12. Osias #3
Osias watched her face soften with memory. This was the woman he’d fallen in love with—raw, genuine, unafraid of her own vulnerability.
“When I was little, maybe six or seven, I had this terrible habit of making up elaborate lies,” she said, and several pride members chuckled softly. “Not malicious ones, just... fantastical stories about why I was late for dinner or how my homework got lost. I thought I was being creative.”
Her voice caught slightly, and Osias felt her emotional shift through their bond—grief mixed with love and the particular ache that came from missing someone who would never return.
Without thinking, he reached over and took her hand, lacing their fingers together.
The contact seemed to steady her, and she squeezed his palm in silent gratitude.
“My mother never punished me for those stories,” Celina continued, her voice growing stronger. “Instead, she’d sit me down and say, ‘Celina, that’s a beautiful story. Now tell me the true one, because the truth is always more interesting than fiction.’”
Pell nodded approvingly from across the fire. Several other pride members were smiling, clearly recognizing the wisdom in Joyce’s approach.
“She was right, of course,” Celina said, glancing around the circle.
“The truth was that I was late because I’d been watching a butterfly in the garden, completely mesmerized by how its wings caught the light.
The truth was that I’d lost my homework because I’d used the paper to make origami flowers for the elderly woman next door who seemed lonely. ”
Her voice grew warm with affection. “My mother taught me that the real stories—the honest ones—were always worth telling. That vulnerability wasn’t weakness, it was connection.”
Osias felt his chest flood with emotion. This was exactly what his own mother had believed, what she’d tried to instill in him and Lissa before her death. The parallel between their mothers’ philosophies felt like fate.
“When I started Bates Films,” Celina said, her voice growing quieter but more intense, “I wanted to honor that lesson. Every project we choose has to pass what I call the Joyce Test—would my mother have believed this story was worth telling? Would it help people find their way home to themselves?”
She paused, looking directly at Osias with an expression so full of love and gratitude that it nearly undid him completely.
“I never expected to find my way home,” she whispered, her words meant for him but carrying to the entire gathering. “But sometimes the most important stories are the ones that find us.”
The applause that followed was warm and sustained, but Osias barely heard it. He was too busy processing the magnitude of what she’d just shared—not just the story itself, but the fact that she’d called this place home. Called him home.
When the clapping died down and Celina settled back beside him, Lissa caught his eye across the fire and raised her eyebrows expectantly.
The message was clear. Osias stood slowly, still holding Celina’s hand, drawing strength from her presence beside him.
He’d shared at Tellings before, but never while feeling this emotionally raw.
“I’d like to tell you about my parents,” he began, his voice rough.
He felt Celina’s thumb stroke across his knuckles, a silent encouragement that steadied him.
“When my father died fifteen years ago, I thought I understood what leadership meant,” he continued, looking around the circle at faces that had become family.
“I thought it meant carrying everyone’s burdens, solving every problem, being strong enough that no one else had to be. ”
Pell’s expression grew knowing, clearly remembering those early days when Osias had nearly worked himself into the ground trying to prove he deserved the Alpha position.
“But my mother, Eva, had taught me something different when I was younger,” Osias said, his voice growing steadier. “She used to say that the strongest leaders weren’t the ones who carried everyone alone—they were the ones who created space for others to be strong too.”
He glanced at Lissa, who was smiling through tears, remembering their mother’s gentle wisdom.
“I forgot that lesson for a long time,” he admitted. “I thought love meant protection, control, fixing everything before anyone else had to worry about it.”
His voice caught slightly, and he felt Celina’s fingers tighten around his, anchoring him to the present moment.
“My parents taught me that real strength comes from trust,” he finished quietly. “From believing that the people you love are capable of their own choices, their own victories, and their own stories.”
The gathering was completely silent now, hanging on every word.
“They would have loved this moment,” he said, looking directly at Celina. “They would have recognized immediately what took me too long to see—that the best stories are the ones we write together.”
As he sat down to applause, Pell caught his eye and nodded with deep approval. The older man’s expression was radiant, clearly recognizing that something sacred had just been restored to the pride.