Eight

His tempestuous grey eyes met with her tender black ones.

    "Sirius," The words left Anastasia's lips in a soft breath.

The Astronomy tower had been his favored haunt for the past few nights. The solitude had seemed to offer him a faraway sense of comfort, some time alone with his thoughts.

    "Sirius?" She whispered again, taking a step closer to him.

Her resolve faltered for a moment. 

He was leaning against the railing. He seemed wary of having carried the beliefs of his family name. Ana remembered a time when the carefree look on his face used to be common. The gleam in his eyes had withered with time, his smile a fading recollection.

She reached to lay a hand against his shoulder, feeling his shoulders tense.

   "Ana," He gave her a constrained smile.

There was a boy before her, ruptured by misfortune.

Enclosed within his fists was a crushed piece of parchment, the ink scarcely visible.

   "I've made my decision," He concluded after a while of stilled silence.

The hush of early dawn was broken by the sound of the lashing wind, vindictive and harrowing. It reprimanded him, consoled him.

Her eyes drifted towards the letter again then back at him. He took the silence as an indication to continue.

   "I can't live with them anymore. I won't play a part in it." He concluded.

   "I trust you."  

She trusted him, trusted him to free himself of the cimmerian shadow that his family cast. She trusted him in battling their puritanical notions, striving to come apart. 

There was an allayed silence between them, unsettled only by the wind.

His shoulders felt exceptionally sprier, free of all that he had been weighed down with. The rue and anguish were fading.

   Freedom was scarce yet so wondorous.