Chapter 19 Too Much Skin in the Game #2
Like she’s under my skin, unraveling me, digging into my core. I know it’s her. Or, at the very least, it’s her prophecy pressing against me, begging to be seen.
To be answered.
Today, it’s unlikely I’ll get those answers. Instead, I’m pressing on for the Weapon. This time, completely alone. I won’t share what I find with Azaire, and Lucian hardly seems to care these days.
That’s fine. Alone is what I know. It’s how I’ve always survived. I’ve carried every discovery we’ve made so far, like boulders across a mountain. I’ll keep doing so.
I have to.
I knock on the open door to my old home, calling inside, “Pa?”
He appears, smiling, though his weariness betrays him. “Wendy.”
He opens the door wider, inviting me inside, but the tension between us lingers. He still carries the residue of our last meeting, and so do I.
What a shame. What a freeing shame.
There is no reason to tread carefully.
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.
This always.
“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? Who is he? 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 it is my problem,” I say. “You taught me that. Ma taught 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 would control him, 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 my dad.
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.
But Pa 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—I feel him. 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.
It’s a mistake. A Weapon is the opposite of peace.
I think of Azaire, of his gentle hands and strong heart. He wants 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 that not become, 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, every cell in 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 murder I committed, 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 would never.” 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’s listening.
If he sees what this means to me—beyond words, beyond explanations—maybe he will understand. Maybe he will help.
I pop the button of my gloves, and Pa steps back, nodding. If he sees for himself, he might answer, finally answer. I pull the left glove from my palm.
He’s older; he must be stronger. He’s my father. I am half of him—his power is half of mine. He must know how to deflect.
I pull the right glove from my palm.
Still, I steady my shields around myself, trapping the beast inside me behind bars. Holding my magic back as much as I can.
And I hold out my hands.
Pa grabs them, closes his eyes, and for a moment I only feel… me. For a moment I see it, my goal for the Weapon and all the ways it isn’t altruistic. All the ways it’s just a little girl calling out for her mom, one last time. A last plea to remember her.
Then it all goes away.
Stripped like the pigment of fabric, bleached by the sun.
I open my eyes, realizing now I’d closed them. He’s doing to me what I swore never to do to others. A vow I’ve broken, and now my empty promises are being repaid.
My hands struggle to break free from his grip.
“Pa.” My voice shakes. “Don’t. Please don’t.” I keep tugging, but he won’t let go.
He won’t let go.
I can’t let go.
Don’t make me let go.
“I’m sorry, Little Thorn.” He meets my gaze. “But from here on out, you feel nothing concerning the Weapon, or your mother’s involvement.”
He drops my hand.
For a second, I’m angry. Blood boiling.
And then I can’t remember why I didn’t want to let go.
I can’t remember how I felt at all.
The world is a haze, as if a cloud has settled before my eyes. Blankly, I stare at Pa. He hugs me, asking, “How do you feel?”
My gaze drifts past his shoulder, settling on the ashen wood stacked in the fireplace, behind the green couch.
“Nothing,” I tell him.
It’s not the right answer, but it’s the only answer I can figure out.
“You are missing a piece of yourself, but I am still here,” the boy says, as if he could feel how lost I’ve become. As if he wants to be my map.
“What’s happened?” I ask him.
“It is time for us to move on.”
The walk through my hometown is a daze, like walking through a cloud, but somehow the water clings to me, making each step heavy. Pa leaves me at the community mirror, and I portal back to the academy. It feels like there should be something more I want to do.
I walk to Azaire’s room and knock on the door until he opens it. He thinks something is wrong—can tell something is wrong—but I don’t know what’s wrong. Yuki sits on his bed, and I look past him, crashing into Azaire’s arms. His body holds me up. I’m this tired?
Azaire pulls away slowly, holding onto my face. My cheeks are in his hands, and his eyes search mine as he asks, “Wendy?”
I feel like a blank slate, waiting to be filled.
“Can you keep holding me?”
Instantly, he pulls me back into his arms. His chin rests on the top of my head, and his hands weave through my hair, gently brushing back and forth. Softly, he kisses the top of my head, and I wrap my arms around his back, pulling him closer.
“Pa took it from me,” I say against his chest. “I think I should feel… something. Anything. Mad, maybe.”
