Archive of Our Own

For better or worse, Janus had always liked to think of himself as clever. As a child in particular, he had taken pride in proving himself a quick study to his tutors, and showing maturity in his grasp of concepts others believed too difficult for his young age. Precocious and eager to impress little lordling that he was, he had also, unfortunately, further proven his cleverness by managing to feign his understanding from time to time. This had served him less well in the long run than it had in the short, and while he had never truly abandoned those skills, it had taken him quite a few years to mature enough to realize when it was actually best to use them.

(And most especially, to grow out of trying to fool his tutors—whose awareness of what he did honestly grasp was far more important to his improvement than their glowing and uncritical esteem.)

But this was all to say that Janus had cultivated several useful abilities early on. Alongside his lessons, his tutors were often willing to indulge his other questions on a variety of topics, and to point him in the direction of seeking after it himself if the topic was something they deemed suitable for his age and his station. Janus had, therefore, already acquainted himself with several very reliable sources of information. He knew the location of several useful volumes in the library of each manor his family owned. He knew that for practical topics on many things—particularly the topics his tutors preferred not to elaborate on—his best bet was often to simply ask amongst the staff. Even at the age of ten, Janus had understood many things adults often didn't expect him to. He had known how children came about—"the same way as horses, more or less", according to the stable-hand—and he knew where people went when they died—"to the graveyard, if they're lucky", one guard had said. But one question he had never quite understood the answer for was when he had ask what the point was of kissing—or "proper kissing" as he had overheard it from one of the maids in the scullery. It had been a hard answer for him to locate, and the one which the cook had given was: "Kissing's something you do for its own sake, love. You'll see when it happens..."

Which had been a frustrating answer to receive, even when he had asked it, but he had gradually come to feel that it also had to be untrue. That it had to be one of those lies that adults told so they wouldn't have to give a real answer. Because, having had his first kiss, Janus wasn't sure he understood it much at all.

Obviously, people kissed for a lot of very different reasons. Janus's mother had given him many kisses in the past, to soothe his feelings or his fears or his hurts. He knew that his mother's kiss was to show her love for him, and he knew his uncle's kiss when he greeted Janus's mother was similar, because they were family. He knew that the kisses people gave to his uncle at court were much different—a kiss on the hand, often kneeling, to show love and loyalty to their king. Visitors to their home sometimes kissed his mother's hand, similarly, to show their respect to her, whether in her own right for the titles she held or to acknowledge her kinship to the King. He had seen friends kiss one another in greeting, and he had even seen a few people kiss animals affectionately as well.

But none of those, Janus was sure, were the proper sort of kiss that the scullery maid had described. Or at least, he couldn't imagine anything about them being worth the amount of fuss. Nothing about any of those kisses seemed worth the hushed words, as if it were a secret, or the giddiness that had lit her voice, nor did it explain what had set a warm glow of something like embarrassment burning in her cheeks.

Maybe the gap in his understanding came from the fact that his kiss—Roman's Kiss—hadn't been a normal kiss at all, so perhaps it was not a proper one either, but there wasn't an easy way for him to ask if that made a difference. Because, even at ten, he was more than smart enough to realize that his encounter with the sea child was best kept to himself. After all, it surely hadn't been for spite or sport that the sea captain had caught the other boy in his net. Roman had been a valuable find for the sailor and his crew, and Janus's decision to set him free wouldn't have changed that in the slightest. And so their meeting had soon become Janus's most treasured secret...

As had every meeting that followed.

Sadly, Janus couldn't always rush down to the shore when the waves announced Roman's arrival, not on his own, but he did at every possible opportunity. Especially in the summer, when the milder, warmer weather made it easier to have his arguments listened to, Janus would diligently work through his studies as quickly as possible in order to be given his leave to go outside. He would steal his way down to the shore, and while he wasn't allowed to go out beyond the sights of the guards who manned the docks, he would make his way down to the tall stack of rocks along the beach beneath the cliffs. There, under its shadow and behind the rocks, Roman could easily conceal himself during his visits.

It helped that Roman never came into the bay when the docks seemed especially busy, or when the fishermen were out at sea with their nets. He also seemed to know when Janus was at residence in the castle as easily as Janus knew when the sea child was in the bay. Roman had explained that once as a gift of the Sea granted by the Kiss, for it could do far more than simply heal. The magic of the Sea connected them now, and as long as Janus was close enough to the shore they would always be able to find one another...

Roman's people used the Kiss of the Sea for a great many things as well, it seemed. Parents almost always gave their Kiss to a child when they were born, so they would be able to find them if they were lost and feel their distress if they were hurt. Those bonds faded for some, but in close families they always remained strong. Sometimes it was used as a pledge of kinship—undertaken by close friends who saw family in one another, or by lovers who had chosen to build one together. When Roman and his brother had been adopted, their father's Kiss had been an oath of sorts, a promise to both of them and to the Sea Herself that they were family. More rarely, it was used to seal a deal—treaties between clans and truces between enemies were sometimes struck in this manner, because the Sea's Kiss was a sacred act among their folk that none would dare profane.

The Kiss was rarely given to humans, though obviously it wasn't unheard of. It was most often used when they were forced to bargain with those of the land, and even then only when no other option remained. The Sea knew what was in a person's heart and She wouldn't speak to the heart of someone who intended to bring harm to Her children, and none of the sea folk would trust a human if the bond couldn't be struck. Roman's Kiss, on the other hand, had been a true rarity—a gift freely given, asking only that the Sea's blessing be granted in return for protecting one of Her own.

Which had all been very interesting to learn, but it hadn't given Janus much insight on the kissing, proper or otherwise, that humans did.

So Janus still didn't know the difference and no one seemed willing to tell him, and unless he was lying Roman seemed just as clueless about the distinction as he was.

While Janus was not entirely without playmates near his own age, for the most part his choices there were a little lacking. When he was younger it had been permissible for him to play with the children of servants from time to time, and that had been fine. But this had steadily been discouraged as he got older. Whenever they returned to his uncle's court in the city, he was expected to spend time among children closer to his own station. Which was all well and good when he was in the city and time could be arranged for him to meet up to play with his cousins. But his cousins were all older than him, and soon they were busy being trained for the responsibilities expected from the heirs of a king. And the other children at court were...well. Janus had his suspicions that their parents had made them only too aware of his relation to the King. It showed in all his interactions with them, in their nervousness and eagerness to please...

(He had tested it, one summer, just how much those other children were willing to let him get away with. It had unfortunately taught him more about the limits of his own cruelty than it had any limits of theirs.)

