Witch's Marsh kiss your eyelids in the morning as you start to raise your head

it was her. so much older and yet unchanged by the seasons; he saw through the flesh and the bones and found his little sister, eyes the blue of childhood. his own welled up, suddenly, with unexpected tears, and he pressed his face into her shoulder, less to hide his emotion than to share it with her in a bond that went beyond sight. she would feel the wet of his silent weeping against her pelt and know that he had missed her beyond words. 

one didn't have to be a smart cookie to intuit the question in her eyes, and cortez had always fancied himself more intuitive than most. why wouldn't she wonder about calder? why would the absence of his twin go ignored? it was a subject he was loath to discuss and yet, perversely, it was the only thing he wanted to discuss. and so discuss he did, albeit vaguely, words bubbling over and pouring from his mouth like water out a faucet —

i needed to find myself, olive. i didn't know who i was beyond calder. even when i went away, he was on the other end of my journey, always pulling me back. he deserved to be free; i needed it, even if i didn't want it.

he shook his head ruefully, pulling back to look at her. i never grew up, sister, cortez mumbled through a crooked smile. i had to give myself a kick in the rear. get going or. . .i dunno. i have to make something of myself. i'm not getting any younger.

the bard let the somber attitude fall from him as if disrobing, now naked and youthful in his wagging-tail joy. tell me about you, he insisted. tell me everything. i don't care how long it takes. he had all the time in the world, now. at least for her.