Page 18 of Sons of Sorrow
Just fucking do it, I told myself. I knew I was only filling my mind with distractions, dreading the inevitable. Why would I even be sitting at the bottom of a pool if not to test my ridiculous theory?
But hey! Maybe this time would be different. See, this time, I didn’t have my medallion on me. I’d left it back in our bedchambers on purpose. It’d be safe with Satchel, who was waist-deep in catching up on garment orders and fully intended to stay in. Still. Only one way to find out. Right?
I breathed in.
Big mistake. Water gurgled down my throat, my nostrils, stinging my sinuses. No water-breathing powers, sorry. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
I kicked my legs hard, swimming upward, gasping as I broke the surface. A large, wet slab of muscle took hold of me. Anyone else would have been sick of my shit by then, but Sylvain quietly, patiently swam me toward the edge of the pool, careful to keep my head above the surface.
“This again, little human?” he asked, wiping my face with one hand as I snorted and sputtered.
“Sorry, okay? I had to find out for myself.”
My feet settled on the floor of the shallow end, the stone smoothed from years, maybe decades of use. I rested a hand on his chest, needing to hold on to something solid. The tiles along the sides of the pool were right there, but Sylvain’s muscles worked, too.
“And what have you found out for yourself this time?” He cocked his head and frowned, beads of water dripping down his temples, down from the tips of his hair. “Is it that you are exceptionally talented at drowning yourself?”
I chuckled, pushing my hair away from my forehead. “Fine. That’s the last time, I promise. I guess I can’t breathe underwater after all. I’m not actually part merman or whatever.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Unless I become part merman by injection.”
Sylvain quirked an eyebrow, then scowled. “Oh, very funny, Lochlann.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I said, cupping his jaw. I tucked a lock of damp hair behind his ear. Both of them had been glamored and rounded for the swimming pool, just in case. “I was only trying to lighten the mood. You know, after everything that — well, everything that happened with Queen Aurelia, and all.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, sniffling. “At least not right now. I came here to work off my anger, clear my head. I’m not entirely sure that it’s working.”
What seemed to be working, though, was the two of us making spectacles of ourselves. Between me once again attempting to drown myself and Sylvain aggressively, angrily swimming tireless laps, it seemed we’d attracted something of an audience.
Students sat under the trees that framed and canopied the pool area, some on snack breaks, others reading and studying. Allegedly reading and studying, as in the case of the girl with the upside-down book, or the guy with the closed laptop sitting on his thighs. The polo game had stopped, too, mostly rubberneckers checking to see what the fuss was about.
“Everything’s cool,” I reassured them, waving with a smile. I turned back to Sylvain, clapping him on the shoulder. “Understood. I won’t bring it up unless you ask.”
“Thank you, little human,” Sylvain said, muttering it close to my ear shortly before he pressed a kiss against my cheek.
And away he went once more, cutting a line straight through the center of the pool. I tried not to look so damn pleased with myself, knowing that all these fellow students could clearly see that the very wet and very ripped man slicing through the water with perfect form was my boyfriend.
I really did feel for Sylvain, though. I had to wonder if it was coincidence that we’d come together, two sons with strange pasts, with stranger parents. To hear the pain in Queen Aurelia’s voice — gods, she loved him deeply. She would cut off someone’s head the very moment they tried to question Sylvain’s legitimacy.
Yvette was the same. The queen and princess hadn’t hidden this from Sylvain for sinister purposes, saving his bastardy as some hurtful and horrible way to diminish his claim to the throne, should it ever come his time to rule.
This was the exact thing Aphrodite was hinting at all along, all that talk about the green of his leaves, the gold and brown of Aurelia’s weaponry. Either the goddess had always known, or this really was something that had piqued her curiosity, enough that she goaded us into finding the truth for ourselves, and consequently, for her as well.
Golden eyes and golden leaves. I shook my head. Poor Sylvain. I had no doubt that he loved Aurelia and Yvette enough to forgive them eventually. But seeing the way his body churned the waters, the severity of his expression — how long would that even take?
I shuddered to think what Aphrodite suspected of the truth about my own parentage, except what was there to even consider? I could splash around in the pool all day if I wanted to. That wouldn’t make me suddenly relearn how to breathe the water. No scales to speak of, no gills, either.
Definitely not a merman, then. I couldn’t even swim all that well, not even skilled enough to follow in Sylvain’s wake and collect all those dead leaves he kept leaving behind him.
My heart twinged. I’d never seen this happen before. One of them floated toward me, twisted and brittle. A student over on the other end of the pool scooped one up, peered at it, then glanced around himself with a frown. All of the trees around us were healthy, verdant, and green.
I waved Sylvain over. Again he rocketed through the water, equipped with more aquatic aptitude than I would ever be. Maybe it was all that time he spent in the Court of Summer, how he’d sneak into that corner of the Verdance to go visit the beaches, go swimming. It was why he even knew how to navigate the boat he conjured back in the Oriel of Water.
Sylvain gasped as he reached my end of the pool. He tossed his hair back, a spray of droplets scattering across the surface of the water, like this was supposed to be some fancy cologne commercial. I clasped his shoulder, pulled him closer, his skin burning warm from the exertion.
“You keep dropping dead leaves everywhere,” I whispered. “Sorry, Sylvain, but if you keep this up, it’s going to cause a stir. You know. The Withering, and everything?”
“Right,” he said, nodding firmly as he caught his breath. “I didn’t mean to, but the foulness of my humor, my ill temper — I apologize. I hope I didn’t draw too much attention.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” I stroked his hair and smiled. “Don’t apologize for your feelings. Speaking of which, are you feeling any better? Did showing off and bragging to everyone that you could beat the crap out of the Wispwood swim team improve your spirits?”
