Greatwater Lake Krýo

Fiamma was a curious name. As was the respectful title she had offered him. A tongue foreign to the young man. It was nothing like the words Arsenio had used. It seemed more put-together. More romantic simply in the way it lifted from her tongue and met him. 

Antigone. 

The red hood watched as the woman stepped into the lake water. Serene in the way she closed her eyes and basked in the cool touch of it. 

Perhaps it had been instinctual, or maybe he had properly conveyed his need for space in the frigid lash of his tongue. He appreciated that she afforded him this. The strangeness of his mind had only intensified in his growth, his age. Even if he was young. Antigone did not think anyone could understand it. Not even himself, wearing the skin he wore and churning in the mind he carried. 

My father was Greek, he offered. It was a small way he might share a little of himself, of the roots that had cast his head in fire.