Page 99 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I enter my old home, the wooden floor groaning with every step I take, as if this house can tell my presence will only bring pain. That I will only rip open old floor boards—old wounds.
I agree with the house’s prediction, as if it’s a sentient being. As such, I don’t waste time.
“Isa and Freyr,” I say, staring up at my father. “I need to know what you know.”
The words are out. They cannot be unspoken. All the times he told me to let it go, he failed.
Pa rubs the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “This? Again?”
“Yes, again,” I reply, my voice firm.
Thisalways.
“It isn’t your problem,” he mutters. His words are barely audible, yet they’re heavy enough to hit.
My feet move back before my brain can catch up, disbelief crashing in.Not my problem?Whoishe? My chest tightens, and my hand twitches, ready to jab a finger at him, to scold him for his indifference. But I stop.
I use my words, the way I always have.
“If I know, then itismy problem,” I say. “You taught me that.Mataught me that. If you know there is evil to come, and you don’t stop it, then you are allowing it.”
My eyebrows furrow as I watch him carefully.
He shakes his head, not looking at me—not allowing me to meet his eyes. I would feel too much. I wouldcontrolhim, he must think.
How little of me he must think.
And yet he knows I’m right. It’s the most basic of philosophy—of Ma’s lifework. Or what I thought was her lifework.
If we don’t stop Folkara, if we don’t stop this Weapon, we become complicit.
But he doesn’t care—not nearly enough. It feels like I’m talking to Lucian again. It feels like this entire universe only cares about themselves.
But this is mydad.
He has to be better than this.
He has to be my pa, who held me in his arms as a child. Pa, who kissed my scars. Pa, who picked me up when I fell.
Whoever is standing in front of me now looks just like him, but he does not feel like him.
So I offer him the same treatment I offered Lucian. I give him pieces of information, praying that it will be enough to clean his lenses.
“Ilyria is involved.”
He tenses, and I work hard to keep from following.
It doesn’t work. My muscles tighten from heel to spine.
He wasn’t aware. Was Ma?
Ilyria is cold. Ruthless. From the outside, we’re expected to believe that Folkara runs the show. That Folkara aids the lesser planets, and Ilyria aids themselves. That Ilyria had no skin in the Neptharian War. No say in the treatment of the Nepthenes. ButPa knows what I have learned, what Ma must have learned at Visnatus as well—that Ilyria is the true tyrant.
Folkara has, and always will be, second to Ilyria.
I know Pa—Ifeelhim. He wants to keep the peace. He longs for tranquility, like most Eunoia.
That’s why he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have a good word to say.