And when they returned home to the castle on the cliffs, it was even worse. At the castle there were only the servants' children, or more rarely those from the local village, and between his tutors' disapproval and their own discomfort at playing games with the King's nephew, Janus had decided there wasn't much there to be found in the way of company. For the most part, Janus had convinced himself it was just as well, that as mature as he was, surely there couldn't be much that he was missing.

But his time spent with Roman was different. Though the sea child was wary in those first few meetings—though largely of the threat of being seen by other humans—for the first time in his life, his family's station truly seemed not to matter. After all, what did it even mean to Roman that Janus's uncle was a king when the other might as well have lived in another world entirely? And though the sea child was younger than him, there was never a moment in which Janus felt he must condescend or bluff in order to show his own maturity. There was much that Roman didn't know about the lives that were lived on land, but Janus was just as much in the dark about the lives of those under the sea, and so there was a sort of equality in their shared ignorance and curiosity about each other's worlds. Their questions could be asked without judgment, and the stories of their lives told with only the faintest skepticism...

And Janus didn't feel as if he had to impress Roman the way he did others, for if he allowed himself for just a moment to be foolish, to admit confusion, to betray childish frustration or hurt about something his tutors or his mother or his uncle had said, it wasn't as if Roman could have told anyone to whom those moments of weakness would have mattered.

Their meetings were truly rare during those early years, but that rarity only made him cherish them all the more.

As he grew older, eventually more and more of his time came to be taken up by study and training, but at the same time, he was deemed grown up enough to be trusted to look after himself. While this meant greater consequences when he overstepped the boundaries afforded to him, it had eventually seen them broadened enough that, by the time he was twelve he was at last allowed to wander outside the castle walls on his own.

He didn't always travel to the bay whenever he left the castle—it would have invited more scrutiny than he liked if he was always so predictable—and Roman wasn't always there, even when he did. But whenever the ocean sang to him of company waiting in the waters, he did his best to make the time to get away if he could...

Janus had just turned thirteen when he finally figured out the difference—what a proper kiss was supposed to be.

Their spot behind the rocks was not known to only the two of them, unfortunately. Its convenient seclusion made the location perfect for a variety of other activities that people preferred to do just out of sight. Very often, when their meetings were interrupted it was simply a guard come looking for Janus to ensure his safety, but sometimes when a ship came in the sailors would wander off for a few moments away from their crew. Often it was just one, but sometimes it was a small group of them, usually getting away to enjoy a bottle of something or a pouch of tobacco they didn't want to share with the rest. Though at least the crunching of footsteps over the rocky, shell-strewn beach would always reveal the approach of others long before either of them would be seen—which was more than enough warning for Roman to vanish beneath the waves and out of sight.

Janus had been out by himself on the beach that day when the footsteps came—Roman had already left, but there had still been plenty of the afternoon remaining before he would be forced to return to the castle and his schooling and his duties. And so he had chosen to linger, taking a rare moment of peace—a moment just for himself—in which to enjoy a feeling of closeness to the Sea. He had hoped to spend even longer, if he was able, so when he heard their approach he dropped down behind a rock, hoping to wait them out. He thought, at worst, he might be stuck listening to griping over their captain or the bosun or the quality of food on board the ship. If he were lucky, perhaps they would have news to share from afar or some other piece of gossip that might be interesting to overhear.

This time it was only two men, and it wasn't a drink or a smoke they had decided upon sharing...

If it was curiosity over their conspicuous silence that had him peeking out from behind his rock, then it was the heat crawling into his face that had him immediately hiding again. Because what was now, suddenly, very plain to him was the reason he hadn't seen such a kiss before. The reason it had flustered the scullery maid so greatly. Clearly, a proper kiss wasn't something that most people did where just anyone could see...

(And it had been a very long and very awkward bit of waiting thereafter, that span in which the two men lingered there. But Janus had weathered them in silence from his hiding place behind the rock, determined, because no amount of waiting would ever be as torturous as the mortification he would feel if it was known that he had seen. Or worse, if word spread to anyone after and he potentially caught a reputation for spying on such things...he thought even death might have been preferable.)

Janus was fourteen when he realized he wanted to kiss Roman again—to kiss him properly, and just because he wanted to.

Which wasn't to say that it was a realization he had managed to make all at once. It might have been better to say that it came together slowly, like a puzzle, out of the moments they stole for themselves. The excited way Roman greeted him at their every meeting, as if Janus was someone he could never grow tired of. The eagerness that he displayed when presenting him with gifts of shells or shark's teeth, or wave-polished bits of coral. The sharpness of the sea child's curiosity whenever he brought Janus discarded items from the sea floor hoping to have them identified, and the trust with which he accepted every answer. The way his thin pupils widened with delight whenever Janus snuck down sweets to the shore to share. The peculiar trill of Roman's laughter, which he had once thought so strange, but now often made Janus's breath catch in his throat...

The pieces were so small, so easily missed on their own, but together they painted a picture that was impossible to misinterpret.

Unmistakable enough that, while unexpected, it hardly felt like a surprise when he watched Roman grin, lips parting to show the needle-sharpness of his teeth, and found himself wondering if those lips would taste like the sea. And it was a fond bit of musing for all of a second, before he caught himself examining it more closely. What he saw with that second look had his stomach tightening unpleasantly, dismayed that he could ever be so foolish...

So childish.

Because it really was so very childish, wasn't it, to have fallen into such a hopeless infatuation—one that was doomed from the start. He hardly needed it pointed out to him that he and Roman lived in very different worlds—over the years of their friendship that simple fact had caused them both no end of misery. Janus couldn't count the number of hours he had wasted thinking about what their lives might be like if it weren't so—if Roman could somehow join him on land, or Janus come to him in the sea. But even if one managed, somehow, to overlook—or ignore—the obvious, falling for his friend—for any friend worth calling the name, if he had possessed any other worth naming—was one of the most unfortunate things he could have done.

Janus was old enough by now to understand that, whatever his own feelings on the matter, the topic of whom he might wed was unlikely to be entirely his own to decide. The King was his uncle, after all, and ultimately the choice Janus made would need to meet whatever standards he decided to enforce in order to safeguard their family's power and reputation. He would be expected to seek a wife of appropriate station—in fact, he was already being encouraged to meet with younger ladies of the higher ranks whenever he was at court. He could almost certainly expect to be encouraged (perhaps politely, if he chose to cooperate) to choose from among their number within the next few years.

