Keeper of the Lost Cities: Rebuild [COMPLETED]

Chapter Six - KEEFE

Keefe had developed Foster's hatred for capes.

It wasn't because he had grown up with humans, who apparently thought capes were for superheroes and psychopaths. Nor was it because he was clumsy and tripped over the full-length ones—but hey, Foster could wear clumsy like a hot date wore lipstick.

It was because they reminded him too much of them—of her.

His mo—Gisela. She didn't deserve "mom." And yet every time he even thought her name, his palms would go sweaty, his emotions numb. He just... couldn't. So she wasn't "Gisela" anymore either—simply "her."

Her. He could handle that. There were a gazillion "hers."

A her he had tried to forget about (and was doing pretty good at it, too), until the Council had told him he was required to wear capes. It was a Foxfire principal tradition or something.

Ironic, really, that Keefe—King of the Mischief Makers, Mastermind Behind the Great Gulon Incident—would become the very figurehead he had disobeyed so many times in his life. It had seemed like a stupid idea at first, but... there were perks to being in the Nobility. For one, he could work around the rules and see the Council's faces when they saw him wearing not black capes (the traditional principal garb), but red and purple and yellow. He alternated every day, choosing them at random. After all, if he couldn't predict his own decisions, then how could everyone else?

Today he sported a bright red cloak with golden filigree, the Foster crest pinned around his neck—loosely. Not like how she had clipped it, practically choking him. And not the same crest he'd worn for years, either.

It felt a little strange wearing a crest with only three hands on it, but it was better than the Sencens'. "Foster" was a better name than his ever was. So he'd adopted it for the time being, until he could file a request to the Council to legally change it.

Keefe's legs stopped moving instinctively—he'd walked up Havenfield's path so many times he didn't need to pay attention anymore—and he tapped out a pattern on the opalescent doors.

A few minutes later, Foster swung them open and froze upon seeing Keefe. She snorted a little, biting her lip to hold back a laugh. Keefe could feel her amusement from where he stood—though her emotions were duller ever since he'd learned to "dim" them.

"What are you wearing?" she giggled, shutting the doors and joining him outside.

Keefe struck a pose. "Your secret desire! Lord Hunkyhair in a hot-red cape—told you I was your hero."

Foster rolled her eyes, took his hand, and started walking toward the cliffs. "I don't need a hero."

"Aw, come on, Foster! You're attracted to it—I can tell." He squeezed her hand gently to remind her of his ability.

She pulled away, but he could still feel the smile she was hiding—just barely.

He decided to not mention it.

"Seriously, though," she said, a few steps ahead. "I really don't need a hero. You... you promised no more heroics."

She didn't look back as she said the last part, and Keefe could feel the waves of guilt pouring off her, despite his muted Empathy.

He jogged up to her, and they were silent for a moment, feet stepping in sync. Finally he murmured, "Sometimes a hero is simply a person who's there to catch someone when they fall."

Sophie looked up at him and smiled, then lurched as her foot caught on a root. Keefe grabbed her arms to steady her, and they both laughed.

"I didn't mean that quite so literally, Foster."