Will he come home?


A second extract, enjoy. 🙂


Delicate, silken curtains were fluttering in the gentle wind, allowing streams of sunlight to illuminate Cresadir’s spacious sleeping quarters. The bed was unmade, the sheets crumpled and she was weeping into her hands. After three tiring days her butterscotch hair looked as neglected as the bed, hanging disordered and unwashed down her nightgown.

A young, fair-haired boy, no more than nine years old, appeared in the doorway, looking sorrowful.

“I’ve brought you some milk, fresh today,” he said, stretching his hand towards her. “Please take it.”

A few moments passed before the sniffles ceased and Cresadir lifted her face. Tears were smeared over her oily skin and she ran her fingertips across her cheeks.

She stared vacantly ahead for a second or two before muttering, “You’re staying strong through this, Oeradon”

“I’m trying, Mother.”

Lethargically, she took the milk from his hand and placed it on the wooden bedside table before opening her arms to her son. He fell into them without hesitation. Oeradon began to sob as he buried his head into his mother’s arms.

“He will come home, won’t he?” he asked, his words barely audible.

He felt his mother’s hand running through his hair, listening to her heavy breathing as she held him tighter.

Settling her chin on Oeradon’s crown, Cresadir felt hopelessness weighing her down.

“Yes,” she finally replied. She knew that as his mother, she was expected to be strong for him, but as they both knew, he was the strong one. “Yes, he will.”

Her calm reply came more from maternal instinct than from actual conviction. She knew she must give Oeradon hope.



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