But still that childish, demanding voice persisted, no matter how he tried to silence it. That voice knew what it wanted, and it was going to insist upon it, no matter how certainly he knew that what it wanted was impossible. But even as that nagging little voice inserted itself unwelcomely into his thoughts, lending the otherwise pleasurable events of their meetings an unfortunate sour note, Janus never considered for a moment that he would cease to visit whenever Roman appeared in the bay. Their opportunities to spend time together were so rare anyway—so few and so brief—that it would have been a wasted effort only likely to cause more pain than it could ever soothe...

After all, Janus already did most of his thinking about Roman when they were apart.

It wasn't a hardship anyway, he told himself. Among his many talents, Janus had always been rather good at burying his real thoughts and his feelings away, where they could easily be kept safe from others. He had learned the skill early in his childhood, amid his many visits to his uncle's court, and with time he had perfected it. The difficult part was knowing what thoughts or feelings he should pretend to have in their absence, for the answer to that question varied so sharply from person to person...

At least with Roman, that answer was a blessedly simple one. They had been friends before, and they were still friends now, regardless of how his feelings—or his awareness of his feelings—had changed. He would simply keep any thoughts or wishes he might have had that they could ever be otherwise carefully locked away, and so long as he never shared them with Roman, he wouldn't have to worry they would put that friendship in jeopardy.

Janus's mother died when he was sixteen.

It hadn't been anything particularly shocking or unexpected, just some illness picked up while they were away visiting his uncle's court. Her poor health was such a familiar challenge in their lives that there hadn't even seemed an especial cause for worry when she first took sick. She usually traveled better in mid-spring, but the weather had been unseasonably cold and damp during their journey. She had been feeling noticeably poorly by the time they reached the capital, and over the course of the next several days that had followed it had worsened swiftly. By the end of the second week she was dead. The entire city was shut down for the mourning of the King's beloved sister, and the funeral proceedings themselves stretched out over the course of the entire week that followed. Afterward, Janus had found himself sitting through several uncomfortable meetings with his uncle, going over business he would have given anything not to have to consider. But his mother had been holding his late father's lands and title in trust for when he was older, as well as her own, and Janus was just old enough to take control of those lands and duties that were his to inherit now that she was gone...

Grieving or not, he was no longer a child in the eyes of the court but a ruling lord with obligations he was expected to maintain.

More than a full month managed to pass after his mother's death before Janus was able to get back into the carriage and ride for the coast. For the first time in his life he made the long, boring journey back to the castle on the bay on his own. The castle on the cliffs had long since become more of a home to him than their house in the capital, but this time, when he set foot within its halls once more, it no longer felt so homely. It bore the same chambers where he had often shared meals with his mother, the same library where she had listened on occasion while he read some passage from a book he had been studying or where he would listen to her recite poetry, the same gardens where they had like to take time for just the two of them to enjoy a walk in the warm summer sun...

But at the same time it held none of those things anymore, because she was no longer there.

Throughout the frightening days of her illness and long into the emptiness of the weeks after her death, it had been all Janus could do to keep his fear and his grief under reign—to comport himself with the dignity expected of a young nobleman and a member of the King's family. To prove himself mature enough that, despite her early loss and his still young age, he could be trusted with the responsibilities that her absence would leave on his shoulders, because the alternative would have meant accepting the supervision of whatever minder his uncle deemed necessary to keep him in line. And he had broken down a few times, though only ever in private—only ever when it was safe—but during the long and miserable days of his journey back to the coast, those moments of privacy afforded to him had been so very few indeed...

As he stood there in the entry hall of the castle, his empty gaze lingering on the stairs as if she might still somehow manifest before him, Janus had felt his grip on everything he had been struggling to hold back threatening perilously to break.

Janus had let no one meet his eye as he announced his intentions to retire early to his chambers, nor when he announced his threats of what he would have done to anyone who made the mistake of disturbing him before dawn. And he had never been the sort for those kinds of threats before—either for carrying them through or making them idly—but whatever the staff believed or expected of him, he doubted any would have been willing to gamble their own lives against the volatility of his grief.

Janus had disappeared to his rooms, letting the door close heavily behind him. He had locked his door and fallen upon his bed, desperate to allow the weight of his grief and the exhaustion of his recent travels drag him down into unconsciousness, hoping that in sleep he might outrun his tears for just one more day. Hoping that the night would pass without the cruelty of dreams or the intrusion of wakeful hours where he would be left alone in the dark with his own thoughts and the sorrow trying to hollow him out inside.

Despite his wishes, Janus did find himself being coaxed away from the peace of sleep, first by dreams and then by a feeling overwhelming his senses...

But the dreams that found their way to him that night were dreams of the seaside—dreams which he always welcomed—and the feeling that he woke to was the certainty that Roman was down in the bay, waiting. And that feeling was usually familiar as well, usually just as welcomed, but that night it felt different than before.

It was sharper somehow, more demanding...

Janus didn't even spare a moment of debate before dragging himself out of his bed. He was almost grateful that, in his despondency earlier that night, he had fallen into it still clothed for he wasn't forced to waste any time, only recovering his shoes and shrugging into a cloak before creeping out of his door and into the hall. There were servants lurking about his door, of course, watching and listening, perhaps in fear of some more drastic display of his grief than what they had already seen from him. And he doubted any of them would question why he might choose to visit his mother's chambers tonight...

Though they would also be incorrect in their assumptions, of course.

Just down the hall from her door there was a recessed alcove with a window overlooking the sea. It was a fine place for reading during the day, warm and well lit with its lovely glass-paned window to let in the light and the cheerily painted plaster covering the interior stonework. It also had the benefit of hiding one from easy sight—it was angled so that any passing, casual glance down the hallway would likely miss that it was there at all, let alone anyone seated within. But, most importantly, hidden along one wall—cleverly disguised by the designs that were painted there—was a very narrow panel that would open if you pressed against two very particular places along one edge of it...

That panel opened up to a very narrow passage, inconvenient—but not impossible—to squeeze through. It was meant for emergencies and almost exclusively utilized for such. Few even knew where it was, by design, and Janus himself had only been trusted with knowledge of its location after he had turned thirteen. And Janus had taken the responsibility quite seriously, never risking its use on the occasions he snuck his way down to the seaside. It was too great a risk, both to his and his mother's safety, if he betrayed its location by mistake as well as to Roman's, for it would have placed his movements under even more scrutiny if he were ever to have been caught. No matter how badly he missed his friend, no matter how deeply he might wish to join Roman down by the water, it had never felt important enough—urgent enough—to take the risk.

