Lir just passed his ninth, full cycle of the moon. He's barely been gifted his new wheelchair when he is introduced to a man his parents call Tobias. Though, as far as introductions go, this one is less than conventional. Lir does not shake the man's hand, nor does he turn around to greet him. He only listens, to the sound of Lir's mother and father, who explain matters that always sting when they are said aloud. The bullying. The day Lir stopped talking. His birth defect—something to do with legs that are fine, yet legs that won't respond nevertheless; neither to him, nor to the best healers in town. The night Lir decided going to school was more pain than it was worth. The weeks that went by in which Lir spent his time curled up in blankets, staring at the outside world he believes will devour him, if he ever rolls past another step that stands by the door of a home that rarely feels like his home anymore.

And then, they speak of the present. Of the future, whatever that means—time passes differently when you stop meddling with crowds. It is akin to being stuck in a void, something that holds onto you and tells you to stay while they are out and about growing like unstoppable marshlands, experiencing firsts and lasts, learning about life. Reality.

"We don't know what to do," his mother finally says, after she has somehow managed to resume Lir's greatest failures—and coincidentally, his life, too, which is squashed somewhere in between disappointments one and three.

Yet, this stranger now knowing too much about Lir does not change Lir's stance one bit. Lir still yearns to be less than what nothing is. Even when spring flowers will bloom. Even when the first snows of winter cover will the land in magnificent whites. Even when he is bound to wither some day, if he is to remain this way.

Lir turns his head away from them. He remains this way. In front of the window, barely eating, barely sleeping. For moons that all resemble each other. Days that never end. To his relief, Tobias does not force Lir like all his other teachers have attempted to.

Tobias does not grab the back of his wheelchair and drag him out of the house until Lir is screaming to go back in like a child who has just been victim to a terrible, terrible beating.

Tobias does not ask questions. He does not argue, and hold Lir's chin until Lir is facing him. He does not tell Lir, that if he has a working tongue and throat, speaking shouldn't be an issue.

It is as if Tobias understands, even though Lir figures he probably doesn't. The man is merely patient. Kinder, perhaps, too.

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The clouds that often announce harsh weather part from the land and allow for a stream of sunlight to pass, and illuminate the ever iridescent sea of Lir's village. There is a knock at the door. As always, Lir's parents answer and greet the man Lir soon found himself accustomed to thinking of as his mentor.

They start the day off with their usual routine. Tobias is to Lir's right, reading him texts from scholars, answering what he claims are the most asked questions from the majority of students after reading said texts, and never getting any confirmation from Lir—not even a nod—as an acknowledgement that his pupil was even listening to what he said.

Lir has to admit, that if anything, his mentor's perseverance is somewhat admirable.

It is during their second year and Lir's eleventh birthday, that Lir decides to look at Tobias for the first time during one of their lectures.

Without warning, he turns his head toward the man, who is still too far engrossed in his reading to notice Lir has done so.

What Lir sees is different than he'd expected. Although the man older than Lir is, his mentor seems young. He also isn't the stereotypical, scrawny-looking bookworm type either. His sleeves are rolled up, which gives Lir a view his on toned arms that surely have been shaped by some kind of sport—archery, perhaps; Lir has heard it is a popular practice from where the man is from.

Suddenly, their eyes meet, and Lir does not know what to do. He shrinks in on himself, into the seat of his wheelchair, and quickly looks away again. But it is too late. Tobias has seen. Tobias knows. There is no going back from this.

Yet, Tobias startles him again, with his next words. "If you want to forget you did that, then I will forget, too. Do not worry yourself. I won't force you. I get it, you don't like people, it's understandable."

Understandable? Now, Lir is the one with too many questions, and too little answers. Answers that are not in the textbook. Answers Tobias certainly won't recite at the end of their lesson.

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A sigh escapes Lir's lips. His shoulders drop.

His parents aren't home. If Lir were to speak, Tobias would have no proof. And if the man were to attempt convincing his father, or his mother, that it happened, while Lir continued to remain silent and unmoving in the same room, they would accuse Tobias of being a lying trickster and send his mentor away for good. "How can you understand if you're always moving around and interacting with others so freely?" Lir's voice is dry. It hurts, and comes out as an ugly croak, though still an articulate one, thankfully. Part of him wonders if he has damaged his throat from having not spoken for so long; another part doesn't care. And another starts to regret ever starting whatever it is this speech-ban he had inflicted on himself was.

