken to a few of the men in passing and she had enjoyed their company. They had enjoyed hers, too, though she was uncertain if they had wanted more than just her words. She thought she was quite good at conversation, but sometimes she caught a glint in a man’s eye, or saw his gaze wander…
Her own gaze fell on the bust of her mother, and shame overcame the bitterness. Mama wouldn’t have wanted her young daughter discussing the attentions of men in front of her. Or would she? The panic from the start of the evening returned, the lack of knowledge. “I want to go back inside now,” she said quietly, and was soon standing. Sofia walked to the edge of the grotto and hesitated for a moment, turning back to peer at her brother through the thickening darkness. It wasn’t his fault it was a man’s world, or that he had to be the one to explain that world to her. “Thank you, Raf. I love you.”
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Sofia rested her head on her brother’s shoulder and smiled again. She believed most of the things Raf told her—except for the tales of some of his more outlandish exploits—but these words she believed most of all. Raf would never let any man hurt her, or escape her brother’s Raf if he did. But he trusted her, too, and that was enough to warm her heart against the rising nighttime breeze. Sofia knew she was incredibly lucky to have him.
Men are strange, she thought as her brother spoke again. There was so much duality in everyone, but men in particular seemed to have too many different sides, Rafail included. She had seen the way he preened and performed for women, but saw too that she was the only one who actually mattered. It was the same with other men: they enjoyed women and sought after them, but did not always hold the right amount of respect. And so her brother’s words made sense once again, though the prospect of being so direct was daunting. She had no doubt that she could speak the words, or frame them in a playful way, or even turn her back on a man completely, but… would he listen? That was where Raf came in, she supposed, and the heartwarming feeling faded a bit. It was wonderful to know he would protect her, no matter what. But he shouldn’t have to. His words and actions would always matter more than hers.
The injustice of it all caused her to sit up straight again, shrugging his arm from her shoulders in favor of wrapping her own arms around herself. She was angry at herself, too, for ruining the moment. There were too many feelings. “No, no one in particular.” The words came out bitter and short. Her nose wrinkled. Not that she would tell him if there was. Raf seemed unlikely to wait until Sofia was hurt to scare off potential suitors. But she had seen the military parades and festivals and spoken to a few of the men in passing and she had enjoyed their company. They had enjoyed hers, too, though she was uncertain if they had wanted more than just her words. She thought she was quite good at conversation, but sometimes she caught a glint in a man’s eye, or saw his gaze wander…
Her own gaze fell on the bust of her mother, and shame overcame the bitterness. Mama wouldn’t have wanted her young daughter discussing the attentions of men in front of her. Or would she? The panic from the start of the evening returned, the lack of knowledge. “I want to go back inside now,” she said quietly, and was soon standing. Sofia walked to the edge of the grotto and hesitated for a moment, turning back to peer at her brother through the thickening darkness. It wasn’t his fault it was a man’s world, or that he had to be the one to explain that world to her. “Thank you, Raf. I love you.”
Sofia rested her head on her brother’s shoulder and smiled again. She believed most of the things Raf told her—except for the tales of some of his more outlandish exploits—but these words she believed most of all. Raf would never let any man hurt her, or escape her brother’s Raf if he did. But he trusted her, too, and that was enough to warm her heart against the rising nighttime breeze. Sofia knew she was incredibly lucky to have him.
Men are strange, she thought as her brother spoke again. There was so much duality in everyone, but men in particular seemed to have too many different sides, Rafail included. She had seen the way he preened and performed for women, but saw too that she was the only one who actually mattered. It was the same with other men: they enjoyed women and sought after them, but did not always hold the right amount of respect. And so her brother’s words made sense once again, though the prospect of being so direct was daunting. She had no doubt that she could speak the words, or frame them in a playful way, or even turn her back on a man completely, but… would he listen? That was where Raf came in, she supposed, and the heartwarming feeling faded a bit. It was wonderful to know he would protect her, no matter what. But he shouldn’t have to. His words and actions would always matter more than hers.
