Summer looks up from her book and freezes. “You … aren’t Flyte.” To that self-evident remark, eyebrows high on her face, she adds, “Who are you?”
Very, very gently, she says, “I try not to assume. You might be different from Flyte. Your … past. But you aren’t, are you. It’s the same, mostly the same for you.” She blows out a breath, rubbing her hands over her face. “But you — you’re even more tangled than he is. You didn’t take that time to — I don’t know what he did. Before us. But he’s all swirls and loops and elegance and you — you’re just knots. Knots and tangles.”
A tilt of the head is made. “We are the same, yet not the same. At some point the path changed for me and… Flyte. His led him to you and Stark. Mine didn’t.” Licking his lips, the God closes his eyes for a moment. “Whatever he did, he found his way and has changed his path, I haven’t. I may some day but then again I may never change my path. It happens.”
“What /is/ your path?” Summer asks curiously. “What are you looking for here, anyway?” She starts to reach out a hand, remembers who she’s actually talking to, and jerks it back, locking the fingers together in her lap. “Maybe we can help.”