Page 25 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Only now do I realize I’m looking at a willow tree in the garden. More specifically, a single leaf on the tree. At the lighter shade of green that marks its veins.
I look at him to ease his desperation. It makes mine worse.
“Did something happen while I was unconscious?” Azaire asks. He really wants to know, to fix it.
I can’t let that happen.
“It’s not that.” Looking him in the eyes is killing me, but I endure the steady slaughter. “It was my mistake.”
“Mistakes are still your choices,”the boy says.“You get to make them, and you’re making the proper choice now.”
“Okay,” Azaire answers.
The way I feel—whether it’s Azaire or me—isn’t good. It scarcely is. Emotions are fickle, even the okay ones are easily demolished. The not so okay ones tend to get worse with time.
I would like to say something more—I have something more to say. Alas, my vocal cords have frozen.
I rise, turning to the door and prepared to walk through it.
Until a hand catches my wrist, oddly strong for a boy who could’ve been on his death bed this morning.
He would have been, if it weren’t for me.
I turn to face Azaire, and he meets my gaze. His mouth hangs slightly open, eyes wide. His skin nearly brushes my own—but my long sleeve stops him.
“Don’t go,” he says.
I know he doesn’t need my healing. This is about a yearning.
Still, I ask, “Do you need me to stay for something?”
“No,” he murmurs, tugging me closer to his bed. “Just don’t go.”
I look down—at his hand on my glove, nearly touching my skin—and all I can do is numbly nod.
“Okay.”
?
When Azaire’s fallen back to sleep, I feel bad for leaving. But I don’t turn around. There’s something I need to do, something I’ve put off so I could heal Azaire. For days, I’ve ignored the flooding thoughts each time the tide brought them in. Ma, the monsters and Arcanes, the woman who was taken to The Void: everything Lucian told me but couldn’t explain.
Today, I’ll get answers.
I go straight to my suite, resting my hand on the mirror in my bedroom and visualizing my old home on Eunaris. Portals are the only means we have of traveling between worlds, but they’re not without danger. You need time, patience, and clarity of mind to open a portal properly. If you don’t, you could get stuck between the mirrors—between worlds—and no one knows what happens after that.
There’s only one mirror in each town on Eunaris—one way to portal in and out. And I haven’t been in years. I concentrate on the sensory details: the groaning wood, the sweet scent of flowers, the view from the community garden—rolling mountains, roaming animals, and ranging greens.
The mirror vibrates beneath my hand, the glass rippling like water as an image of my hometown begins to replace my reflection. It stretches to match my height, and with a steady breath, I step through.
The moment I cross, the air shifts, thick with the warmth of the place. I’m immediately engulfed by the heady scent of orangeblossoms and violets—Ma’s favorites. It could turn cloying with the memories, if I let it. But I have to hold on to what’s left.
The community mirror is just past the gardens, and I walk through them to make it home. It’s a graveyard of memories. Only, all the good ones have withered away into the one. I hold my breath, shunning the scent.
The home where my brothers and father reside is small compared to what we have at Visnatus Academy, but it looks as I remember. Everything is made of dark wood: the kitchen, the tables, the chairs, and stairs.
I feel sick to my stomach at the sight. All the memories it holds. The last time I set foot in this house, Ma’s body was split in two. Dismembered, never to be put together again. The gore covers my eyes, coating the world in thick, iron-scented red.
As I double over, refraining from puking, I know that this is entirely my own feeling—the grief, nausea, and guilt—-untainted by anyone around me.