This—now—felt urgent. The sound of the waves were louder in his ears than he could ever remember hearing them. From the moon's position in the sky, the hour was late into the night—far later than he had ever known Roman to visit him before. His mother's illness, her death, her funeral and what came after had all kept him away for so much longer than he had planned—Roman would have been expecting him long before now. And the thought struck him that anything might have happened while he was away-

(Janus's grief and his despair were already threatening to choke him, and a new, sudden fear now welled up inside of him, poised to consume him whole. Because if the world saw fit to serve him one more loss—if it took one more thing from him that he loved—Janus was sure that he wouldn't survive it.)

Subtlety and care were needed to make his way unseen from the concealed postern at the back of the castle and down the narrow stair carved along the cliffside, but its sharply winding span led all the way down to the bay, and the minute Janus felt the familiar grit of the stony, shell-covered beach beneath his feet he was practically running.

Moonlight stole the color from the world around him, but he recognized the glimmer of scales in the water all the same as he came around the sheltering rocks at the base of the cliffs. Roman sat perched upon a rock just a few feet out, waiting, watchfully, for Janus's arrival. He appeared unharmed—safe and whole, so far as could be seen in the dark—and relief flooded him so strongly at the sight that Janus nearly lost his footing on the rocks. The pale chalk of the cliffs cast the light of the moon down onto the both of them, and Roman's eyes shone like silver lamps as he stared back, expression awash with relief of his own. And for a moment that was all that either of them could do: just foolishly stare at one another, as if the sight were somehow the most shocking—most wonderful—thing the other had ever seen. But Janus was still catching his breath after his sprint down the length of the beach, and Roman must have been waiting for nearly half an hour by now, so of course he recovered himself first...

"Did something happen?" Roman asked him shakily. "You were gone for so long, I didn't know what to think, and then you were here but it just felt...wrong. I know it's late, but I just had to come. Are- Are you alright?"

And it was far from the first time since his mother's death that Janus had been asked that question, or one very similar. By now far too many people had asked him how he was feeling, if there was anything he needed, how he was weathering his loss. But always, beneath it, there had been something in the angle of their interest that had caused the question to needle him uncomfortably.

Primarily, they asked the question because it was expected—because failure to show such attentions to the King's nephew in his time of mourning would have been seen as a grave insult to his family. Some asked because they believed their consideration might lead him to view them favorably somewhere down the line. The servants all asked out of a sense of duty toward their young lord, and even those who may have honestly cared were cautious to hold themselves at a distance. After all, as casual as he might once have been around them when he was a child, Janus was grown now—the lord of this castle and its lands—and it would have been a dangerous presumption to try to offer him comfort. And Janus had held his mask in front of all of them, weathering the bitter agony of his loss as stoically and with as much dignity as he could manage while any of their eyes were on him...

But the only eyes watching him now were Roman's—the only witnesses there to judge him were his closest friend and the Sea Herself. And he had heard the question so many, many times, but all it took was the earnest, concerned expression on Roman's face for the mask he had crafted to break.

Janus didn't answer—he couldn't answer, couldn't breathe. All he could manage as his control and his words both failed him was to stagger his way into the surf toward his friend. He saw Roman's expression change suddenly at his approach—shifting rapidly from concern into alarm, as Janus waded through the frigid resistance of the shallow waves and threw himself into Roman's arms. The water was icy cold, and so were the arms around him, truly, but none of it mattered as Janus hid his face in the only safe place available to him: pressed into the crook of Roman's shoulder as he gave in and wept the salt of his tears against the other's scales.

As alarmed and confused as he clearly was, Roman didn't protest, pulling Janus up onto the rock beside him to keep him out of the waves as they held each other close.

For what seemed like the longest time, neither of them spoke—Janus unable and Roman perhaps afraid to—but that helpless sort of crying wasn't the kind that could sustain itself for long. Soon, Janus wore himself out and sat there quietly, clinging to Roman's side as he shivered from the cold, his legs pulled up tightly against his chest, but still all but numb where the water had soaked through his trousers.

He knew that, sooner or later, Roman would ask—that he would have to ask—but Janus couldn't bare the thought, just then, of having to answer, so instead he asked a question of his own.

"Can the Kiss of the Sea return life to the dead?"

Despite the trembling in his voice as he asked, Janus was sure he already knew the answer. And even if he were somehow wrong, he couldn't imagine it would have mattered much anyway. However much he might have wished to have her closer, it wouldn't have been feasible to have her brought home for her final rest. His mother had been buried miles from the sea in a cold, dour little tomb beneath a grand church in the capital, and there she would stay, no doubt, until her bones and the finery she was buried in were each rendered undifferentiated dust by time...

(Not that he had ever been offered the choice. His uncle had known exactly how he wanted his sister to be remembered, and only a fool would have argued with the King.)

But asking that question seemed to have answered Roman's well enough, or so he judged from the way his friend stilled briefly before tightening his arms around him. After all, Roman had to know by now, after the past several years of their friendship, just what sort of loss it would take to ruin him so thoroughly.

"No," Roman answered quietly.

Janus let out a huff, drawing up the edge of his cloak in order to dry his eyes at last.

"Well, then can it mend a broken heart?" Janus asked him, his voice hoarse as he tried to choke it back under his control. "Because I feel I'm sorely in need of such magic."

And it was meant to be a joke, of course—poking fun at himself, for his childishness at losing his composure and the greater childishness of his questions. He felt Roman hesitate for a moment before letting out a faint breath.

"No," Roman said. "I- I doubt that there exists any magic that can."

Janus heaved a sigh—largely exaggerated, though he was growing tired now that the harried energy that had hauled him from his bed and down to the beach had begun to wane. His earlier exhaustion now threatened to return in its wake, and he knew it would be a terrible mistake to fall asleep here unless he had designs on following after his mother so soon. But while the notion held a sort of cruel, poetic appeal—the image of spending his last breath wrapped in Roman's arms while the Sea's chill delivered him elsewhere, far from his grief—he couldn't for a moment have forgiven himself for leaving his friend behind.

(For abandoning Roman the way that some small, childishly weeping part of himself kept insisting his mother had done to him...)

Despite his resolve, however, he couldn't help but tuck himself a little closer into Roman's embrace.

"Then what good is magic at all?" Janus asked him sullenly. "What is the point if it can't heal the two greatest wounds that life could give us?"

