Chapter 7 #2
Her lips parted, but no sound came. The tears didn’t fall this time—they only clung to her lashes, gleaming with the light from the hearth.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered. “I only wanted you to believe you came from something good.”
“Good?” The word tore out of me, jagged and shaking. “You call this good? You made me a lie.”
She flinched, one hand rising to her chest as if to hold herself together. “Please, Lazarus… I can’t—”
“You can’t what?” I snapped. “You can’t speak his name? You can’t face what you did?”
“Stop,” she said, voice breaking, her back turned to me. “Please.”
“I deserve to know who he was!” My voice cracked, echoing through the small room.
“Every man deserves to know where he comes from—what blood runs in him!”
“Enough!” she screamed, the sound vibrating through her fingers as she covered her face. “I can’t, Lazarus. I can’t!”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why keep it buried? Why let me live as no one’s son? Why lie—my whole damn life?”
“Lazarus!”
Amara’s voice cut through mine. She was suddenly between us, her hands on my chest, her eyes wide and pleading. “Please,” she said softly. “That’s enough. You’re home now. Let it rest.”
But I couldn’t rest. The anger was too deep. It clawed its way up my throat like fire.
My mother stepped back, shaking her head. “I can’t look at you right now,” she whispered, voice fractured. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Mother—”
But she was already gone, slipping through the door, her shawl trailing behind her like the last thread of something unraveling. The sound of her sandals on the dirt faded into the morning air.
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
Amara’s hands still pressed against my chest. “Lazarus,” she said quietly. “Please. She’s just—hurting.”
I laughed under my breath—a sound without joy. “Hurting? You know what I’m hurting from, Amara?”
She didn’t answer.
“My whole life, I believed my father was a war hero,” I said, voice shaking. “A soldier who died for this land. I wore his name like armor. I fought for it. And now I find out—”
“Lazarus, stop—”
“He could’ve been one of them,” I spat, the words breaking as they left me. “One of the men who came through that door. One of the faces I saw when I was a child.”
Amara’s eyes glistened. “You don’t know that,” she said softly. “You don’t know anything yet.”
I stepped back from her. “I know enough.”
She reached for me, but I was already moving—past the table, past the hearth, toward the door.
“Lazarus,” she called softly.
I stopped, my hand on the frame. The light outside was harsh, almost white. It burned against the haze inside me.
Amara’s voice wavered as she came closer. “You’re tired,” she said, her hand brushing my arm. “I’m sure you haven’t slept in days. Please. Sit down.”
I didn’t answer. My chest felt too tight to speak.
She stepped in front of me, her eyes searching mine. “You’ve just come home from war. Let today end here, my love.”
Her words were soft—not pleading, not scolding—just steady, the way only she could be. “I’ll draw you a bath,” she said. “You’ll rest. Eat something. When the sun sets, things will feel lighter.”
I wanted to believe her.
But belief felt like a foreign thing now—a language I’d forgotten how to speak.
Still, when she took my hand, I didn’t pull away. Her fingers were warm, trembling slightly, as though she feared I might vanish if she let go.
“All right,” I said quietly. My voice sounded distant, hollow. “A bath.”
She nodded, relief flickering across her face. “Good. Just rest. Tomorrow will be better.”
I looked once toward the open door, where the wind carried the sound of sandals in the distance—my mother’s fading footsteps.
Then I turned back to Amara and let her lead me inside.
* * *
The sun hung low over Ugarit, spilling its last light across the clay rooftops.
The heat had begun to fade, but the air still carried the sting of salt and smoke.
I stood outside the house, sandals sinking into the dirt, staring toward the fields that stretched pale and wind-stirred beyond the village walls.
The quiet should’ve soothed me, but it didn’t. My mind still echoed with my mother’s voice from that morning—her shaking hands, her refusal to speak my father’s name. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way she’d looked at me, as though the truth itself might shatter us both if spoken aloud.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the sea. That was when I heard it—the steady rhythm of hooves against stone, coming fast down the road.
