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The Kid can’t sing, not like they can. Zia sings as she waters the flowers, as she cooks, and Zulf sits next to her, stands next to her, and they sing together. They sing together as they pray and the Kid stands outside the door to the Pantheon and pretends he is singing too. Zia tried to teach him but she gave up, he gave up. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and after all that has happened, he is an old dog. The Kid can’t write poetry, either. Zia and Zulf sit in Zulf’s tent and write, read, and one time Zia cried and the Kid burst in, ready to fight Zulf for hurting Zia, and Zia held up a sheet of paper to him and said, Kid, look. Look at this, it’s beautiful, look at this. He read it, and the words meant nothing, and when he went back to his tent he cried for reasons unknown.
But the Kid can build, and the Kid can break, and the Kid can hear the Bastion sing her praise and sorrow. Go north, south, forward, back, he hears it all, and he can steer the Bastion right and true.
Wood speaks to him, stone speaks to him. He builds Zia an oven for the kitchen so she can bake, a bed so she can sleep. He builds a washroom next to the Forge so they can bathe in peace and warmth. He breaks down angry animals in ashy lands, comes back with all the food they need. He cannot sew like Zulf, but he can skin an animal, and they curl up in their fur blankets when the winter comes.
He spends more time in Zia and Zulf’s tent than he should. Zia and Zulf cry together, wake up screaming, panting, their throats closed up, too electrified to help each other calm down. The Kid sits with them and holds them to his chest and says, Breathe. Says, Listen to my heart. They do, and fall asleep in his arms, and he wonders what it’d be like if it was like this all the time, when they were calm, settled, sleeping in each other’s arms. But that is a tricky thought, heavy on his tongue, and he pushes it down to the locked box of his heart.
When he is too awake to sleep and too tired to move he lies in the grass of the Bastion, late at night, and counts the stars. Zia finds him, and with his head in her lap, she twines flowers into his hair and sings to him. Sing with me, she says, and the Kid says, Don’t know how to sing. She smiles, says, Sing anyway, and the Kid sings his mama’s lullabies until he falls asleep. He wakes up the next morning, Zia curled up next to him, a blanket over them. The locked box of his heart beats something strange and hard.
He finds a town, empty, barren, but filled with supplies. Clothing, blankets, books, ash covered and singed but still usable. Zia delights in the bright fabric and Zulf sews them all new clothes. Zulf makes Rucks a new coat and stitches curse words into the lining. The Kid laughs, and the sound surprises him. He is not ready for laughter, not yet.
One of the books teaches him how to make jewelry. He makes Zia a necklace, shining silver and a milky white stone. For Zulf, a bracelet of stones a red so deep they’re almost brown. They wear them every day, and Rucks says to him, Y’all sure are close, and leaves it at that.
The snow comes, and Zulf teaches them how to make snowballs, how to make snowmen. They chase each other around the Bastion and Zulf jumps on the Kid, knocking him down, burying him in the snow. They stay there a breath too long and the Kid’s heart speaks to him in ways he can’t understand. Zulf runs away and dumps snow on Zia’s head, and everything continues as normal.
Zia and Zulf watch the stars through the Spyglass and the Kid watches them. Rucks comes up to him, stands there, quiet, and when the silence has grown long he says, Y’know, doesn’t matter what’s right on the Bastion. What’s normal. We make our own rules here.
Don’t understand, the Kid says back, and it is hard to tell what is truth. Rucks pats him on the shoulder, says, All that matters is you kids are happy, and takes his leave. Zia and Zulf pass the Spyglass back and forth, speak softly in Ura, and the Kid pretends they are talking to him.
The Kid pretends a lot of things.
It is the middle of the night when they arrive at his tent. They enter, shivering, dressed in their pajamas and winter coats. We’re cold, Zia says. Can we stay with you? The Kid runs warm all seasons. He digs his fingers in his blankets, checks his breath, swallows, says, Sure. Says, I’ll keep you warm.
They discard their winter coats and cuddle up next to him, one on each side, burrowing beneath his blanket. He wraps his arms around them, holds them close, and the key in his chest turns, turns, turns, finally opening up his heart. It’s too late for words he wants to say, too soon. Thanks, he says, and Zulf whispers into his skin, You’re welcome.
They all sleep together, warm, comfortable, and when the Kid wakes he doesn’t let them go. The sun is shining, lighting up his tent, and when Zia wakes she asks, Can we stay here? Just for a little longer. The Kid says, Yeah, bites back ‘please,’ and no one moves the rest of the morning.