He wasn't given any sort of answer right away—not that he had truly been expecting one, simply filling the silence between them with nonsense because anything was to be preferred over what had been running around in his own head of late. But it turned out that Roman was actually giving the question some thought, because he answered shortly:

"It brought me here tonight," Roman said, very quietly. "To you. The Sea told me that you were hurting, so I came."

And Janus frowned, turning his face upward, at last, to look him in the eye. He could only imagine what Roman saw staring back—at the very least, the forgiving colorlessness of moonlight would disguise the redness he knew always overtook his face when he failed to hold back his tears. To say nothing of the mess, for while he doubted Roman cared much for the tears he had been used to soak up, they certainly hadn't come without far more unpleasant company. Still, none of that must have bothered Roman very much, because his friend was smiling down at him gently.

(If there was one singular difference between them that Janus both despaired of and despised in a conflicting number of ways, it was how they had both changed as they grew older. For while Janus had grown up into what was a rather respectable height even at sixteen, Roman had grown out in wholly different dimensions. And while the younger boy had always been larger than Janus despite their difference in age, the years had served to maintain and enhance that difference in both the span of his tail and the muscularity of his body. Janus was not small by any means, but there was simply no escaping the difference when Roman held him this close...)

Despite the cold of the spray, of the wind, of the arms around him, Janus felt his face warm.

"You're right," Janus said, softly, once he managed to find his voice. "You did."

And for a moment that was all that he could say, his efforts at putting words together falling critically short of conveying just how much that simple fact meant to him...

(There were other words that he wanted to say of course—words he had thought about saying too many times already—but he was still terrified of what might happen if he said them.)

Janus curled in on himself just a bit closer, hoping to retain what was left of his body heat...

(At this point he had little hope for whatever remained of his dignity).

"You know," he said at last, after a long, slow breath, "I've hardly had a moment to myself ever since- Well. And not a moment of that attention was wanted, but...I'm glad that you're here, now. Despite everything I...I don't really want to be alone."

Roman smile faltered for a moment. While it didn't quite vanish, it lost its brightness and Janus felt Roman's hold tighten gently around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you sooner," Roman said.

And while Janus understood that his regret was sincere, he still couldn't help but let out a snort.

"Nonsense," he said. "What more could you have done? That is to say, I'd have loved to have been home sooner, but I couldn't, any more than you could have been there for me in the capital. Unless you've been hiding some other magic that would have allowed you to follow me on land?"

Roman froze, briefly. It was subtle—only a moment's short-lived hesitation before Roman slowly shook his head, and if he weren't being held so close Janus was sure he would have failed to notice. But Janus had noticed, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. And Roman clearly knew that he was caught—practically squirmed, like a worm on a hook under Janus's gaze—but finally, after a moment's conflicted consideration he let out a breath.

"No," Roman said. "Not really. Not- Not like...that. But-"

He hesitated again, falling silent once more, and whatever it was that made him reluctant to answer, it was enough that Roman couldn't meet his eye. And Janus was curious—would have been, regardless—and still in painful need of distraction, but whatever the answer was, whatever Roman was holding back, it must have been important. Whether he chose to share it or not, Janus didn't want Roman to feel forced.

"It's alright," Janus reassured him. "You don't have to tell me. I'm sure whatever other...secrets your people keep, it's for good reason."

"No, I-" Roman cut himself off. "It's not that it's...secret exactly. Not more than anything you already know, I mean. It's just..."

And the sea folk didn't blush, not in any way that Janus had observed over the past several years, but he knew Roman's tells well enough by now to realize by the way he was avoiding Janus's gaze that he was feeling nervous-

No. Embarrassed.

"Do you-" Roman frowned, as if taking a moment to rethink his words. "What do you remember about the Kiss of the Sea? I mean, our Kiss, the day I gave it to you."

Janus frowned slightly as well, just for a moment as he thought about it, trying to remember. But that frown was very short lived...

"I remember that it was...warm," Janus said, a faint smile reaching his lips. "Warm and cold at the same time. And the sea felt warm against my skin. And I could hear—no, I felt your heartbeat next to mine. And the waves-"

"The Sea has a heartbeat of Her own," Roman said. "Ours joined with Hers that day and for a moment it connected us as well. That's- That's how the Sea's magic works, how Her Kiss works. It's why we can feel one another when we're close enough—when you're close enough to the Sea and we're close enough to each other."

"Yes?" Janus managed, following along so far. "I think you've said so before...most of it."

Though, granted, much of Roman's most eager tale-telling had taken place when they were far younger, when Roman himself may still have understood less of what he had been talking about than Janus did right now.

"And it would have faded with time," Roman continued, "if we weren't- If we hadn't stayed friends. The bond between us stayed strong—actually, I think it got stronger. That's not unusual with- With people who are close."

"But?" Janus prompted lightly. "I mean, that doesn't answer the question I asked, so I assume there must be more."

"I can't come to you on land," Roman said, "but...a second Kiss could tie us closer. Enough that we could feel each other from much farther away. And...and even if I couldn't really be there, I could still be with you."

Janus found most of his earlier lethargy fading as he sat up straighter in Roman's arms, turning to look at him more closely. Roman looked back at him, his nervousness even more apparent than before, though Janus couldn't fathom why.

"I- I'd like that," Janus found himself saying.

The words came out in a rush, circumventing any chance he might have had to think about it. And Roman looked so startled when he did that Janus was quick to back-track.

"I mean- Unless there's a reason I...shouldn't want it?" he managed. "I know the Sea's Kiss is special. If a bond like that isn't meant for-"

Meant for a human, perhaps he might have said. Or meant for someone who was merely a friend. Janus didn't know which he might have said, and he feared that either one might have given him away—given away that longing he still held close to his chest—if he weren't careful. But fortunately, neither one ever had to make it to his lips.

"No," Roman interrupted. "It's- I mean, it is special. It's important. It's... You don't deepen a bond forged by the Sea's magic lightly. It's just- It's not something that you do unless you trust the other person with...everything you are. And with everything you feel. To deepen a bond like that requires you to bare everything—to each other and to the Sea—and in that moment you'll feel everything that they do. Like the way you felt my heartbeat that first day, but...more."

Roman said all of this in a way that struck Janus as uncharacteristically solemn—more than likely, he thought, the other was repeating, or at least paraphrasing, something that had been impressed upon him in the past. Perhaps something that his father had said to him, or one of the ancient elders that Roman spoke of much more rarely. Though Roman always downplayed it, Janus had long ago figured out that there were those in the sea that looked unfavorably on Roman's visits to the surface—and given the way in which they had first met, it wasn't as if Janus didn't understand why. But the bond Roman's people held with the Sea was sacred, and so long as the bond between them held strong, there was little that any of Her children could or would do to stop it. And Janus could imagine they had cautioned Roman strongly in the past against what he seemed to be proposing now...

