Chapter 16 Little Solstice
Little Solstice
~GWENIEVERE~
Listening to a Fae cry really pierces the heart.
The sound carries weight that transcends simple sorrow—harmonics that seem to resonate with frequencies designed to evoke sympathetic response in anyone within range.
Each sob that escapes Nikolai's throat arrives wrapped in magic I didn't know grief could contain, notes of loss and longing that make my own chest ache in solidarity with pain I can't fully comprehend.
His tears track down cheeks that have probably never known such moisture in public view, each drop carrying centuries of suppressed emotion finally finding release.
The wetness against my shoulder where his face is pressed spreads in patterns that feel almost deliberate—grief mapping itself onto my skin, marking me as witness to vulnerability that Fae princes aren't supposed to possess.
It makes me want to shed tears of my own.
The urge builds behind my eyes with pressure that threatens to overwhelm whatever composure I'm maintaining.
Sympathy or empathy or some combination of both—something in me responds to his sorrow with matching resonance, my heart breaking alongside his because watching someone you care about suffer carries its own particular anguish.
But I hold back.
This isn't about me.
The realization provides the anchor I need to maintain control.
Whatever emotions his grief evokes in my own chest, whatever tears threaten to spill in solidarity with his pain—they can wait.
This moment belongs to Nikolai, not to me.
My role right now is to hold space, to provide shelter, to be the safe harbor where he can finally release everything he's been carrying without fear of judgment or consequence.
It's about embracing the past that led us here to the present.
And what has to be left behind for our future to be woven into play.
The thought carries philosophical weight that settles into my consciousness with the particular clarity of truths recognized rather than learned.
We can't move forward while dragging the full weight of everything that came before.
Some burdens must be set down—mourned, acknowledged, then released—before the path ahead can be navigated with any hope of success.
Nikolai has been carrying Nikki's absence like chains wrapped around his soul.
The weight of being her strength for so long, of existing as the male manifestation of her desperate need to escape their father's disappointment.
.. that burden didn't disappear when she separated.
If anything, it transformed into something heavier—the hollowness of purpose suddenly removed, the confusion of identity when half of who you thought you were simply isn't anymore.
I allow him to cry.
The permission isn't something I grant consciously—more an absence of interference, a deliberate choice not to hurry him toward composure or redirect his emotional expression toward something more comfortable to witness.
His tears need to fall. His sobs need to escape.
The grief that has been building since the soul split needs outlet, and I can provide the space where that outlet becomes possible.
This is his opportunity to shed the weight he's been carrying on his shoulders.
The weight of being Nikki's strength.
But also the hollowness ignited by her absence.
The cocoon around us seems to respond to his emotional state, flowers blooming brighter when his sobs intensify, leaves rustling with sounds that might be the plant equivalent of sympathy.
The magic he created recognizes its creator's pain and tries to offer comfort in the only way it knows—beauty and growth and the persistent reminder that even in darkness, living things continue to reach toward light.
I don't know how long we stay like this.
Time operates differently within the cocoon's protective embrace, minutes stretching or compressing according to rules that have nothing to do with clock mechanisms or celestial movements.
There's only the rhythm of his gradually slowing sobs, the steady pulse of bioluminescence around us, the warmth of two bodies pressed together in the particular intimacy that grief creates between people who stop pretending they're okay.
Eventually, the tears subside.
The transition happens in stages—sobs becoming hitching breaths, hitching breaths becoming steadier inhalations, the particular pattern of someone whose body has exhausted its immediate supply of sorrow and needs time to generate more.
The sadness doesn't disappear entirely—I can feel it still present in the tension of his shoulders, the weight of his head against my neck—but its acute expression has passed into something quieter.
Silence.
The particular silence that follows emotional release—heavy with aftermath, somehow sacred in its stillness.
Grief dwelling in spaces where words feel insufficient and presence becomes the only meaningful communication.
He finally moves back.
