#strong son

he loved literature, how every time he went back to a story it was exactly the same yet seemed to grow deeper and more complex the more familiar it became, themes and jokes and feelings resonating differently to the different versions of himself who read them at different times. he loved poetry, both reading and writing, how the words could be build up and pared back like clay until they formed the desired shapes, beautiful sculptures covered in their authors’ fingerprints. speech was a lump of wet clay on his tongue.

some conversations were fine. he’d work on them in his mind, shaping them over time into functional little vessels, ready to carry their intended meanings. as he grew older his collection grew, and he refined them. some were simple, to be used over and over again: “halt, who goes there”; “let it go, even”; “yes, lord ansem”. some were more complex, designed for a single moment, molded and reshaped over and over until the time to use them came and he could only hope they were right. usually they were, sometimes they were not. when a pot cracks in the kiln, you call it a learning exercise.

even’s words poured out of him like water, and aeleus envied him a little. he said exactly what he thought when he thought it, paying little respect to timing or privacy or decorum, whether anyone was listening or not. he muttered like a brook and raged like a stormy ocean. it became a soothing sound, even’s voice pattering on like summer rain on the roof. aeleus loved his words.

ienzo’s words were precious gems, rare and sparkling and oh so carefully faceted. he spoke precisely, with sharp diction, so unlike other children. aeleus could sometimes see him working on them, grinding and polishing away. when ienzo gestured for him to bend down so he could whisper a perfect ruby, aeleus would always thank him - it was the least he could do. he wanted to tell him about his clay, but he never figured out how to talk about it. aeleus treasured ienzo’s words nonetheless.