Harmak rarely has anything to add. To situations, to conversation. He goes where the current takes him, preferring to watch rather than interact. It's how he's always been. An observer. A watcher.

He nods along with whatever Kleopatra says. He mimics Anapi's enthusiasm flatly. In some ways he agrees, in others he does not. He'll refrain from saying either. Each syllable that escapes his mouth is low and already heard. He sounds like his father, even when he speaks against him.

Harmak watches so he has something different to set his eyes on. His face is that of his father's. He's reminded of it every time a razor grazes his chin, chipping off reminders and familiarities. He wonders if his brother and sister look away when he stares too much. Or if Ayodele and the others look to him for the same support they receive from Father. He watches but he doesn't see well.

The flowers are starting to bloom. No doubt Kleopatra's garden as well. The wind blows and Harmak holds the fabric covering his head a little tighter. His gaze strays over to the view ahead, at the workers among the flowers, pruning and cutting the path Father usually takes with his second wife.

He is a fool, smitten and distracted. Harmak, Anapi and Kleopatra all made a promise they wouldn't lose reason in the same way. Harmak wouldn't share his fate too.

But he watches with intent, eyes following a single figure in the depth of green shrubbery. What a sight. Harmak catches a peak every few times the wind pushes the leaves right. And when they move, arms full and heavy with the weight of their pickings, Harmak goes against the current. He crosses the stream separating the palace from the rest swiftly, half way down towards the grass to pick up the bruised fruit.

His heart is his father's. So weak, so easy to stir. So very foolish. "... You dropped one."