The separation happens slowly, reluctantly, his body acknowledging the need for distance while clearly wishing it didn't have to.
His face lifts from my shoulder, and I catch my first clear look at the evidence of his vulnerability—silver-blonde hair disheveled against his forehead, eyes rimmed with redness that speaks to the intensity of his crying, cheeks still glistening with moisture that hasn't yet dried.
Beautiful even in grief.
Perhaps especially in grief, when the masks are down and the true person underneath becomes visible.
I reach toward him without conscious decision, my fingers finding his face with the particular gentleness that tender moments demand.
My thumbs trace across his cheekbones, wiping away the remnants of his tears with careful attention to every lingering drop.
The moisture transfers from his skin to mine, his sorrow literally becoming part of me through this simple act of care.
"Better?" I ask.
The question carries weight that extends beyond its simple syllables—checking his emotional state, yes, but also acknowledging the significance of what just passed between us.
Allowing space for whatever answer he needs to give, whether that's affirmation or admission that recovery will take more than a single crying session.
He smirks.
The expression is subtle—just the slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of familiar personality reasserting itself through the lingering fog of grief.
It's not the full, cocky grin I've grown accustomed to, but it's something.
Evidence that the Nikolai I know still exists beneath the vulnerability, temporarily obscured but not destroyed.
"Better," he confirms, and the word carries newfound determination that makes my chest warm with something that might be pride, might be relief, might be love in its many complicated forms.
He's going to be okay.
Not immediately, not completely, but eventually.
And that's enough for now.
"GREEE!"
The declaration erupts between us with the particular enthusiasm of small beings who have run out of patience for emotional moments they don't fully understand.
Grim poofs into existence in the space that separates my face from Nikolai's, his transformed form still radiating that impossible golden luminescence that makes him look like a tiny sun rather than a harbinger of death.
His scythe—thorned and flowered and gleaming with light rather than void—waves through the air with obvious excitement.
My smirk grows as I take in his appearance properly for the first time since waking.
"Wow, Grim!" The exclamation escapes with genuine appreciation, my eyes tracking across the details of his transformation.
Where shadows usually trail from his robes, golden wisps now drift in their place.
Where void usually fills his skull's eye sockets, warm light now emanates with steady glow.
Even his posture seems different—less the hunched anticipation of a creature waiting to claim souls, more the upright confidence of something that creates rather than ends.
"You're like Nikolai!" I observe, noting the similarities between his transformed state and the Fae magic that fills this cocoon. "Is this a Fae form or something?"
Grim's response is pure performance.
"Gree Gree Gree!" he declares, beginning a dance that involves waving his golden scythe in patterns that might be celebratory or might simply be the movements of a being too excited to stay still. His tiny form spins and dips, robes flaring around him in golden spirals, and then—
Is he... shaking his booty?
The movement is unmistakable. Grim—harbinger of death, collector of souls, terrifying presence in his usual form—is actually dancing with enthusiasm that includes what can only be described as booty-shaking.
His skeletal rear end (does he even have a rear end?
The mechanics are confusing) moves in rhythm with sounds only he can hear, tiny hips swaying with abandon.
A giggle escapes me.
The sound is unexpected, bubbling up from somewhere deep before conscious thought can intervene, carrying genuine delight at the absurdity of what I'm witnessing.
Then I pause.
That wasn't my laugh.
Or rather, it was my laugh, but it didn't sound like my laugh.
The pitch that emerged from my throat was higher than I'm accustomed to hearing—lighter, more musical, carrying undertones that feel foreign despite originating from my own vocal cords.
The sound sits in registers I don't usually occupy, frequencies that speak to femininity in ways my normal voice doesn't quite achieve.
I pout at my own confusion.
"Why is my laugh so high?"
The question emerges with the particular indignation of someone who has encountered an unexpected change in their own body and doesn't appreciate the surprise.
Nikolai's smile grows.