Page 52 of Sharpen Your Claws

A tear fell to drip off Robert’s chin. “No, William, no.”

“I am not the son you remember. I returned broken and you cannot stand the sight of me.”

Robert reached out a hand. “That isn’t it at all.”

He retreated. “Isn’t it? You needn’t lie to me. I cannot stand the sight of me, either. I hate who I have become and so desperately wish I could return to the boy you and Mother and my brothers so loved. I am trying, Father, as hard as I can.”

Robert grasped his shoulders, then his shaking hands fell upon his cheeks. He clutched his father’s wrists, feeling every shake and unsure of who they belonged to.

“You misunderstand,” Robert said, tears shaping his cheeks. “And it is my fault. I have done wrong by you, more than I could ever make up for.”

“You have never done wrong by me.”

“I have,” he insisted.

William had never seen him look so lost. Robert had been their family’s greatest foundation for most of their lives. When his grandparents died, Robert made sure his grieving wife and family had everything they could ever need. When Robert lost his parents, he didn’t hide his sorrow because he wanted his family to know it was okay to mourn. If the king made a call he didn’t agree with, Robert stood his ground, and if the boys ever bickered, their father was there to set things right.

“I am the reason you were taken and forced to live through all that you did, and it is my greatest shame,” Robert whispered.

“That was the king,” he argued.

Robert’s tone carried regret. “I stood up to the king knowing he could hurt us, but I should have expected he would have gone after you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He knew Robert carried guilt, but not to such an extent, and he wished he wouldn’t. “If you hadn’t, no one would. I do not want you to regret speaking sense to him. You have done well by all of us, by people who will never know you because you care, and that makes me proud.”

“I am glad for that, but it doesn’t absolve me of this,” he slammed a hand against his chest, hard enough to bruise. “This guilt I feel every time I see you flinch or wake in the night screaming or how you hesitate to walk into every room until you know all your exits.”

William sucked in a breath.

“I have picked up the little things you do day by day,” Robert explained. “And I dare not ask why you do it. I doubt I would understand even if you explained because I will never fathom what you went through, and that pains me all the more. As your father, I am meant to protect you, to give you the best life. Instead, I have given you pain like no other.”

“I wish you wouldn’t blame yourself for that,” he said.

“And I wish you would know how grateful we all are to have you home, that we love you.”

He couldn’t breathe for a moment, then his words came out a whimper, “If you knew all I had done, you would think differently.”

“I wouldn’t,” Robert interjected, stern and true. “You survived and survival is often cruel. I don’t care what you did, so long as it led you back to us.” Robert pulled him in before his first tear fell. He held with a fierce grip that William returned. “I am sorry. I never thought you would think like that.”

His jaw trembled as he buried his head in the crook of his father’s neck. He felt like that boy again, running to his dad after a nightmare, safe and secure in a pair of arms he believed could take on the world.

“I will get your mother.” Robert followed his wife, leaving William in the garden.

He knelt by the flowerbed to continue Matilda’s work. The staff would have done so, but he needed to keep his mind off the conversation Robert would have with Matilda. He need not be there to know her tears, her desperate pleas to keep him home, and the shakes. They were awful and were no longer only for him.

It’s as if his appearance opened the floodgates. Matilda had this need for all her children to be home. Perhaps to have her family together as it once was. When the boys left, even if it was to reside in their own homes, Matilda’s hands shook terribly. She’d wake in the middle of the night, worried that she wouldn’t see her sons soon or ever again.

The war hurt many in ways none could fathom.

He stayed in the garden for a long while before Robert retrieved him. Breakfast was ready and they would eat together. William dreaded seeing Matilda after, no doubt, a tough conversation. He tried to ignore her sniffles throughout breakfast, trying not to focus on how red her eyes had become from tears. They did as Robert suggested and spent the day together, acting like nothing was changing.

William and Matilda worked on a knitting project in the library for a while. Little was said, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign. He merely did his best to comfort his mother throughout the day. She hadn’t mentioned him staying. By the evening, she kissed him goodnight when saying, “Be careful.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can. I promise,” he swore.

That did little good. Matilda whimpered and hurried to her room for a night of unrest. William wouldn’t have slept even if he tried. He spent the night ensuring he had enough supplies packed, including food, water, herbs, and rolls of cannabis. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use them, but considering what they were doing and where they were going, that hope meant nothing. The supplies sat in the foyer while he went to his room, where he tossed and turned during the remaining twilight.

Then the sun rose, and he went downstairs. He double checked his belongings, including the worn satchel he hadn’t planned to use again. That satchel saved many lives throughout the war. Days after he woke in the hospital, he had the energy to look through his belongings. The satchel laid there, bloodied among his worn clothes. He never had the heart to toss it because, as many poor memories that it carried, there were good ones, too. Times when he made it in time to spare a life, saw them walking around camp a week later as if nothing happened.

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