After all, if there was one thing Roman loved it was talking, and he told Janus nearly everything. But he had never once mentioned this.

"Are you saying that you trust me," Janus asked, "or that you don't? Because right now it sounds like it could go either way."

Which Janus realized, belatedly, had come out sounding like a much more serious question than he had meant it to. And Roman clearly heard it that way from the stare it earned him, wide-eyed and almost stricken, and for a moment, as he no doubt scrambled for a response, he seemed balanced upon the very edge of panic.

"Of course I trust you!" Roman managed at last, pulling Janus closer—close enough that it was almost too tight.

"I never thought you didn't," Janus admitted quickly. "You've just never talked about this part of it before."

"I-" Roman hesitated. "I was scared."

Janus frowned, confused.

"Of me?"

"No? Well. Kind of. I-"

And Roman pushed a sigh through the gills on his throat—gills that Janus realized, by now, must be getting just as uncomfortably dry as he was getting cold.

"I wanted to," Roman said. "I wanted to tell you—I wanted to offer—but-"

"But I- I was afraid of what it might show," Roman said, finally, voice quiet—small—in a way Janus had never heard it. "I was afraid to know how you really feel about me-"

"I adore you," Janus was quick to say—as he had on several occasions.

(Though, given how his specific choice of words was the closest that Janus had ever dared to offering him the truth, it was hard not to sympathize with Roman's fears... For while Janus rather doubted that the feelings he did harbor for his friend were the sort that Roman was afraid of, the idea of having them bared in such a...profound and no doubt intimate way was absolutely terrifying.)

And if his interruption didn't quite manage to defuse Roman's apparent doubts, at the very least it had been enough to coax him to smile. He seemed to consider for a moment, worrying briefly at his lip with those needle teeth. Whatever the cause for his inner debate, eventually he leaned in, lifting a hand to Janus's cheek. Janus had become distracted enough watching Roman's face that he almost startled at the movement, confused as his friend gently pushed back a lock of his hair that had come free from the tie that usually held it in place. Roman wound the curl briefly around his clawed finger before tucking it back behind Janus's ear...

Then Roman's eyes dropped minutely downward from where they held Janus's own. And though the night had already relaxed the sharpness of his cat-like pupils, Janus watched them widen further, round and silvery as coins with their reflection of the moon...

And Janus realized, abruptly, that his lips had fallen open, parted slightly while Roman played with his hair.

"Well, I-" Roman said—hesitantly at first, though his voice gradually grew more determined. "I guess I was more afraid of how I felt about you. I mean, I- I've never doubted that we're friends, the bond between us wouldn't have stayed as strong as it is if we weren't. But I- If that's all you'd ever want to be, I'd never ask to change it, I just-"

Where his sudden certainty came from, Janus would probably never know—maybe it was their bond, subtle as it was, or perhaps simply the memory of his own earlier thought to how uncomfortable baring his own feelings might be—but it honestly didn't matter. As little as Janus ever liked to admit it, Roman had always been the braver of the two of them—the one taking the greater risk every time he came to visit Janus at the shore—and as he watched Roman fumble his way toward his confession, all Janus could think in that moment was that it simply wouldn't be fair for him to have to say it first...

(That Roman would never let him hear the end of it if he had to be the first to say it...)

But Janus's mind was foggier than he would have liked, from tiredness and from the cold, and he had been looking at Roman's mouth while he spoke for too long to bring words to his own lips, and so his lips were forced to do their work without them. He leaned forward slowly—so slowly, meeting Roman's eyes as he did, invitation and warning both, though neither wound up heeded before he closed the space between them. The touch of their lips was light at first, Roman's breath a startled flicker on the wind chapped skin before he finally melted into it. And as they each, with little prompting, chose to deepen it, a thought flit through Janus's mind that made his lips quirk into a smile...

A proper kiss at last.

And, when the kiss finally broke, when they both acknowledged the need to pull away, Janus found Roman's eyes upon him again, gazing at him with a soft awe, as if he were the impossibility between the two of them.

"You do, then?" Roman asked haltingly. "Feel the same I mean? For me?"

"I feel a lot of things about you," Janus said breathlessly, "but I guess we won't really know if they're the same or not until we..."

Though Janus trailed off, because he felt that, after what they had already shared, that might be asking too much, too soon. Roman had said that he had wanted to offer, but he shouldn't just assume-

"The Sea's Kiss?" Roman asked his voice hushed but...hopeful, Janus thought. "You...want that?"

And Janus really didn't trust his words to convey just how much he did want that, not with any sincerity, and so he simply nodded.

"Do you, still?" Janus asked him.

"More than anything."

Despite his words, it was with obvious hesitation that he released Janus from his arms, but then they weren't in the best position to accomplish their ends at just that moment. Roman lowered himself from the rock they had been sitting on, letting the waves flow over him and support the great, heavy length of his tail. The water here was perhaps two feet at its very deepest, but he leaned back briefly, immersing his head and his gills before sitting up in the waves and gesturing Janus to join him. And Janus was more than willing—eager, even—to follow, but that didn't stop him from balking very briefly as he looked down at the waves surrounding them. The wind had picked up in earnest since scaling his way down the cliffside stairs, and while Roman's body had shielded him from the worst of it coming off the bay, he was still drenched from the knees down from his dash through the waves. By now he was absolutely freezing, and the water itself wouldn't be any better, and his feet ached at the mere thought of trying to climb his way back up that impossible expanse of stairs on his return to the castle...

(And Janus couldn't stop himself from thinking, in that moment, how very foolish all of this had been. To have taken the risk of coming down here alone, and at night, at wading in without consideration for his clothes or the weather. And the most foolish choice of all had been indulging his feelings for Roman. For even though the other returned his affections, that didn't mean that anything had changed about his earlier reasons for trying to forget them. After all, what could he possibly accomplish by following these feelings to their conclusion? Nothing, save signing himself up for further, future heartache.

But Roman was waiting for him, just right there—and he was so plainly, visibly excited for what Janus had agreed to, and as much as he had tried to pretend it wasn't so, Janus had never been good at denying Roman anything.)

