A hundred years later...
Father Black floated beyond the blue sun's edge, robes whipping in solar wind, beard now a flowing white river down his chest.
Demeter clung to his left arm—green vines woven into her hair like a crown—cradling their daughter, little sprout who already had calluses from pulling radishes at age nine.
She was their fourth.
Father Black had insisted she learned the hard way.
He was a man that had seen the fall of countries, empires, and the rise of the one ruling Royal Family.
While his daughter was highly favoured by great and powerful people all over the world and beyond, he did not want her to be a burden to either herself or the lenny family, and thus, he was a father that made sure his children appreciated the ground even if they had access to the sky.
To his right: King Alexander, still in Macedonian bronze but polished mirror-bright, eyes sharper than any arrow.
Yo say he had noy enjoyed all his years on eartg would be a lie.
