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[attr="id","cerberuscol"]LING

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[attr="id","cerberuscol"]the stars lean down to kiss you

I. you hold stars between your fingers before you know what it means to burn to dust; you trace constellations with a laugh as bright as the summer sky as your mother tucks you close by her side and names each pinpoint of light. your father is all soft eyes and quiet happiness, and there's a warmth in his voice that will never be extinguished.[break][break]

II. the circles beneath your feet stretch out for miles and miles, spreading up up up your walls like tendrils of climbing ivy and thrumming with power that echoes in your veins. you dance through the patterns in a tango for two - you and the golden warmth that paints every corner of your house.[break][break]

III. 'runes', your mother whispers, and you trail sôwilô and wunjô and perþô with clumsy hands and curious eyes and the patterns feel right beneath your palms. they don't mean anything to you yet, but they feel important, so you draw them again and again in pastel blue crayon and bright orange marker. (but they already mean something to you; they mean warmth and family and love in too many words to be spoken)[break][break]

IV. your father gives you all the books you could possibly want. mama says he spoils you, but she's smiling when she says that so it must be something good, right? he reads to you with all the patience in the world, helping you sound out any word you don't know and explaining concepts that you struggle to grasp and never gets mad when you demand one more story even after your bedtime has passed. you learn to love the wide world outside through his steady, gentle voice. [break][break]

V. your first words are 'mama' and 'papa' and then a whole string of rune names that baffle your playmates but makes your mother beam with pride. your father laughs, and there's delight in his eyes and the same radiant pride tugging on his smile.[break][break]

[attr="id","cerberuscol"]it takes two to whisper quietly

I. there's a bulge to your mother's stomach. you poke it with curiosity and break out in giggles as your father swoops in and tickles you as your mother roars with laughter in the background. you don't know what a 'new baby brother' will entail, but a permanent playmate sounds fun. hopefully he won't make fun of you for liking pretty patterns and words the way your friends sometimes do.[break][break]

II. you take your duties as a soon-to-be big sister very seriously; you read to your almost-baby-brother out of the big book of runes your mother's been teaching you to read, you fetch your mother blankets and water and food when she needs it and you solemnly include your almost-baby-brother in your goodnight wishes. your mother breaks out in brilliant smiles at random times of the day, and your father spontaneously pulls you in for hugs and tosses you high up in the air, and you put your hand against your mother's stomach and feel the gentle kick of your brother, and you can't wait.[break][break]

III. something goes wrong.[break][break]

IV. there's panicking and screaming and blood everywhere and you don't know who the shrill voice crying is (it's you) but everything is a flurry of white sheets and hands made rough with haste and fear so sharp you can taste it on your tongue. 'she's gone, save the baby', someone shouts, but it doesn't make sense and you're scared so you curl yourself into a ball in the corner and you close your eyes and recite the properties of every rune you know.[break][break]

V. your mother never comes back. neither does you almost-baby-brother. your father looks haggard with dark circles under his eyes and grief etched in the lines of his face and he hugs you close and you both cling onto each other as if your lives would depend on it.[break][break]

[attr="id","cerberuscol"]i lie awake and miss you

I. the house is quiet. the tick of the clock is deafening in the still air. your father cries himself to sleep each night and you curl up in the middle of the circle in your house and you wish fervently for mama to come back.[break][break]

II. you look a lot like your mother. you know this. perhaps that is why you father can never look at you straight (but he always hold you close and tight when you go to him with whispers of 'mama' on your lips and tears clinging to your lashes).[break][break]

III. there is a heavy, cloying, sickly-sweet smell permeating your house and empty bottles falling behind your father's footsteps. he cries and can't look at you but you know he shouldn't be alone so you fetch the books father used to read to you and you read them to him now in your best reading voice. you talk and talk and talk to fill in the void, and you stumble over the long words you don't know and your father wakes up enough to correct you when you do (sometimes you stumble over words you do know too because you want, need to hear your father's voice). it almost feels like old times. it almost feels enough, in those moments. [break][break]

IV. there are no playdates anymore but you remember mama saying fresh air is good for you, so you drag your father out into the park and make him sit in the sun as you wander off to the nearest group of kids your age. they tease you for liking runes and say they're no good but they're all mama left you so even though you want to cry, you glare at them and walk away and you drag your father away to another park. [break][break]

