Rodan's Embrace

The Fragile Tilt of Space and Time

Ella

The sun shines and reflects over the water as Stravos prepares the boat to sail. His skin darkens a bit when he's bathed in the sun; his hair lightens. He's a striking creature. Even years after we've wed, the mere sight of him still manages to heat my neck, my face, and places deep within.

These days we still must force ourselves from our bedchamber to mingle amongst others. We talk so often. Stravos loves history and mythology and philosophy. He closely follows the progress of those who proclaim themselves "enlightened," partially with concern and partially with the simple interest of an historian. I had not expected him to be so brilliant, and I must admit I feel a smugness toward Mother over this. She thought my sister the learned one, and me? The broodmare.

But another month has passed where I've bled. By this point, we've both understood that there will likely be no more Burke children. Not from Stravos and me. But neither of us mind.

My world turned upside down, but the positioning corrected itself so that we're pointed at true north, no matter what the lineage rules dictate. No matter what others think. Though at times, it is a practice in patience to ignore their snide looks and cruel remarks. Instead, I pretend that Stravos and I live in our inner world, and that the outside is simply an inconvenience we must navigate to voyage back to the bright, shining sanctuary of our chambers. Or any space where we can be alone together. A bonded life uninterrupted.

The women who populate our circle will cast their eyes toward me. There's a certain, obvious meaning within those eyes—they are aware that I'm not with child, and that I haven't been. It is not a thing one can easily hide. Stravos grips my hand whenever he is with me. He squeezes it; kisses my cheek. Promises that he will love me forever no matter what happens. He tells me not to fear the 'hags' who labor so much as to sneer at me.

People who cast such looks are the types most deserving of the same, dear. For far worse reasons. But we needn't return them. Wave and smile, dear. Any antipathy will dissipate at the dance of the stars within you.

However, it's near impossible to not care what the world thinks of a woman who cannot incubate life. They find such an emptiness in me. That's what they see when their eyes float to their periphery to meet mine—they see a void that cannot be filled. The piteous looks are the prickliest.

But Stravos makes me feel the opposite of barren. He is the one thing in my life that has been too good to be true. But he is true.

The wind whips his curls into a frenzy as he smiles at me. He reaches his hand out.

"Are you ready, dear?" he asks. I smile and step aboard the boat.

***

We must soon make our appearance at a party so we do not spend long on the water. I lean against Stravos as he wraps his arms around me. Never had I imagined I would be so happy as I am in this moment. The sun throws bright white lights atop the pure blue ripples like stars in a cloudless sky, and I wonder if the two are simply reflections of one another, but only on rare and special occasions.

Stravos smells my hair. Runs his hands along the skin of my shoulder. Tells me my arms are beautiful; though he's never called me by that word, "beautiful." I do not mind. This is the best way to know his compliments to be genuine. He does often tell me how striking I am, which is a lovely thing to say to me. It took me about three years to believe that he meant those words. Not because I thought him a liar but because I lie to myself so often that when others speak the truth of me, my mind launches a revolt, but those little soldiers in my head have finally lay their arms down. At long last.

He's become everything to me. He remains constantly at my side, but not in a possessive manner. No. It's as though he fears some unnatural force will rip him away from me. Complaints from me are minimal. I do not mind it. He doesn't grumble with me, nor I with him. When he does leave, his purposes are often related to me. He's learned to craft jewelry so that he can make me the things I prefer—pieces no jewelers keep in stock. I dislike the gaudy and ostentatious and prefer the simplicity of circles. Of infinity. Stravos forges rings, necklaces, and bracelets for me that are never perfect, and often downright appalling, but I wear them with pride. If he can look into the plainness of my face and find love and adoration in it, then I can do the same for his jewelry. Because I don't give a damn how it looks, it matters only what it must take for a man to learn a craft such as that for the woman he loves.