The sun had barely risen, but the sky was already cracked with gold. I crouched by the river, hands dipped in the cold stream, braiding my hair the way my mother used to or so I was told. Father said she had nimble fingers and a laugh that could wake birds. I never met her, but I like to think she'd have braided my hair with a smile.
Behind me, I heard the quiet thud of boots on damp grass.
"You braid it tighter every morning," Helios said, voice smooth and amused, like it always was before breakfast. "What is it today? Bear wrestling? Rock smashing?"
"Nothing so noble," I said without turning. "Just preparing myself for another round of your terrible sword form."
He snorted and sat beside me. "Low blow."
"You started it."
He cupped the river water in his hands and let it run back out, slow and easy. That was Helios gentle when he could be, steady when things cracked. He wasn't my brother by blood, but that never mattered. Choice always felt stronger than fate.
"Father's making lentils," he said. "We've got time before the old man drags us out for drills."
I tied off the final braid and stood, brushing my hands dry. "Race to the orchard?"
He smirked. "Only if you promise not to cheat with those monster legs of yours."
"I'd never."
"You always do."
We ran.
Through grass still wet with dew, past rows of crooked stones that marked old boundaries, leaping roots like we were ten again. For a moment, there was no training, no names to live up to, no history pressing down on our shoulders. Just the wind, and our laughter.
At the top of the orchard hill, we stopped to catch our breath. Below, the village yawned awake—smoke rising from chimneys, goats already bleating at the sun.
Helios watched it for a long moment, his smile fading just slightly.
"Do you think it's always gonna be like this?" he asked.
I followed his gaze, then shrugged. "What, breakfast and bruises?"
"No. This quiet mornings. Peace"
I looked at him. "You worried?"
He didn't answer right away. "Not really. Just… I don't know. Nothing lasts forever."
I nudged his shoulder. "That's true. But right now, we've got lentils and time. I say we use both."
He smiled again half crooked, but real.
And we walked back down the hill, sun at our backs, the day just beginning.
The scent of lentils and onions drifted through the open window, dancing with the morning breeze. It wrapped around us like a memory—warm, simple, safe. I followed it back home, barefoot and still sweating from the run, Helios just behind me, grumbling something about how I "cheated by existing."
Inside, our father stirred a pot, wooden spoon in hand, humming that same tune he always did. No words, just notes. I never knew if it was a song from his youth, or something he made up while working the fields.
"Good run?" he asked, not turning.
"I won," I said.
"I let him win," Helios added.
Father chuckled softly. "So one of you's lying. Or both of you are."
He turned then, and I caught that familiar look kind eyes, creased at the edges, like they'd spent years smiling. His beard had streaks of gray now. He always claimed they came from peace, not worry.
"Sit," he said. "Eat before your stomachs start throwing fists."
We did. The bowls were chipped, the spoons slightly mismatched, but the food? It could've humbled a king.
"I heard from the merchants," Father said between bites. "The capital's sending someone through the outlands next week. Some kind of census. Might stop by here."
"Census?" Helios raised a brow. "We don't even have neighbors."
Father shrugged. "Maybe that's why they're curious."
I frowned. "Do you think something's wrong?"
His eyes met mine, calm and certain. "No. But even if there was, we don't worry before the wind turns. Let it come. If it comes."
That was his way. Not denial just trust. Trust in the land, in the sky, in the way things moved and mended over time.
After breakfast, we went outside. The fields stretched gold and green, the river glinting beyond. Father knelt by the soil, checking roots with the same care a knight might give his blade.
"You know," he said, without looking up, "your mother used to talk to the seeds."
Helios tilted his head. "Like… full conversations?"
"Mm-hm." He smiled. "She believed they listened better when spoken to kindly."
"And did they?"
"She grew sunflowers taller than me. So you tell me."
Helios and I exchanged a glance. That sounded like her.
"Why don't you ever talk about her more?" I asked.
Father stood, wiping his hands on his tunic. "Because I didn't want you to love a ghost."
There was silence, and then he looked at me.
"But I think she'd have loved the way you braid your hair."
Something tightened in my chest. I nodded.
That afternoon, we trained not because we had to, but because it felt right. My fists struck the worn wood post. Helios meditated next to me. Father watched us from the porch, hands behind his back, eyes full of the kind of pride that didn't need words.
But as the sun dipped low and shadows stretched across the ground, I saw something else in my father's eyes. Just for a moment.
Not fear.
But memory.
And whatever it was, it didn't smile.