Carefully—fighting the dead weight his own half-frozen legs and feet had become—Janus uncurled himself from the stiff position in which he was sitting. He nearly fell, but Roman reached out to steady him. Janus kept his arms hugged tightly around his chest as Roman removed his shoes and his socks, placing them on the rock beside him—which was a vain effort, given they were already hopelessly soaked, but it was an endearing gesture of consideration nonetheless. And he allowed the warmth of that thought to strengthen him as he lowered his feet into the frigid waves.

No sooner had Janus's lips flown open with a gasp of shock at the cold than Roman surged up from the water to meet them with his own. The move upset his perch on the rock even further, and Janus was forced to abandon his huddled position to catch himself by bracing his hands on Roman's shoulders. Surprised though he may have been, it was an unsurprisingly brash move, typical of Roman. Even startled, on any other day it might have crossed Janus's mind to scold him for it, but in just that moment, he found that there wasn't room for a single other thought in his head.

Breathless, teetering, and with no other thought in his mind but Roman, Janus was swept up at last by the frostbitten warmth of the Sea's embrace.

As before, the feeling crested over him like a wave closing over his head, the sound of the surf swelling until he could hear nothing else. He felt the pulse of the Sea rise within his chest beside his own, and Roman's was there beating with it. But more than that, there was...a brightness, slowly blooming in his chest. As if a spark had lept and taken hold and was slowly feeding itself from the impossibly chill warmth that had found its way inside. As if a heated, icy sliver of the Sea's magic had worked its way under his skin and into the core of his breast and begun to take root. And those cold-warm tendrils of its power reached outward, intertwining with the mirrored, reaching grasp of the other presence that had also been invited inside.

And just like the magic behind it all, Roman's place in his awareness was warm and cold at once, and vivid to a point that, for the span of a moment where it nearly overwhelmed him, it was something very close to pain, a presence which soothed and stung in equal measure, like the touch of rain on sun-scalded skin.

It was with a horrible suddenness that Janus realized quite sharply just what Roman had meant when he said that the Kiss would show another person all that you are, for he felt so much in that moment, and much of it was familiar—he felt Roman's ardor for life and beauty, the eagerness for which he reached for every joyous thing in front of him without hesitation, and the open, honest freedom with which he shared his thoughts and feelings that Janus had always envied. And alongside them, Janus also felt all the less pleasant parts that had caused the both of them grief over the years—the needy part of his friend that often wanted to monopolize their time together with his own thoughts, the stubborn part of him that didn't want to listen, the part that was quick to anger and took offense easily and that found it difficult to forgive. And there were other things he felt as well that felt...less familiar, if not quite foreign. Things that had been hidden that he had missed—or perhaps only ever caught the shadows of—now plain to see...

Roman's fears that he wasn't enough—that he wasn't kind enough, smart enough, brave enough—and that the people he cared about would suffer for it. Or worse, that they would one day realize it, and become frustrated with him for wasting their time, or even cast him away... And for all the stories that Roman had told him, Janus realized there was still so much he didn't know about the life the other had led under the waves—about his relationship with his brother and his father, the absence of a mother from his life, and how it had come about...

But though the questions that Janus found himself pondering twisted painfully in his chest, it didn't stop him from wanting to find the answers one day.

And he realized suddenly that Roman must himself have been treading the waters of Janus's own flaws. That his friend would have found himself staring down that part of himself that was so concerned with appearances that he sometimes lost sight of the truth—the part that would rather hide his hurts than admit vulnerability, even if it allowed his wounds to fester. The way the fears and expectations that he had lived with all his life had caused him to erect defenses like a shield wall—that had made it his first instinct to call down harsh words like an archer's barrage at the first hint of a threat...

(The fear that behind his bluffing and his clever words, beneath his carefully constructed masks, he was really nothing at all...)

Janus hadn't ever imagined he could feel so...naked in front of another as this core-deep connection between the two of them allowed. And yet, at the same time there as a liberating feeling to finding himself unmasked. If their friendship, their love, their bond could survive this merciless, detailed glimpse, then it could only continue to grow stronger.

After all, what would they have to fear from on another now that it had all been laid out so starkly between them?

Because Janus could feel that as well as the bond they shared strengthened between them—Roman's feelings for him alongside his own, almost as if they had always been there. He could feel the common core of their friendship over the years, the trust built up through every secret moment they had shared with each other, every moment of laughter, every cautious confession, every argument they had ever had and every hurt they had ever forgiven—everything that had gained them greater understanding of one another and, ultimately, brought them closer. And it was amid that strong and fertile foundation that another love had managed to grow—a love that, despite Roman's earlier fears, they unmistakably shared.

A love that Janus knew he could no longer pretend he could live without.

Unlike his first Kiss, Janus could feel when it was coming to an end—when the magic of the Sea began to recede, releasing them from Her embrace and leaving them held safely in each other's arms. And even as the fierce grip of Her magic left them they remained entangled, both inside and out, for though the deafening roar of the Sea's swell had left his ears, Janus could still feel Roman, both in the faint, soft wonder of his close presence—a gentle touch on his awareness, like the welcome warmth of a fire on a cold day—and the heartbeat fluttering rapidly beside his own. That last was a rather odd thing to feel at first, unmistakably new and strange...

And yet somehow it still felt natural, as if their hearts had always been caged together this way.

At some point during the Kiss, the hands that had braced against Roman's shoulders had failed to hold him up, leaving him on his knees in the surf at the other's side. His arms had slipped into a loose hold around his neck instead, and Roman's steadying grip had likewise turned into an embrace wound around his middle. And Janus didn't know how long they stayed that way—held contently, taking time just to bask in all the ways they were wound up in the other, both new and old. They hadn't a single care, in just that moment, for anything else in the world but the other. Their world couldn't be allowed to remain so small for very long—sooner rather than later, they would both need to leave this place, each to return to their lives apart—but for now there was a comfort to be had in the brief, uncomplicated simplicity of just having each other.

And it seemed they could even afford to linger, now, for though the otherworldly, frigid heat of the Sea's power had left him—though he knelt amid the wash of waves that must still, surely, have been freezing cold—Janus realized that he no longer felt the chill of the wind and water so sharply as he once did.

(Which was almost certainly just as well...because before the Kiss, Janus had been starting to fear he might not make it very far trying to climb his way back up the wind-bitten cliffside.)

At last, Janus felt Roman's lips pull into a smile against his and he was coaxed into finally opening his eyes. He rather suddenly found himself staring back at that bright, broad smile of his—the genuine one that showed every one of Roman's nightmare teeth, the one that Janus had tried so many times to convince himself didn't stop his heart every time he saw it. It was far too much for him to handle in that moment and Janus was forced to hide his face against Romans' shoulder once again.

