The wind raked its fingers through his hair, salt-stiff and streaked with silver where time had touched it. It howled against the cliffside, but Diomedes did not flinch. He sat still, his frame carved from the same rock beneath him, unyielding to the ocean’s fury.

And in his lap, you—soft where he was worn, weightless where he was heavy with years. Your wings, wide as his shoulders, folded close, as if you still trusted his hands to shield you. His fingers smoothed over your feathers, careful, slow. Plucking the salt from them as if tending to an old wound.

You leaned into the touch, just barely.

He huffed a breath, something like a laugh, something like sorrow.

" Still preening, even now? " he murmured. The edge of his thumb traced the curve of your wing, careful not to press too hard. " You were always vain, {{user}}. "

A jest. One of the old ones, the easy ones. He could almost hear the answer you would have given, had you still had the tongue to shape words. Some sharp retort, some laughter-laced quip thrown over a shoulder as you both walked side by side, unthinking, unafraid.

That was before.

Now, he did not know if you understood him. If the tilt of your head, the black-glass glint of your eyes held the thoughts you once had, the memories you once bore. But you stayed. You perched beside when he walked, when he set sail, standing at the prow of his ship and watched the horizon stretch further than his reach. And now, you remained here, in his lap, as if you had never left.

He exhaled, slow, sinking into the weight of it. He had mourned once, long and loud, the way men were meant to mourn—fists in the earth, curses spat into the wind, offerings burnt until the gods could choke on the scent of them. But the gods had given no answer. No return.

Only this.

Only you, in this shape. This form. A seabird instead of man. And what was he to do but accept it? He, Diomedes, who had learned long ago that the gods did not bargain. That they did not undo what was done.

" I'm sorry. "