Page 63 of Elemental Becoming

His gaze lifts to the ceiling, hazel-gold eyes dim but aware.

“When four stand . . . a fifth will rise.” His voice thins, fading. “And the forgotten . . . awaken.”

Then his attention turns toward Thane.

He stares for several long moments, as though seeing him for the first time. His gaze moves over Thane’s face, his shoulders, the warrior he has become.

His breathing catches. And then, with visible effort, his hand lifts. Unsteady and shaking, it reach toward his son.

Thane freezes.

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. I see it in him—the hesitation, the raw, unguarded moment where he wants to reach back, but doesn’t know if he should.

Then, he does.

Slowly, carefully, he lifts his hand, bridging the small space between them. Their fingers brush.

His father’s strength falters, his hand slipping, but Thane catches it before it falls. He takes it fully this time, guiding it back to rest in his father’s lap.

He doesn’t let go. He keeps his fingers wrapped around his father’s frail hand, holding it in a way that feels both foreign and familiar all at once.

Such a different hand from the one that once wielded a blade beside him in battle. Once, these hands had been strong. Once, they had guided Thane through his first lessons in swordplay, and had struck against his own in sparring sessions so fierce they left bruises.

Now, that strength is gone. The weight of years, of sorrow, of silence, has stripped it away. And yet, Thane holds him as if his father’s past self still lingers somewhere beneath the sickness.

Lord Eryndor’s eyes close, his breathing shallow but stable. Speaking again would be too much. Silence settles between them, full and alive.

Thane watches him for a long moment, then speaks, quiet and sure. “You should rest, Father.”

Lord Eryndor does not answer, but something in his father’s posture eases, as if the words have reached him anyway.

After a moment, he exhales, then lifts his head slightly. “Maris.”

The attendant steps forward immediately. “Yes, my Lord?”

He does not look away from his father. He continues to grip the frail hand still resting in his own.

“Help him back to bed. He needs to rest . . . please.”

The last word is softer. Barely there. But it lingers.

Maris kneels beside Lord Eryndor and gently places a hand beneath his arm.

“Come, my Lord,” she murmurs, her voice soft, familiar. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

At the sound of her voice, his eyes flicker open. His lips part as if to say something, but only one syllable comes out, hoarse and barely audible. “Ma—.”

She nods, a quiet, understanding smile touching her lips. “I’m here.”

Lord Eryndor exhales, that small effort draining. He doesn’t resist as Maris helps him to his feet.

Through it all, Thane doesn’t let go of his father’s hand.

Only when Maris has fully taken his father’s weight, guiding him toward the bed, does Thane finally release him. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls back.

Maris settles him, her movements efficient yet gentle. As she adjusts the blankets, she murmurs something too soft for me to hear, but the way she does it tells me she has done this many times before.

Lord Eryndor sinks into the bed, his breathing labored.