Page 70 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Azaire doesn’t respond—not verbally. But his thumb, resting gently on my hand, traces a soft stroke over mine. All while his eyes become a storm of emotion. Too much, too powerful, and I make the mistake of not looking away. My grief sets a forest aflame. Like watching my childhood home burn down and realizing I lit the match.
It’shis.
The anger I feel at his emotion is irrational.
What happened to peace?I want to scream.Where did that go?
“What is it?” I manage to ask him.
For once, Azaire is the one to look away from me. “I didn’t mean for you to feel that,” he mutters, dropping my hand.
I laugh, but it is no more than a breathy scoff. “I feel it all.”
“I know.”
“I wish you didn’t.”
“I’m glad I do.” His stormy eyes meet mine again. He tries to smile, then he shrugs. He works to balance his emotions, sliding along the scale until they settle. “I like knowing you.”
My form deflates as I release a deep breath. I lose track of time in his eyes, in his emotions that are overflowing like the rivers when it rains.
I feel guilty for ever wanting to bring the boy to life when a real one stands before me.
“Tell me what I felt.”
What is your grief, Azaire?
Why do I know it so well?
Azaire shrugs, shoving his hands inside his pockets, cheeks reddening. “How about I tell you when you tell me?”
I pull my lip between my teeth, nodding. It’s fair. I’m cryptic. If he’s going to share with me, he deserves the same in return. But I’m not ready.
“Fair,” I say.
We both know I won’t tell him, not right now, and Azaire takes the opportunity to say, “Lucian isn’t here. He’s training.”
I glance toward Azaire’s room, although I don’t need to. I can already feel it, someone’s presence, and it’s not Kai.
“Yuki is here,” I state—Lucian’s training partner. Is Azaire lying to me?
No. I’d know it. And he wouldn’t smile like that. It quickly lights up his whole face. He’s intrigued that I could tell Yuki was here, though not surprised.
“Lucian’s training with Desdemona,” he clarifies.
“Oh.”
I sit on the couch, taking a deep breath. Azaire lowers himself beside me, his knee brushing mine.
It’s devastating to shudder at the smallest of touches. But I am devastated. I glance at Azaire, who seems to know exactly what’s churning inside me. Who feels it too.
And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have it—love, connection, companionship. If I’ll forever be trapped behind the bars of my own making. Or, more adequately, my power’s making.
I wonder if bringing the boy to life, even with the pain it would cause, is the best thing for me. Even if my body is overtaken by thorns, even if it rips me apart. But that kind of thinking is an even deeper devastation than staring at Azaire—a boy I know I could love—and choosing to run instead.
I stand. I think about telling Azaire that I care for him. That I’m runningforhim. That I’m a mess that he need not tangle himself in. That I don’t want him caught in the danger I’m running toward.
Instead, I leave. Like a thousand times before.
