UVFan

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"He draws back his string, his posture steady and strong," his mother creates a pose of drawing the string of a bow and pausing, "then, he'd take a breath, and woosh," he opens his palm as if letting go of the invisible string.

"The arrow would fly, true and well, until it hits its target."

He blinks, mouth agape until fingers gently push his jaw up. He takes the hand cradling his chin, "Did that really happen, Mama? H-how could papa do that?"

His mother smiles, soft, tender, and loving, "By eating his vegetables and going to sleep, of course."

He groans out, tilting his body back until he hits the bed, "But I'm not sleepy yet!" He doesn't whine, because he's a big boy now, and big boys don't whine. It's a near thing, though.

Surely, his father never whined, so he mustn't either.

His mother lays himself beside him, their bodies lying on the wrong side of the bed.

"How about a song?" He prompts. Turning to look at him, his mother pulls him close to his chest, "Does my lovely babe want to hear a song?"

"I suppose so."

"All right," his mother's chest rumbles with a thoughtful hum.

Pressing his ear to his mother's chest, he listens to the heart beating beneath muscle and skin, the rhythmic beat a soothing one.

"Papa used to sing this to me."

"He did?"

"Yes," fingers lightly trail down to his face, guiding his eyelids to close, "Now, close your eyes, my light."

"But I don't want to."

"The song is best listened to with closed eyes."

He highly doubts it, still, his mother's patient gaze compels him to do as he's told, a warm palm now covering his face until it moves out of the way to cradle the back of his head instead.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, and strangely, he doesn't recall how the song is sang, but he finds himself feeling heavier within his mother's arms.

-

"Mama?"

"Yes, my babe?"

"What happened to papa?"

"He's away at the moment. He's protecting us. The entire kingdom, in fact."

"He must be really strong, then."

"The strongest, my love."

"Will I be as strong as him?"

"Of course, you will. Do you know why?"

"... Nuh-uh."

"Because you're our son."

-

"Great job, Jason!" His cheek is smushed by a kiss, pressed up against his mother.

The giggle that comes out is unbidden, chest bursting with elation. Despite the heat of his face at the attention.

"My brave boy!" They tumble onto the grass in a heap of laughter.

The axe he'd thrown still sturdily embedded in it's target.

He's lain on his mother's chest, ear pressed to a steady beating heart. And for a moment, he basks in the warmth of the sun and his mother's love, before lifting his head up to look up upon the carved marble standing tall over them.

The garden's verdant leaves are nothing compared the hues the statue is painted with. Intricate brush work depicting flesh and veins, the cloth almost seems life-like with the texture on it.

The expression on the marble's face is unmoved, stern and at times, frightening to look at. Unable to help it, he burrows into his mother's chest to hide. Only turning his head just a bit to get a peek and look at the statue once again.

"When will papa come home?"

The hand on his head stutters, the arm wrapped around his body tightens. "Soon, my babe."

Will his father be as happy when he tells him he's improved upon his throwing? Will his father comb through his hair? Will his father pull him in close as he sleeps between him and his mother?

Will his father be proud?

-

"Your Majesty, please." An advisor sighs, huffing as they run a hand down their face. "This stubbornness must end."

"No." His mother answers, head high and expression resolute.

"Your son will be of age at this point if you do not choose a suitor to take the crown."

"Then my son can take the crown. But I will not have another king in this palace until then."

Another advisor speaks up then, "My Queen, we understand that you'd like to rule. But really, are you equip for suck a task? Strength within politics differs greatly from that of the battlefield."

"Please, my Queen, ruling is more than just your pride or strength—"

"Then it is a blessing that Spartans are known for their intellect, also." His mother looks down at the scrolls spread out upon the table, his words ringing in the silence of the room. "Need I remind you that I have successfully aided in the famine that plagued us. Need I remind you that I have drafted the plans to win against suffering the Trojans have inflicted? Of course I know ruling is more than just pride or strength. Neither of you have sat upon the throne; if there is anyone here who know not of the power and responsibilities it takes to rule, then it is you."

It's quiet, then. So quiet, he didn't want to breathe. He looks down at scrolls, at the words still too big for him grasp, and suddenly he can feel the way the air still resides in the gap between the soles of his feet and the floor.

He thinks the meeting is over, since no one has spoken yet, when suddenly, someone utters, "It is you, also, your Majesty, who had drafted the plans to send our Great King away."

Beside him, he hears his mother suck in a breath. And the air in the room feels colder than it should be. Sunlight washes the room, still, in its glow but it doesn't seem to bring any more warmth.

"Dismissed." His mother announces. The queen doesn't spare second as he scoops his son into his arms and out of the room with his maiden servants rushing to catch up.

-

"Jason!" His mother all but cries, running up to him to take the broken bow away from his grasp. "What are you doing? What happened?" Then, his mother lets go of the bow in favour to cupping his face, rough, calloused thumbs brushing across his cheeks, worried eyes trying to peer through the strands of hair he's trying to hide behind.

"Jason, babe—are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He hisses, letting his mother fuss for a moment more before shaking his head to dislodge the hands cradling his face.

His mother straightens up, and the line between being his mother and being the queen blurs so easily now. He wished he never knew where one could end and one could start.

"Care to tell me what made you break your bow, then?"

He purses his lips into a thin line, bites down on his inner cheek, teeth grit.

"Jason." Fabric flutters and suddenly, his mother is kneeling, looking up at him, pleading, "Babe, I want to know. Please."

"I just—" He casts a quick glare onto the broken bow, snapped in two, holding on simply by the thread still slotted into the grooves on each snapped end. "I don't need it anymore. I-I have the axe you'd given me."