The injustice of it all caused her to sit up straight again, shrugging his arm from her shoulders in favor of wrapping her own arms around herself. She was angry at herself, too, for ruining the moment. There were too many feelings. “No, no one in particular.” The words came out bitter and short. Her nose wrinkled. Not that she would tell him if there was. Raf seemed unlikely to wait until Sofia was hurt to scare off potential suitors. But she had seen the military parades and festivals and spoken to a few of the men in passing and she had enjoyed their company. They had enjoyed hers, too, though she was uncertain if they had wanted more than just her words. She thought she was quite good at conversation, but sometimes she caught a glint in a man’s eye, or saw his gaze wander…
Her own gaze fell on the bust of her mother, and shame overcame the bitterness. Mama wouldn’t have wanted her young daughter discussing the attentions of men in front of her. Or would she? The panic from the start of the evening returned, the lack of knowledge. “I want to go back inside now,” she said quietly, and was soon standing. Sofia walked to the edge of the grotto and hesitated for a moment, turning back to peer at her brother through the thickening darkness. It wasn’t his fault it was a man’s world, or that he had to be the one to explain that world to her. “Thank you, Raf. I love you.”
The suddenness of the change in Sofia's demeanour surprised Rafail, and he wondered for a moment whether his words might have frightened her, and she did not like the thought that men could be as cruelly-minded as he implied. Perhaps he should have been more careful in explaining the situation to her, but he did not wish to honey coat his words in a way that might not allow her to understand the gravity of the subject. He did not want his sister getting hurt, and ensuring that she was entirely aware of what could happen was essential to that desire. Sofia would be fine, he knew — with her typical fiery manner and strong will, there was no doubt about that — but he would always be there as well. She had not had Mama as he had, and she deserved somebody.
"Very well," he replied, deciding not to probe the matter of men too much further, else she might grow upset and unresponsive to his conversation. If there was one thing that Rafail knew he did not desire, it was for their conversation to fall apart entirely because he had needled his sister past the point where she wanted to speak. Besides, if he was too adamantly or noticeably concerned about her relationships with men now, then he thought there was a possibility she would never feel comfortable talking to him about such subjects, and then he would not be able to look after her as he intended. He supposed she had to make some mistakes, even if the thought did not appeal. "I just want you to be safe, Sofia, you know that. That's all."
There was an awkward silence then and, for a long moment, the blonde let his sister be as she stared at the statue of their mother, understanding the intimacy of the moment. His gaze matched hers, and he too looked at the figure in a forlorn sort of manner, though night was falling fast and the only reason they could still see a thing was due to the bright shine of the white marble. Maybe she would have preferred to be discussing such matters with her, only she was gone, and Rafail didn't know what else he was supposed to suggest. There were plenty of older women in his and his sister's lives, but not one of them was truly capable of replacing the guidance that their mother could have given.
When she stood, he mimicked the action, not quite willing to stay behind too long on his own in the darkness, though he had not been afraid of it since he had been very small. Since before Mama was gone. "I love you too, Sofia," he replied, though he did not move from where he stood just yet. "And so did Mama." He let his sister go, then turned back to the statue and told her the same thing before he moved to follow Sofia back into the house. Someone had to take care of her, and answer all these questions she might have had, and hold her hand through all the harsh moments of darkness which would fall into her life, and if it was destined to be Rafail, then so be it.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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The suddenness of the change in Sofia's demeanour surprised Rafail, and he wondered for a moment whether his words might have frightened her, and she did not like the thought that men could be as cruelly-minded as he implied. Perhaps he should have been more careful in explaining the situation to her, but he did not wish to honey coat his words in a way that might not allow her to understand the gravity of the subject. He did not want his sister getting hurt, and ensuring that she was entirely aware of what could happen was essential to that desire. Sofia would be fine, he knew — with her typical fiery manner and strong will, there was no doubt about that — but he would always be there as well. She had not had Mama as he had, and she deserved somebody.
