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“Something isn’t right,” Aiden replies, looking between his two superiors.
“Sometimes all we need is a little space to sort out our thoughts,” the old man tells him before turning his attention to me. “Good grief, Roan. What have you done to her to make her hate you so much?”
“Whatever it is, she can keep her hate. As long as she stays true to her word and helps us find Lena, I don’t much care how she feels about me.”
But a small part of me does care. A tiny corner of protectiveness folds softly into the story of this thief. I push it away, unwilling to investigate what it means. “If she’s not back by the time the owls sound, I will go find her,” I say, directing my words to a worried Aiden.
I rub at my hand, the heat from her skin still scorching my own.
16
Ari
Iwasoldenoughto remember every detail.
Sometimes I wish I had been a small child, and the natural obliviousness of the life around me would have muted the images in my mind. But no. My recollection is as sharp as my dagger’s tip, pouring salt into the wound of my grief each time I allow the memories to surface. And tonight those memories won, melting through my mental shield.
Once I’m out of the camp my tears flow freely. I don’t go far. Even through my fissure of self-control, I’m not so stupid as to wander off in a foreign forest when night is quickly approaching. The faint light of the fire and rhythm of voices still reaches me as I drop to rest against a large tree.
My body shrinks in on itself. I pull my knees in tight against my chest, dropping my head atop my arms now folded across them. Staccato breaths hiccup out of me, and I struggle to catch enough air with each inhale.
I shut my eyes tight, praying it's all a dream. But all I hear are my wild screams as they drag my mother away, the disjointed walls and cold hearth echoing my pain throughout our home. Her warm brown eyes are a mix of fear and resolution as they take her. The swirl of red and gold brands in my mind, its mark fresh and poignant.
And here I am, breaking bread with those who stole my mother from me. Playing games with them. Laughing with them.
Aiden, the captain, Otto— they might not have been the one dragging her away while I begged and pleaded for them to let her go. Screaming of her innocence as I cried and pounded my fists into the walls. All while no one even spared me a second glance. But they represent the very people who would destroy a starving woman and her child for no other crime than simply being hungry.
Fresh tears are hot against my skin, pooling at my chin before I can wipe them away. My mind takes advantage of the open gate to my emotions, tugging at anything it can find to prolong my suffering, even going to the blank space of my father. He rarely takes up room in my thoughts, but tonight his void feels excruciatingly unfair.
My mother only spoke of him when I prodded her, asking for even the smallest token of information. Anything was acceptable— anything I could take to conjure his image, filling what I thought was a hole left by his lack of presence in my life. I felt entitled to what my mother knew of him, blind to the pain it brought her to talk about him.
She told me his hair was dark— a contrast to my soft, pale brown. His eyes were a mix of forest greens. I was proud to have his eyes. Now, I would give almost anything to see my mother’s golden brown hue reflected in my own.
I spent my time with her foolishly. If I had known how little of it I had, I wouldn’t have passed one moment talking of my father.
My head pounds. I’m not sure how much time has gone by, but my tears finally run dry. The emptiness left behind feels foreign and weak, so contrary to the effervescent anger that usually thrums through me.
“We should go look for her,” I hear a voice say in the distance. Somewhere inside I register the three men I left in my tantrum. Normally, I would feel embarrassed that I behaved so recklessly— letting my emotions overpower me as they did. But even as my thoughts tell me I should be ashamed, nothing comes. There’s no energy inside of me to care tonight, my tears and grief draining everything from me.
I try to pull at my hatred, striking the match that will surely give me the strength I need to walk back to camp and face the men there. But again, nothing surfaces.
“I love you, Mother,” I whisper, unsure if I actually spoke or if my thoughts did the talking.
I lie down among the fallen leaves, feeling the comforting cradle of the earth below me. My eyes wander around the forest floor, noting the scuttling of small creatures, the moss growing up the trunks of the trees, the light breeze pushing around the fallen debris around me, and finally catching on the stars above.
Their ethereal force pulls me away from the pitiful shell of a person I’ve become in the last few moments. I let them swallow me into the vast, darkening sky— getting lost in their grandness and savoring their shimmering patterns. I give myself over to them, allowing them to fill the emptiness inside me.
The twinkling lights weave together, gifting me with the image of my mother— a healthy, strong, and happy version of her. She smiles at me as she pushes a piece of stray hair behind my ear. I reach out to wrap my arms around her, to pull her close, to feel her heart beating against me and listen to her steady breathing. Before I can touch her, she fades among the shadowy blue hues of night.
An ache throbs deep in my chest. A bottomless sorrow. A longing that will never be quenched. I want just a few more seconds with her before the tendrils of a cold world wrap around me yet again. But her image is gone. The blended stars settling back into their fixed perch.
Emptiness finds its way back to me.
It has been years since I grieved for my mother and allowed the torrent of emotions to break through my stable shield. Years since I've mourned for the child in me that was lost that day, my waterfall of anguish always evaporating into the heat of determined fury. My vow that I would stop the injustice of our city, that no one else need suffer as I had, has pulled and pushed and molded everything about the girl I am today. I won’t give up my aching hatred anymore than I will forget the atrocious events that were its catalyst.
Traveling alongside these men, finding their princess— they are a small price to pay in order to get what I want. Once I’m free of Marg, of doing her bidding, I will be able to seek my vengeance without anyone else hindering my plans, or telling me no.
Part of me feels guilty for brushing Marg and her impact on my life away so heartlessly, but I lock that part of me up tight. There’s no room to care for those who may get in my way or try to change my mind.
