Despite my reservations, I allowed the kindness in his eyes to convince me. I told him everything. I let each act of brutality speak for itself, chronologically cataloging decades of abuse and undeserved privilege. It felt almost cathartic to speak of my actions, and I wondered if I craved atonement at his hand—if this confession could somehow cleanse my shadowed soul.
It was not until I uttered Calia’s name that I faltered, knowing the grievances I committed against her were perhaps the worst. I could already hear his admonishments, asking me why I had not learned from my mistakes with Corvina.
As I finished, I let my gaze fall to my lap. “I am so ashamed of my mistakes, Father.”
For long moments we sat in silence, the only sound coming from the crackling wood in the hearth. “Do you think I do not know you?” he asked. When I did not respond, he spoke again. “Look at me, son.” My eyes met his, reluctantly. “I know what is in here,” he said, touching his heart. “That is all I have ever cared about, and I can tell that has not changed, despite the horrible things you believe you have done.”
His jaw ticked as he glanced toward the fire. “I am sorry I was not there for you as I should have been. I allowed my work to take precedence over being a father, leaving you with that… creature, even when a sneaking suspicion told me to stay.”
“I should have?—”
“You were a child!” he boomed, throwing his crystal tumbler against the maple walls. Shards rained to the ground, soaking the floor below in rich whiskey. He pushed to his feet, pacing as he ran his hands through his hair. I saw myself in that nervous habit. “Leonora was often cruel—I saw signs of such more than a time or two—but I had not thought it would extend to you.” His distant gaze was saturated by regret, the evidence of a thousand lifetimes of worry swimming in their depths. “Not her own flesh and blood, herchild.”
He placed his hands atop the mantle, gripping the rock in a white-knuckle grip. “It took everything I had to walk away from that manor the morning Jasper came to me and begged me to stay. Even then, I had underestimated Leonora’s depravity. I rationalized my actions with optimistic falsehoods, telling myself it could not be as horrible as he had said. Children feel their emotions with such urgency, you see. I remember the first time you burst into my office during a meeting. I could barely understand you through your tears, and I thought someone had died!” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Apparently, Jasper told you that dragons were not real.”
I remembered that. My father immediately stopped what he was doing and asked the council members to give us the room. He sat me on top of his desk and dried away my tears before sending me back to my room with a promise that simply because something was not real, it was no less important.
“I should have killed her,” he whispered, staring into the flames. His memories took him away, ushering him to a time and place that haunted him, even in the heavens. “I wanted to leave her in that chamber until her body consumed itself and she was nothing more than a pile of bones and dust.”
Swallowing past the rising bile, I asked, “Then, why did you not?” I struggled not to let the slight resentment tarnish my time with him. There were so many things her death could have prevented, including his own untimely demise.
He closed his eyes and hung his head, battling my demons as well as his own. “I do not have an answer that either of us will deem acceptable. My inaction has caused untold damage, and I have been forced to live with that. Even now, I am reminded of my failures as I look at what they have done to you.” He pushed away from the fireplace and walked toward me, dropping to his knees. “Do you think me worthy of forgiveness?”
“Of course,” I said, voice breaking from the effort of keeping my emotions at bay. I clasped his hands in mine, noticing the slight tremble. “Her choices are not your fault.”
Though weakly, he smiled, and I knew what he had done. “Then why do you not extend yourself the same grace?”
It should not have been such a difficult question to answer, yet I found myself incapable of facilitating a response. Why was it so easy to offer kindness to others and so arduous to extend the same to yourself? My mind was severe in its judgment, often lacking the ability needed to see past my own flaws and self-loathing.
“Because I do not feel as though I am worthy of compassion. The things I have done?—”
He cupped my neck, bringing our foreheads together. “Are no more terrible than those done by others. You are a brilliant and tortured soul that carries the burden of unnecessary guilt. You must let that go, son. You must live your life without the culpability of others eclipsing you in darkness.”
I had spent my whole life at war with my mind, desperately clinging to the ownership of faults that kept me up at night. Even now, I heard my mother’s voice whispering in my ear, reminding me that I had failed everyone I had ever loved.
How was I to simply move past her words? It was instinct to shoulder the blame, something I did without question.
“When you return, promise me you will work on this, that you will try to extend grace to yourself as you have with me.”
I pulled back, confused by his words. “When I return?”
My father stood and nodded, walking toward his armchair, where two glasses of whiskey and pipes had inexplicably rematerialized on the table. My father winked as he handed me a crystal tumbler. “This place does have its benefits.”
Unease settled in as he handed one of each to me before taking a seat and pulling out a matchbox. Sulfur filled the space as he ran the red tip along the striking surface.
“It is not your time, son,” he said, dipping the flame into the tobacco-filled bowl. After three quick puffs, he passed it to me and repeated the process with his own. “I told you this was merely a holding space.”
I placed the stem in my mouth, tasting an errant curl of smoke. “If I am dead, how do I find my way back?”
He smiled. “Fret not. You will have a guide.”
We sat in silence, decades of unspoken conversation between us. The thought of leaving my father when I had only just gottenhim back terrified me. “Will I remember this?” I asked, gesturing around the room.
Will I remember you?
“I do not know, but I desperately hope you do.” My father ran the tip of his finger along the crystal. “I cannot watch you destroy yourself any longer, Rion. You must let the past lie, and look forward instead—to a future with your lovely wife.”
My smile came easily for the first time in what seemed like forever. “I wish you could have met her.”