"Very well," he replied, deciding not to probe the matter of men too much further, else she might grow upset and unresponsive to his conversation. If there was one thing that Rafail knew he did not desire, it was for their conversation to fall apart entirely because he had needled his sister past the point where she wanted to speak. Besides, if he was too adamantly or noticeably concerned about her relationships with men now, then he thought there was a possibility she would never feel comfortable talking to him about such subjects, and then he would not be able to look after her as he intended. He supposed she had to make some mistakes, even if the thought did not appeal. "I just want you to be safe, Sofia, you know that. That's all."
There was an awkward silence then and, for a long moment, the blonde let his sister be as she stared at the statue of their mother, understanding the intimacy of the moment. His gaze matched hers, and he too looked at the figure in a forlorn sort of manner, though night was falling fast and the only reason they could still see a thing was due to the bright shine of the white marble. Maybe she would have preferred to be discussing such matters with her, only she was gone, and Rafail didn't know what else he was supposed to suggest. There were plenty of older women in his and his sister's lives, but not one of them was truly capable of replacing the guidance that their mother could have given.
When she stood, he mimicked the action, not quite willing to stay behind too long on his own in the darkness, though he had not been afraid of it since he had been very small. Since before Mama was gone. "I love you too, Sofia," he replied, though he did not move from where he stood just yet. "And so did Mama." He let his sister go, then turned back to the statue and told her the same thing before he moved to follow Sofia back into the house. Someone had to take care of her, and answer all these questions she might have had, and hold her hand through all the harsh moments of darkness which would fall into her life, and if it was destined to be Rafail, then so be it.
The suddenness of the change in Sofia's demeanour surprised Rafail, and he wondered for a moment whether his words might have frightened her, and she did not like the thought that men could be as cruelly-minded as he implied. Perhaps he should have been more careful in explaining the situation to her, but he did not wish to honey coat his words in a way that might not allow her to understand the gravity of the subject. He did not want his sister getting hurt, and ensuring that she was entirely aware of what could happen was essential to that desire. Sofia would be fine, he knew — with her typical fiery manner and strong will, there was no doubt about that — but he would always be there as well. She had not had Mama as he had, and she deserved somebody.
"Very well," he replied, deciding not to probe the matter of men too much further, else she might grow upset and unresponsive to his conversation. If there was one thing that Rafail knew he did not desire, it was for their conversation to fall apart entirely because he had needled his sister past the point where she wanted to speak. Besides, if he was too adamantly or noticeably concerned about her relationships with men now, then he thought there was a possibility she would never feel comfortable talking to him about such subjects, and then he would not be able to look after her as he intended. He supposed she had to make some mistakes, even if the thought did not appeal. "I just want you to be safe, Sofia, you know that. That's all."
There was an awkward silence then and, for a long moment, the blonde let his sister be as she stared at the statue of their mother, understanding the intimacy of the moment. His gaze matched hers, and he too looked at the figure in a forlorn sort of manner, though night was falling fast and the only reason they could still see a thing was due to the bright shine of the white marble. Maybe she would have preferred to be discussing such matters with her, only she was gone, and Rafail didn't know what else he was supposed to suggest. There were plenty of older women in his and his sister's lives, but not one of them was truly capable of replacing the guidance that their mother could have given.
When she stood, he mimicked the action, not quite willing to stay behind too long on his own in the darkness, though he had not been afraid of it since he had been very small. Since before Mama was gone. "I love you too, Sofia," he replied, though he did not move from where he stood just yet. "And so did Mama." He let his sister go, then turned back to the statue and told her the same thing before he moved to follow Sofia back into the house. Someone had to take care of her, and answer all these questions she might have had, and hold her hand through all the harsh moments of darkness which would fall into her life, and if it was destined to be Rafail, then so be it.