(A mistake, he realized belatedly. For the darkness might well have hidden the color on his face, but it was too cold a night for Roman not to notice the conspicuous heat that was flooding his cheeks.)

"Please tell me I haven't killed you," Roman said eventually, a single claw gently poking Janus's side. "Because that would be a horrible tragedy to befall us on such a lovely night."

And Janus could tell just from his tone that he was still grinning, the absolute bastard. How had they ever fallen in love again?

"There still could be a murder on this beach tonight if you're not careful," Janus warned him as he withdrew from his hiding place, though it was entirely without bite.

Only to lose his breath once more, because...because Janus had seen Roman look at sunsets the way that he was looking at him just then.

"You love me," Roman said.

He said it almost teasingly, almost smugly, but backing the otherwise confident tone, his voice held an unmistakable sort of wonder.

(As if, perhaps, he were still somehow having difficulty believing it.)

"I do," Janus said, as if it pained him, "Sea and Heavens help us both..."

The smile he got in return was brighter than the moon. What a hopeless sap... Janus leaned forward and pressed another, gentle kiss to his lips.

"A shame we'll never get another Kiss quite like that," Janus said, "though I wholly doubt the rest will leave us disappointed..."

Roman stared back at him for a moment, visibly disarmed, and at first Janus was proud to have gotten him flustered until he heard the other's softly perplexed trill.

"Because I'm human," Janus reminded him. "You said that a human could only ever be given the Sea's Kiss twice."

Another quiet moment passed as Roman looked back at him, an expression in his eyes that Janus found difficult to read. Confused at first, but then...almost sad.

"You're right," Roman said. "I- I think that I...forgot for a moment."

Despite the uncharacteristic seriousness in Roman's voice, Janus couldn't help but snort.

"An odd thing to forget," Janus said.

"I guess that it just...didn't seem to matter," Roman said quietly. Then, with a sudden, brittle uncertainty: "Does it matter?"

And when Janus felt the way the pace of Roman's heartbeat picked up slightly beside his, it was all he could do not to melt into another full embrace...

Because it didn't matter, but it did. It mattered in none of the ways that were important and all the ways that were going to hurt, and one of them was going to have to be realistic about this. Reasonable. And before God and the Sea Herself, they both knew that it wasn't going to be Roman.

"It doesn't matter," Janus said quietly, placing his hand lightly against Roman's cheek. "It doesn't matter, except for the ways it's going to keep us apart. But...you're here with me wherever I go now, right?"

Roman smiled and leaned into his touch and nodded. Janus smiled back.

"Then it really doesn't matter at all."

And as if the turn in topic had cursed them, unfortunately, they couldn't afford to stay for much longer. It was deep into the night, perhaps even approaching morning, but though the docks down on the bay were largely silent, that didn't mean they were unoccupied. There were still boats on the docks as well as the men who crewed them, and night time was as good a time as any to steal away from the close confines of a ship for room to breathe. When they heard the crisp sounds of footsteps approaching across the stones and shell of the beach, they both knew they had to part.

While his being caught down here alone would have been less than ideal, for Janus there was relatively little danger. Little enough, certainly, to still be worth the risk of staying behind just long enough to watch as Roman disappeared beneath the waves. But finally he was forced to retreat as well the approaching sounds drew nearer. Shoes in hand, he pulled himself from the waves as he sped across the beach, hissing slightly as sharp edges of stone and broken shell bit at his bare feet. And by the time he reached the foot of the stair he had several shallow cuts, a few of them bleeding, and a long upward climb ahead of him...

But it was a climb that he ultimately wound up making with a smile upon his face as the echo of Roman's heartbeat beside his own kept him company through every step.

The sun was nearly risen by the time Janus returned to his room and to his bed and collapsed there, uncaring of the dampness of his clothes, and even after the dawn had come, the servants blessedly chose to leave him undisturbed until noon. But when he did finally wake, Janus wasn't alone, not with Roman's presence right there with him and the pulse beating in harmony with his own.

Roman had been correct that night, of course—no magic could truly heal a broken heart, nor was there any so potent that it could cure him of his grief. He was still waking up, once more, into a world without his mother in it, and her absence within the home they had once shared was a wound that he doubted would ever fully mend. And yet...

And yet, as he wandered the corridors, hands grazing lightly along the walls of the castle—passing through halls and rooms that hadn't changed their arrangement from the previous night any more than they had changed from when his mother had last walked them—the bitter hollowness that had greeted him the previous day seemed to have lifted. And it wasn't that her absence wasn't sorely felt—it was, deeply, and he had no doubt that it would be for a very long time—but the castle no longer seemed so cavernously, achingly empty as it had. And perhaps a part of it was the new closeness of Roman's presence—truly, it did wonders towards soothing his loneliness, for if he focused long enough it was almost as if his friend—or whatever it was they were now to each other—was right there by his side.

No, Janus felt sure that it was something more than that...

Chasing the thought, Janus found himself brought back to that little alcove near his mother's room. He stood there before the window, his gaze drawn outward before he even knew it to roam the flat, broad expanse of brilliant blue stretching across the horizon. He stood there and watch as the sun played brightly across the water. The wind was high, chasing the clouds and spinning them out into patterns like white lace across the sky. The waves broke against the cliffs that flanked the bay and those beneath the castle, and though they were too far off for him to hear them, Janus could almost feel the echo of their thrumming within his chest...

Returning to the castle yesterday, weary and grieving, it hadn't been just his mother that he had been missing, but the feeling of solace that he was used to at having finally come home from the city. It had been something he had always been able to count on, before, knowing that whatever tribulations he had faced at his uncle's court were behind him. But his grief had, of course, traveled with him, as close behind his steps as his shadow, and had slipped in through the door behind him without invitation, a guest that would linger, unwelcomed, sapping warmth from the halls around him...

And yet, standing there at the window, in his view of the sky, the horizon, the birds and the surf and the cliffs on which the castle stood, he felt that sense of solace returning—that feeling that, whatever his burdens, this was still a place they could be set down for a time. The feeling of welcome, the feeling of home, the feeling of safety from his troubles. The strength and love of a family—one that could never replace his mother, only support him, in her absence, through her loss.

His family and his home were here, still, and Janus knew in that moment, with a grand and unshakable certainty, that it always would be—if not in the castle or the lands he was meant to rule, then in the out past cliffs below and away in that blue world that sat on his doorstep.

With Roman and with the immortal majesty of the Sea Herself.