Lir glances at Tobias again. It is obvious the man is doing his best not to appear stunned, though he is failing at it, and quite considerably at that. Lir braces himself for the questions that he is sure will come. Why he has suddenly decided to face Tobias. Why he is starting a conversation. Why now. Why today—yet, none of these words leave his mentor's lips. Instead, the man laughs, not in a mocking way, but in a way that people do when they are free. When they are like him. Bound by nothing. Blessed by the moon.

"I spend most of my time with books, you'll find." His mentor's smile is endearing, and mildly contagious, too. "If it weren't for teaching, I'm sure I would have become the village hermit."

"Sorry, but I already took that position."

Tobias chuckles. "And you plan on upholding it?" Strangely, Lir feels as if he is speaking to a friend, and not a foe, whose only goal is to rip Lir from the comfort of his home, his hideout, refuge and nest.

"Maybe." Lir averts his gaze again. It's been too long since he's looked at someone for more than a second. It already feels like he might suffocate if this goes on.

A moment of silence is exchanged between them. Then, his mentor speaks once more. "Do you want to go back to not talking?" he asks Lir, who grows all the more stunned by their interactions as the minutes go on.

Outside, kids his age play together, and kick a ball around the town's square middle. "I don't want my parents to know," he admits. His voice is a whisper that is close to wilting into nothing, the breath of daffodils, flying through the wind. "They would think I am fine—better—if they knew. They would push me to do more."

"You do not feel fine, or better than usual?" Tobias asks him.

Lir purses his lips together. His fists, too, tense by his sides. "I can't imagine doing all those things again." He turns away from the group who are laughing, and pointing at each other with ease—not a care in the world. "It's complicated."

Tobias shifts in his own seat, until he rises, then comes down to kneel next to Lir, so that they are at eye level. He holds up his pinkie and offers it to Lir. The smile he wears chases the ghosts in Lir's heart away. "You can talk to me whenever you want. And," he laughs, "you can ignore me whenever you see fit, too. I promise I won't tell a soul. It is not my choice. It is not my life. It is yours, Lir, and yours only. I trust you'll make the right choices in time. And if you ever need my help, I will be there."

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Lir gasps. His eyes fly open. He isn't eleven anymore, or twelve, thirteen, human and more or less satisfied with his life. He is lying in bed, next to Tobias, who is still asleep in the inn's room. Blurred memories of passing out last night come rushing back to Lir as the fog of slumber liberates his mind from its ghastly claws.

Do you want to try and contact him? Tobias had asked Lir, as they'd readied themselves to turn in for the night once Lir had cried all the tears he possibly could from his body.

Huh?

Your boyfriend; you could write him. I could help you.

Lir shakes the words, and the dream, away. He shuffles over to the side of the bed. His head hurts. He imagines this is what a hangover feels like. There is a throbbing in his skull due to the panic attack he had yesterday—a most loyal friend who enjoys haunting him whenever Lir is too anxious to breathe.

Outside, a bird caws.

Lir decides he will not contact Wolf. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. If the Royals ever questioned the village about his disappearance, they could search Wolf's home, find the letter, and accuse Wolf of being an accomplice to deeds Lir's barely sure he'd be responsible for.

He rises to his feet. As sad as it may be, Lir must let Wolf weep. It is better for his friend to be alive, rather than dead, or left to rot away in Aglia's vicious dungeons.

The floorboards are chilled when Lir tiptoes around the room, and the candle's fire that had once led shadows into a dance against the old walls is long extinguished. It has been many moons since Lir had dreamt of the past—of the day when he first met Tobias. Lir does not know what to make of it. The lingering memory makes his heart do funny things. Summersaults in his chest. A flutter of hope in his veins.

As he slips back into his boots, Lir wonders where he would be if they had never met. Would another person have taken Tobias's place eventually? Is his mentor replaceable, or truly a one-of-a-kind savior Lir was extremely lucky to cross paths with?

Lir shoves a hand into his pocket until he finds the vial. It is warm to the touch, and emits a strange kind of heat that should bring him disgust, yet only causes the curiosity in his blood to stir.

The ancient wood creaks when Lir opens the door. As soon as he makes it past the inn's exit, and onto the cliffside that watches over the horizon, Lir decides it is time.

His fist tightens around the vial. Gently, he draws the cork that had been lodged in its neck, until the seal gives with a single, discreet, pop.

Lir's eyes meet with the ocean's waves. They are still a dark evergreen from the lack of sunlight.

He takes a breath, then two, and then, he brings the vial to his lips, and he swallows. All of it.