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Family.
He feels like family to me, and I. . . think I love him.
I flop back on the bed, my arms covering my eyes. What do I even know about love?
I turn over and cover my head with a pillow. What kind of daughter am I? Instead of mourning my father and getting revenge for him, I was off falling in love? And now I don’t know if I’m more love-sick or grief-ridden, and that feels so messed up.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but sleep doesn’t come. I rarely have problems with insomnia in my calm, ordered life, even when globe-trotting and studiously preparing for my next hit.
But now all I can do is twist and turn on my mattress, ruminating on my many failures and longing for the pressure of six blue arms that had the uncanny ability to make me feel like everything would be okay. Somehow he brought me the comfort I’d never felt anywhere except fleetingly as a child when my mother used to rock me to sleep.
My father wasn’t exactly the cuddly type, and by then, I was too touch-sensitive anyway.
I wrap my arms around myself and long for Kharon so hard, feeling so desperately alone. How is that possible when I’ve been alone for so much of my life? Why do I suddenly feel it so acutely? And now I don’t even know how to find him again!
His brothers were so paranoid that I not be able to find their castle again that they wouldn’t even tell us about the phone with GPS they’d hidden in the backpack for emergencies. Even though it would have been far simpler to have just given it to me instead of allowing their brother to walk me back to civilization. Maybe if I called back, he’d answer?
Then I shake my head against the pillow. He’s a mythical creature, a horseman of the apocalypse, an all-powerful being! What would he want with me?
Is he even okay? What was the emergency back at the castle? He’s invincible. He has to be okay.
I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter. Far better to put him out of my mind. I am only me, alone in the world again.
Except truly alone this time. No more interludes when my father pops up from exile to break the monotony.
And that will be better. Look what horrific chaos these emotions are. I want them gone. I want to be a machine.
No hopes, no dreams. I want to be as cold and functional as the Ronin blade I was sharpening earlier.
Reciting blade types always calms down, and I start running through my favorites. Le Picoer is a favorite pinky ring blade, I love my wickedly curved La Griffe, then you get into get into your folding knives like the Buck, one of the best known folding knives in the world. My eyes get heavier and heavier, falling shut as I recite them.
Straight razors can make a wicked clean cut, but the Bowie knife’s a classic for a reason. Then there’s the Ka-bar… and Randal knives…
I sit up, blinking, and lift a hand to shield my eyes from the bright sun. There’s soft grass beneath me. I immediately come to attention, jerking to a sitting position and looking around. I’m in paradise.
How the hell am I back here? Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming.
I slap myself hard across the face, but it doesn’t wake me up.
“What the hell,” I whisper, standing up. Obviously, I’m dreaming. It’s just a really realistic dream, and my memory did an excellent job of recreating the place.
Right down to the smell wafting from the fruit trees on the nearby hills. Usually, my dreams aren’t so vivid. Though, what do I know? Maybe my dreams are always so vivid when I’m in them. I just can’t remember them when I wake up.
I look down at myself. You’d have thought my dream self could have been more imaginative in its dream attire than what I went to bed in, but whatever. Camo pants and a black shirt will have to do. I tug off my black socks to feel the soft grass between my toes. Since I’m here, I might as well enjoy it. Anything’s better than how crappy I felt before I fell asleep. I tilt my face back and roll up my sleeves to feel the sun on my skin.
And then I feel a—
A tug. Low in my guts. Like before, but also not. I turn and look towards the hill. There’s a cluster of bright souls, one standing alone, a little apart from them.
A woman, I think. She’s far away, but it seems like she’s looking. . . in my direction. There’s something familiar about her I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Mom?” The cry comes from my throat, and I stumble toward her. Then I’m running, sprinting across the grass. She comes toward me, too, a calm, slow walk, but definitely in my direction.
