Page 100 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
It’s a mistake. A Weapon is the opposite of peace.
I think of Azaire, of his gentle hands and strong heart.Hewants peace too, but he wouldn’t forsake the worlds to get it. He wants peace, and he knows that in order to obtain it, one nation cannot have a Weapon capable of destroying the rest.
I meet Pa’s gaze, narrowing my eyes. “When did peace become complicity?”
“This isn’t complicity—”
I cut him off. “On some level, it is. Ilyria and Folkara have a Weapon that Ma helped build. When does thatnotbecome, in some way, our responsibility?”
“If Willow were alive, it’d still be hers!” he shouts, his voice cracking as he finally lets go of the reins he’s held so tightly, releasing all the control he’s struggled to maintain.
The blame—still clinging to him, still faulting me for Ma’s death—leaks out, like sap from a tree, tangling in my hair. It isn’t as heavy as the weighted guilt I carry, but it’s still too much to bear.
Every bone, every muscle, everycellin my body collapses.They can play at forgiveness, but they will never win. Those were Terran’s words, and this is them in action—the final battle. This is when I lose. Because it’s all about him—the blame. And it’s all about me—the guilt.
We both can feel each other.
What a feeling for a sore soul.
I force myself to stand taller, pulling myself together despite the weight of it all. “And what was she doing to stop this?” I ask. “What’s going to happen when Ilyria and Folkara can power the Weapon?”
“It’s not our problem,” Pa says again, his voice tight with frustration.
I’ve never felt him so angry, never seen his face so slick with sweat.
I’ve never been so disappointed in a parent.
“It will be. Tomorrow, next year—at some point they’re going to use it.” I point a finger in his direction. “If you don’t stop it, then you’re condoning murder.Genocide.”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes hollow, sharp with spite. Is he thinking of Ma or Xander? The murderIcommitted, not him. The accusation fills his eyes before he can even speak. I respond before he can give it a voice.
“I was ten!” I shout. Tears well in my eyes. “If I had any idea what would’ve happened”—my sobs catch in my throat—“I would’ve never…”
I would’ve never touched Xander.
Pa stumbles back, shaking his head. “I wouldnever.” His voice shakes. “I would never use that against you.”
But he thought it—and we both know it.
He steps forward, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. I sink into him, into the comfort I’ve missed for so long. I miss him.
Minutes pass—minutes of crying, of being held.
Then he speaks, his voice soft but steady. “Take off your gloves.”
I pull back slightly, startled, ready to ask what he means, but before I can, he adds, “I need to see what this means to you.”
“But you don’t have to touch me.” I shake my head. “All you need is eye contact.”
He gently cradles my cheek, smiling, though the sadness is evident in his eyes. “We aren’t all as powerful as you.”
I stutter, my words catching. “But I-I can’t—I can’t touch you—”
“I’m your father, Wendy.” His tone is warm, despite the tension. “Of course you can.”
All I hear is that he’slistening.
If he sees what this means to me—beyond words, beyond explanations—maybe he will understand. Maybe he willhelp.
