“I’m here.” Ixion raises the knife, and as he sets it under Pallor’s chin, the memories course through me. Memories that are mine, and aren’t. Memories that flood over me like a gift— There is a little boy that we love. A sad boy, fierce and not quite broken, and we will teach him how to fly. He throws a tentative boot over our wing, reins clutched too tight in a small fist. His thoughts flicker with memories of a father he misses, memories of another life. He blocks them out, just as he blocks us out. He is determined to need no one. The knife presses, cold iron, against our throat— We launch
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