How long had it been since he had known a peace this absolute? Weeks? Months? He could no longer remember. His life had been a downward spiral, a slow-motion descent into a mire so deep he had eventually resigned himself to the suffocation. He had expected to drown in the dark, yet here he was, breathing.
Alpheo looked down at the boy holding his hand. Basil peered up at him with a gaze so luminous it made the Prince feel a staggering duality of emotion: a fierce, paternal pride and a humbling sense of luck. He had spent years believing his son was a river, which Alpheo had to painstakingly carve a bed and dictate a course to prepare him for his future. He realized now, with the clarity of a man who had hit the bottom and bounced, that Basil was an ocean. And all his father could do was hope to influence the tides.
The Prince winced, a sharp, white-hot burn lancing across his forehead as the antiseptic bit into his skin.
