It was cold outside for once, and Sofia of Marikas could hear the waves crashing against the nearby cliffs. Across the years, she had come to love the rough, stony way Colchis held itself, though she still sometimes preferred the softer warmth of her home. She and Tim paid Athenia a visit every so often as her family grew up without her. Marriages and funerals and births all spiraling into a long parade of bittersweet memories. They visited, too, especially Raf and Daniil and Elena and Marietta. The first of her children, born no more than two years after her wedding, had brought the most visitors. Korinna, a sweet but tough girl who grew to love sparring with the future soldiers of Colchis. Papa and Pavlos had little to say on that visit, though they both grimaced at the words ‘it’s a girl.’ Then came Justana, and the grimaces had burned and twisted and yet, somehow, softened. Justana was everything Sofia thought her mother must have been: beautiful and proud and elegant. Her girls were her pride and joy, and watching them grow had been an honor.


With each year her love with Timaeus grew stronger. The first years were hard, with both of them battered and broken from the strife of wars and famines. They had had to relearn to dance, to hold each other properly. But Sofia knew from the look on his face when he returned from Egypt, wounded, that they would find each other again. And they did, much faster than Sofia could have dreamed. Two teenagers’ infatuation grew with them like aging wine, twisting and turning like tree roots until Sofia could not imagine a time that she had been without her husband.


Five years after Justana came Warelephantus. The name had shocked and confused many of their friends, but Sofia and Tim knew it was right. He was a chubby baby, the apple of his grandfather’s eye, though Panos still rarely visited. Papa was feeling weaker by then and did not wish to hear his bones creak like the ship he would have had to take to get there. Sofia did not mind; she knew her father still disapproved of her marriage, and she would not like to see her beloved husband’s head on a spike over some small disagreement with a cranky elder. Raf visited often, though, bringing with him some combination of his children and, very occasionally, his wife. Sofia was not particularly fond of Nana, and even less so after learning of her history with Timaeus. That first visit had been a nasty shock that none of them were keen to repeat. Still, Raf held a special spot in Sofia’s heart for the rest of her life; the love between her favorite brother and herself could not be broken, not with a million Colchian swords. Marietta came to visit, too, of course. She occupied a place of honor in Sofia’s wedding, and they kept a close written correspondence over the years.


With Warelephantus, the loving couple believed their family to be complete. They spent as many days together as possible, soaking in the harsh sunlight and sharing the love that had been harder to spot in Sofia’s childhood. They were not as rich as one might expect from a royal—Pavlos had given them permission to be married (though in truth they had forced his hand) but not an allowance—but they were happy, and Sofia did not mind forgoing a new gown in exchange for the joy that filled her life. She was content to watch her children grow, teaching them with her own hand rather than with a nursemaid. They were told stories each and every night, a pastime that Sofia had grown even more fond of after the riots. Real-life adventures, she had decided, were not necessarily for her. But fantastical stories and glorious imagination? These stories were the highlight of her evenings. Even so, she and Tim did travel occasionally. They left the children with family for a time and he brought her to beautiful places to weave into her stories. She saw colors of sky that must have been impossible, and ancient trees, and any number of enchanting things. All with her love close by her side with a steadying hand in hers. Both of them trembled with memories sometimes, but each time the other was there to comfort and remind, with gentle kisses on the forehead and fingers curled.


Marriage was not the end of their adventure, and nor were the children. No, Sofia of Marikas continued to live and grow and change with each season, even as the gray stones of her adopted homeland managed to slowly turn her hair, strand by strand. And the lines developed on her face, smooth at first, and then more dramatic, like the landscape she had grown to love. One day she awoke to discover that she was old, and her children had all grown and gone on their own adventures. Justana and Warelephantus had found partners to love, and each had children of their own, in time. Korinna loved deeply and fiercely but never for long, and Sofia had many long conversations with her, the waves crashing in the background. It was okay to bloom late, it was okay to bloom in ways the world could not understand. It was okay.


Her grandchildren brought her the same joy that her children had. One had Tim’s beautiful eyes, another had Rafail’s hair. One had a smile Sofia could have sworn she remembered from somewhere… Papa passed and met with Mama in the Elysium fields. Pavlos died too, eventually, and Sofia felt her world expand and collapse with each occasion. She missed home, she was at home, Timaeus was her home, home. Through it all, Sofia watched, lived, burned with an energy that never seemed to grow fainter until the year that it did.


The year she turned seventy, her bones began to ache and she understood why Papa stopped coming to visit. She felt the pain of each moment began to take its toll, and it hurt, oh, it hurt to see Tim look at her with concern. Her grandchildren stopped asking her to play chase. Sofia began to forget.


It was cold outside for once, and Sofia of Marikas could hear the waves crashing against the nearby cliffs. Feet bare, hair loose, she had spent an hour standing near the edge, watching, waiting, feeling the cold seep into her bones. Feeling alive, feeling wild, like she had so many times in her youth. She crawled into bed in the darkness and heard Timaeus’s breathing quicken from the depths of slumber as he came back to her. “Hi,” she murmured, and caught his lips in a weak kiss. Sofia felt his arms curl around her, frailer than they once were but still strong. She missed home, she was at home, Timaeus was her home. Home. “Did we have everything we ever wanted?” she whispered again, resting her weary head on his chest. Sofia could hear his heartbeat. She couldn’t remember. There hadn’t been time to explore, to write memories in stone the way they deserved. The curtain had been pulled back, the rug dragged from beneath their feet. Sofia closed her eyes and tried not to cry. It hurt to not remember. It hurt. But she was safe, and she was warm, and she was in the arms of the only man she had ever loved. “I love you,” she told him. She told him every day, just in case. It was one thing she never forgot.


“Good night, Sofia,” Tim replied, and kissed the top of her head, and Sofia slipped away to see Mama, happy.