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Ezekiel de le Poer · 04-28-2011, 05:55 PM

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The place that had once been their home—the place where they were born—was nothing to them now. Ezekiel did not think of it, nor did he fantasize smelling smoke from that terrible fire. He had been too young to remember, carried through the flames, what had been left in the wake of his father’s hands. Even now, ignorance clouded his memory as he considered what she said. No part of him remembered their first home, or that shore. No part of him remembered much at all, save for lessons and trials and what these had meant. Ezekiel would never admit it, but he had all but forgotten the faces of both his mother and Fatin.

Still he listened to her stories, thankful she had spoken with Gabriel and made some sort of peace. He had suspected as much from her rise to the Optio rank, but never asked his father about such a thing. Talitha’s remark about the Saint made his ears swivel high, curious as to how much she had learned. Ezekiel had read the bible, and knew the names of a thousand demons, but the greater works of those mortals who had served were beyond him. The name was unfamiliar, but pleasant. The Triarii made a mental note to ask his father about this woman.

Then Talitha pulled away and a wave of tension slipped back into her place. Ezekiel did better at hiding this. As expected, she spoke of the children living in the south, and of their mother. His eyes narrowed only slightly, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a half-frown. It seemed so impossible to him that she would find reason to hate children, but Talitha was not Ezekiel and Talitha could think whatever she wished. The warrior sighed and gently placed the painting on the ground. In two steps, he had crossed to her. Both of his hands grasped her arms, forcing her to remain. “I’ve missed you too, Tali,” he said first, nothing but honesty in his voice.

“But you know we can’t change blood,” the scarred coyote went on, his tone oddly detached—oddly like their father’s. “They will be bound to us through him, just as we are bound to…well, to the less admirable parts of our family.” A smile, a chuckle, and he released her. Even now, he found dark humor in this situation. “But I’m not gonna leave, Tali. Not for them, not for anyone.”

The mirth faded from his face, replaced by the weight that had been following him for miles. His ears fell back against tousled hair. “I can’t now,” he added lowly. Both hands rose and pushed through his corn-silk streaked hair, muscles rippling under a frame built out of years of survival. He bore no scars, though, and this only served to mark him as a healer’s apprentice. He might never be as great as Alaine, or even Enkiel, but oh he knew enough to keep himself alive.

Perhaps this too, was why Gabriel had come to him. Both hands lingered at the back of his neck as Ezekiel looked at his sister with his father’s eyes. “His shoulder isn’t going to get better. He’s going to step down as Aquila.”

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