V. (but the kids there tease you the same, and your father does nothing but blink slowly and stare into nothingness, so next time you drag you father outside you bring a book and read to him there too. you feel lonely, something quiet and miserable and dark shrouding your heart, but your father's already empty and he needs you to be the sun, so you have to keep shining no matter what.)[break][break]

[attr="id","cerberuscol"]cold nostalgia chills me to the bone

I. the days pass slowly and with the same rhythm. you sleep, you wake, you drag your father out of bed, you try to make something to eat, you drag your father out to get fresh air, you read to him, (you watch other families out of the corner of your eye with desperate want that scares you in its intensity, you cry yourself to sleep but you stay silent because no one'll hear you anyway, you trace the old faded circle in your room with shaky hands and pray to gods you can't quite believe in for a miracle you know will never come true). the days bleed into one another, and the only bright spot is school where you can be a child again for the duration of its hours, but as soon as the bell rings your worries start creeping up on you and you hurry home to make sure your father is still there.[break][break]

II. sometimes, you come home to find your father injured. he tries to hide it from you, one of the few initiatives he takes, but this is one thing you don't want him to do and you worry endlessly whenever he leaves your sight. you learn to treat injuries too, because you insist on helping. you need to help. you can't lose your father too.[break][break]

III. and one day, there's someone in your house that is not your father. she's dressed in black and greens and she speaks in a low, threatening tone; when she sees you she smiles but her eyes are icy cold. your father looks angry for the first time since mama died and you shrink back in response. 'oh, is that your child?' the woman asks, and she tilts her head in your direction. your father bundles you away before you hear what his familiar says in response, and by the time he lets you back into the room, the woman is gone.[break][break]

IV. your father doesn't withdraw again after that. he puts you to bed with a whispered 'goodnight' and 'I love you' and kisses you on the forehead as he leaves. it's so much like his routine years before, before mama died, and the breath catches in your throat and you hope for the first time in too long that everything will be okay again. you don't like the woman with the cold eyes, but if she let your father live again, you could learnt to like her. you drift to sleep with a smile on your lips and tears on your cheeks that are because of joy rather than deep, longing sadness.[break][break]

V. when you wake up, you're not in your bed and your head is cloudy and you have nothing but a suitcase and a backpack with you. you are lying on the steps outside an orphanage, a note in your hand reading 'look after her'. you are now an orphan.[break][break]

[attr="id","cerberuscol"]not so alone anymore

I. you can't remember much of what came after. all you remember is confusion and a deep, abiding sense of loss as you try and reach for a past that escapes your grasp. the name 'ling' sounds familiar to you, and so it must be yours. you know you had a father, but not where he lives or what he looks like. you know who had a mother who died, but not when or why or even her name. you know you have a deep love and fascination for runes, but not where or how you learnt any of your knowledge. you know each book that's stuffed in your suitcase, and you know they're yours, but not who gave them to you or where you got them. in short, you didn't know who you were anymore.[break][break]

II. but you are strong. you will learn. creating an identity is a difficult thing, but you know determination and you know hard work, and you are not afraid to try a little bit of anything to figure out who you are. you become a frequent sight around the streets of delphi and among the shelves of the library; you become a familiar figure to the police force and cerberus guards, too, for wandering where you shouldn't be or getting lost because you went exploring. you look at them and you like, maybe i can help people like that too. the thought lingers throughout the years.[break][break]

III. of all the children at the orphanage, you worry the least about being adopted. perhaps a part of you still believes that you have a family. perhaps a part of you believes that your father will return. either way, when prospective parents come to visit, your eyes rarely linger on them. you are too busy devouring books like a king hungers for gold, too busy scribbling your thoughts down on whatever paper you can reach, too busy dreaming of magic and runes and a future within reach. people call you a prodigy, but all you want to do is to learn.[break][break]

IV. slowly, gradually, little pieces of memory come dripping back. the colour of your father's eyes. the bright tone of your mother's laugh. a protective runic array you can almost instinctively trace, that you are slowly transcribing into reality. [break][break]

V. but you are busy chasing a future now, sixteen and just beginning to blossom into yourself. does the past matter, anymore?