Page 43 of Aries

When I don’t ask her to stop, though I don’t have the courage to look her in the eye, she continues.

“Mercy. Dear God, you showed him such mercy.” A dam opens up in her. I don’t know where her tears come from, but they’re a torrent. Her pain and sadness burst from her.

“Mercy?” The word comes out sharp. “Ikilledhim, Callie. My own brother.”

She dashes the tears from her cheeks.

“As you spoke, I tried to crawl inside your skin and imagine what it must have felt like in those moments, but I didn’t have the strength, Aries. I couldn’t pretend, not even for asecond, to feel what it was like to be so merciful to your brother at such a high cost to yourself.”

She reaches to touch me, but pulls her hand back at the last moment.

“You ended his suffering when he begged you to. Saved him from a horrible death at the hands of a sadist.” Her voice holds absolute conviction. “That’s not murder, Aries. That’s love in its purest, most painful form.”

Her hand squeezes and squeezes and squeezes as she whispers, “Dear God, I wish I could touch you.”

She gets the bright idea of putting her hand out and Spark curls into it. I touch its other side, keeping the prescribed distance, but somehow feeling as though we truly are touching. She is giving me all of her support.

“You are amazing and loving, and you did the hardest thing a human could be forced to do, even knowing it meant your own death. Aries, you’re my hero.” Her mouth keeps working, but no words come out. It’s fitting. What else can this perfect female say?

I want to scoff, tell her I’m no hero, but it would be cruel to spit that at her. So I sit with it. I don’t know how long we stay like this, with little Spark connecting us, with Callie giving me all of her support and affection.

When I finally return from my trip into the past, I have a new definition for mercy.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Callie

The morning after Aries’ confession, everything feels different. Watching him move through our morning ritual—his careful ablutions, the gentle braiding of my hair—I see him with new eyes. Each controlled movement holds fresh meaning now that I understand the weight he carries.

“You’ve been watching me all morning,” he says quietly as his fingers work through my hair. “Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”

“Maybe I am.” Through the mirror’s reflection, I catch his gaze. “I’m seeing all these little things I missed before. How your eyes soften when you think I’m not looking. How you always position yourself between me and any perceived threat.”

His fingers resume their intricate work, but slower now, as though he doesn’t want to finish the task. “Old habits.”

“No.” Turning carefully to face him, I make sure he sees how serious I am when I say, “Protection born of affection. Just like with Kren.”

He flinches at his brother’s name, but doesn’t withdraw like he might have weeks ago. Progress—slow, careful healing happening right before my eyes.

Spark bounces enthusiastically nearby, trailing sparkles of agreement. Theshimmerlingcreates a heart shape between us, then tries to look innocent when we both glance its way.

“You’re not subtle, little one,” Aries murmurs, but there’s a ghost of a smile playing at his lips—an expression I’m seeing more often since he shared the truth about his brother.

“I meant what I said yesterday,” I tell him as he finishes the intricate braid. “You’re my hero, Aries. Not despite what happened, but because of how you’ve carried it. How you’ve kept your gentleness and honor even through it all.”

His hands pause in my hair, and I catch the moisture gathering in his eyes through the window’s reflection. “I don’t deserve—”

“You do,” I cut in firmly. “You deserve every good thing, including forgiveness. Especially from yourself.”

Working in silence for several moments, he processes this. Finally, so quietly I almost miss it: “Thank you. For hearing the whole story. For not turning away.”

“I’ll never turn away,” I promise, watching his reflection. “Not now. Not ever.”

The rest of our morning routine takes on new meaning—each careful movement, each maintained distance feeling like a choice rather than a restriction. When he hands me mydrassah, our fingers don’t quite brush, but the air between us holds more intimacy than any touch.

Before I can settle into my usual breakfast routine, a chime announces the Committee’s arrival. Their crystalline form materializes in our cottage, filling the space with kaleidoscopic color.

“Your progress in emotional honesty merits a new trial,” they announce. “Today, you will engage in artistic expression through multiple mediums—painting each other while sharing songs that hold personal meaning.”

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