“What did he take?” Azaire’s breath tangles in my hair.
“My emotion.”
This time, I pull away. I hold onto Azaire’s elbows. He’s my feet, my oxygen, my gravity. He’s why I’m standing here, upright.
Is this how I really feel about him?
I take it all in—the nothingness around me. Perhaps it’s a symptom of my getting used to the lack of what I once felt so deeply. I did feel deeply, didn’t I?
I can’t remember how I felt.
But I remember Azaire. I remember this feeling in my chest, in a different way. I remember how it felt in his chest.
This is how it feels in mine?
Like everything.
Like I love him.
“Wendy,” the boy warns.
I nearly heed the boy’s warning until Azaire snaps me out of it: “He didn’t take you.”
I let go of his elbow to touch his cheek.
“No one could ever take you,” he whispers.
My thumb brushes over his jaw, to his lips. It lingers there.
Azaire looks me in the eye as he calls, “Yuki?”
“Yep.” A moment later, Yuki walks past me, and the door closes, leaving Azaire and me alone in the room.
We sit on the bed, and my head falls into Azaire’s lap. I look up at him. The room seems brighter than usual. Something feels different.
“I think you’re it for me,” I whisper. My hand reaches back up to his face.
Then the fear settles in.
The first thing after love.
Fear is the opposite of love. Or it’s love intensified. You love someone so much, and it turns to fear.
What if I lose him, like Ma?
What if I hurt him, like Xander?
What if he hurts me, like my brother Terran? Like Pa? Like the universe?
Azaire’s hand is on my cheek. His eyes are sparkling. “I think you’re everything for me.” He smiles. “Not think. Know.”
“I know it,” I say. “I’m scared because I know it.”
He holds my hand in his. “It’s all right. There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“There’s everything to fear.”
I sit up abruptly. Is this what I felt for Ma, the Weapon, before my father took it from me? This fear? Is this what replaced it? My hands are shaking. I’m shaking.
I love you becomes I’m scared of losing you becomes I’ve lost you.
“Wendy? Just hold me. Okay?” Azaire reaches for me.
I take off my gloves for the second time today. I put my hands on Azaire. Hold him. I can do that. I can hold him.
I hold him. He is tangible tranquility.
He is peace when I’m in peril. I feel him. All I feel is him.
He is the love I’ve found in limbo.
There is no need for the boy when I have Azaire.
I breathe him in, every second that I get this touch. He’s all I want, all I need. How couldn’t I see it sooner? How much time did I waste in fear?
But Azaire’s not scared. For once, I’m not either.
My heart beats a little faster. It feels more like a hum. A high. I love you.
I dare myself to say it, to spit it out.
I open my eyes again, and he opens his.
Before I can say a thing, Azaire asks, “What happened?”
It’s a strange thing to lose feelings. I remember they were once there, yet I cannot feel what they were. I cannot even feel their absence. Something is missing, I’m aware of it, yet I am not searching for the thing gone.
“My dad made me forget my feelings about the Weapon,” I admit. Weapon. It sounds silly now—like a play on words. I lick my lips and look at the willow tree out his window. “I remember begging him not to, and now I can’t remember why I cared at all.”
“It’s okay.” Azaire nods through his disappointment. “That’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I say in realization. “Not to you… You want to save people.”
I want him to let go of the Weapon, too. He’s in a direct line of danger because of it.
He glances down at me, where I rest on his chest. “I want them to have the chance to save themselves.”
“All I want is you. You’re the only thing I can remember feeling.”
My face is in his hands again. His eyes race through mine, searching. “You have more than me, Wendy,” he breathes. “Don’t let him take it from you.”
The sharp pricking of déjà vu peels away at me. It’s Azaire’s.
But something else is mine…
Prophecy. Desdemona. Calista. Stone.
The end of everything.
Something beyond the Weapon, and perhaps worse.
That’s what I have. That’s what’s there. It’s all I can remember feeling. But it still feels faint. Even Ma.
Even her memory.
“The Weapon is gone,” I tell him. “I’m never going to care about it again, not the way I used to.” And I can’t tell him what’s left—can’t put him in more danger.
“That’s all right. Lucian and I will take care of it.”
I don’t care—I don’t want him to.
I say, “Okay.”