And something about that has his mother's face cracking into sorrow, his eyes sparkling like stars, glimmering like the water's surface.

He tries not to, but he feels guilt. Shame-faced.

"I know," his mother whispers, "I know it may not seem like it, but we must hold out hope." Hands come to take his, and like this, he can feel the little cuts on his mother's skin from the thread work he's taken up.

A shroud to weave as he ruminates on a suitor to choose.

"Your father will come. We haven't heard of his death yet. Kal is strong, the strongest, remember?" His hands are tugged lightly, urged to meet the gaze his mother wants to connect with.

"Jason," he calls, "My light, look at me. Please?"

He doesn't. He doesn't want to. How could his father be a father when all he's known of him are bed time stories? Exaggeration by the people of their city?

Tales of godlike men for children too naive and young to realise the truth.

"Please."

There's a crack in his mother's voice that draws him, slowly, cautious lifting his gaze to see his mother. Tears stream down ruddy cheeks, a quivering smile and lashes clumped with salty tears.

"He loves you, Jason. He does. If you don't believe him, then believe me, hm? I know your father hasn't been the most present figure, but he will be. Do you know why?"

When he doesn't answer, his mother's brows scrunch together, but the smile he sports, shaky as it is, remains. "Because he will find his way home. And when he does, we'll be here to welcome him."

Pulled into an embrace, he readily slumps into his mother's chest, tucking his face into the crook of his neck as he clings to the robes he wears.

"He's proud of you. He will always be proud of you."

"You're lying."

He ignores the whimper, the strained cry his words illicit, and hugs his mother tighter.

-

The man in front of him is nothing like the statue in the gardens.

Where the statue is tall, standing firm and unmoving. This man wears an expression that is world-weary and haunted.

Where the statue sports chin length hair, this man has long and unwashed threads of silver and black.

Where the statue has a pair of striking sea-blue eyes, hardened with determination, this man's gaze is sorrow-filled and regretful.

And yet, he sees who this man could have been, if he hadn't gone to war. He sees who this man has been before disappearing for 20 long years.

He sees who this man used to be, just before he set off to Troy to end a years-long conflict.

For a moment, he stares. He thinks of all the stories, the paintings, the threads with his father's supposed likeness in it. He thinks of the statue, always in the garden.

"Jason?" His voice is rough from disuse, gruff as if he hasn't spoken a proper word in years. There, he sees it.

Longing and regret. It passes through his face—his being. He sees the way his body carries tension, this hesitation present in his posture.

Is he not… The man he should have been? Had he grown wrong somehow?

Was his mother wrong, then? Always claiming that his father is proud of him are falsehoods in truth?

The pain at his side is nothing in comparison to the way he wants to ask 'are you real?' The way he wants to lunge forward and pull him into an embrace.

Instead, he clears his throat, swallowing the ache. "Father?" He croaks, the throbbing of his side striking lightning down his spine.

Arm reach out, the hesitation suddenly gone as he's pulled into a chest.

Smaller than his mother's, but still carry a wide berth. The slightness is nothing but a mirage as the older man easily lifts him up with gentleness.

Their trek through the halls are hollow, painted in bodies and the striking colour of life.

The man, his father, takes turns and walks down the halls that scream of familiarity and ownership.

Eventually, he pushes through the grogginess of losing blood, pulling himself away from his hiding place against the man's neck to look at the room.

It seems like herbs and that strong scent of a salve.

Pattering feet thundering catches both of their attention as a servant appears by the threshold.

"My King, you're—!"

"Fetch me clean water and cloths. My son is wounded."

The servant's eyes travel to him, where he's perched on furs, bleeding and propped up on feathered pillows.

"Of course! Right away." The servant leaves then and they are alone once more.

Out of the window, he can see the stars slowly leaving as Helios start pulling at his chariot, to bring light to the land again.

He watches as the man moves about the room. Wiping himself from the blood and viscera all over him.

He keeps watching, staring, as the man removes his grime and blood-splattered robes, and all he sees are scars.

There's a large bisected jagged line at his right flank that hint at being stabbed by something blunt. His back is littered with smaller cuts and nicks. There's a raised, rounded wound—must be from being shot by an arrow.

There's even hints of burn marks on his limbs.

He wants to ask but he also doesn't.

Instead, all he manages is "I thought you'd be taller."

His father, the man, turns then as swaddles himself in a new set of robes, using a rope to tie it around his waist.

"I'm sorry," the man mumbles. "I stopped growing at 18 Springs."

All he can really give is a nod. But then, the older man's lips, cracked and bleeding a bit from lack of water, adds, "You've got your mother's height."

"Hardly," he grunts when a particular throb has pain shooting down his spine, hindering his breathing. "Mama's still taller—than me."

"Save your strength." The man rushes to him, hands fluttering all over him as if they're afraid to touch. "We'll stitch you up. Don't worry. Just focus on breathing and staying awake."

He swallows as the pillow under his head is arranged to lay him flatter, a pair of shears cutting through the fabric of his outfit.

As best as he can, the man presses cloths against his wound without directly touching him, mumbling under his breath about still being unclean.

Honestly, he doesn't care—if this truly is his father, he doesn't want to wait any longer in touching him, feeling his warmth, to know what it's like to be wrapped in his arms. How different is it from his mother's?

Will it hold resentment? Guilt?

Where his mother's embrace are nothing but love and tenderness, will his father's be—shame, hate, a dream?

Despite the pain, despite the tears streaming down his face, he pushes through and wraps his arms around shaking shoulders.

"I hate you."

"I—"

"Please don't leave."

"Jason... My babe, my light—I'm finally home."