I turned toward the sound, frowning. No merchant rode that hard at this hour.
Dust lifted from the path in a golden haze, and through it, a figure appeared—cloak snapping in the wind, horse heaving and slick with sweat. Even before I saw his face, I knew.
Salvatore.
But something in the way he rode made my stomach knot. Reckless. Desperate. Like he was being chased by something unseen.
He reined the horse to a hard stop in front of me. The animal snorted, foam dark on its mouth, eyes rolling white. Salvatore’s hands shook as he gripped the reins, his breath coming rough.
“Salvatore—”
“Don’t,” he rasped, swinging down from the saddle.
The leather straps groaned; his sandals struck the earth hard enough to raise a puff of dust. He looked…
ruined. His tunic clung to him in tatters, linen dark with sweat, grime, and streaks of blood that had dried to rust. His hair, once bound back with pride, hung loose and damp against his face, brushing the short beard along his jaw.
His eyes—dark-blue, fever-bright—burned beneath the grime, a light caught between fury and despair.
The air around him reeked of horse, dust, and salt—but beneath it lingered something sharper—the scent of shame, and the echo of rage that had nowhere left to go.
I stepped closer. “What happened?”
He lifted his head slowly, eyes hollowed by exhaustion. “My worst nightmare,” he said, voice raw. “It’s over now, Lazarus.”
For a heartbeat, the world went still. Even the wind seemed to pause. Then his shoulders sagged, heavy as if the weight of his house and his father’s wrath still pressed upon them.
“My father disowned me,” he said, each word dragging like a wound reopening. “Forbade me from using his name. From claiming his blood.”
His gaze drifted toward the barley fields, unfocused, as if he were staring into a pit too deep for light to reach.
“He found out everything,” he went on, quieter now.
“The demotion. The men I failed. Helena. Every disgrace laid bare before him.” His jaw tightened until the muscle jumped along the side of his face.
“He said I am no longer his son. Stripped me of my name, my title—of everything. I have nothing now.”
I swallowed, stepping forward before the silence could turn to something worse. “Come,” I said, slipping an arm beneath his. His body sagged against me, heavier than armor, heavier than guilt. Together we crossed the threshold into the dim light of the cottage.
His tunic brushed my arm—stiff where the blood had dried, warm with sweat beneath it.
“Don’t worry, Salvatore.” The words came before I could stop them, too fast, too eager, as if I could will them true. “It’s time for new beginnings, yes? We won the war. I have gold now—enough for us both. We’ll share it. We’ll find our way. Together, brother.”
The promise hung between us, as fragile as a spider’s thread trembling in the wind.
We stepped inside the cottage, and the air was thick with the scent of rabbit stewing over the brazier. Smoke coiled toward the low ceiling, clinging to the plastered walls.
Amara turned from the hearth, knife still in her hand, the edge glinting in the lamplight. Her linen tunic brushed the packed earth as she moved toward him, eyes wide. “Salvatore—you look like ruin itself.” She set the knife aside, reaching for him. “Sit. Let me see your wounds.”
He flinched back, the motion almost defensive. “I’m fine, Amara. Don’t waste yourself on me.”
I studied him in the dim glow. The swelling along his jaw had already begun to purple; blood crusted along his temple. His hands were torn raw across the knuckles, the skin split from striking something harder than flesh.
“You sure about that?” I asked quietly. “You look as though the cliffs themselves threw you back.”
He gave a hollow laugh, then winced at the pain it stirred in his ribs. “My father and I fought,” he said at last. “Not with words.”
My chest tightened. “He struck you again?”
Salvatore’s mouth curled in something bitter. “He beat me bloody. Fists, shouting, blood on the floor. He disowned me after. Said I was nothing to him—no longer his son.”
The room fell still. Even the stew quieted on the brazier, the bubbling fading to a low hiss, as though the house itself held its breath.
Amara cleared her throat. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, voice steady but threaded with determination. “Why don’t we all get away tonight? To the shore. We can eat under the stars. With both of you home again… we should celebrate your return.”
Before I could reply, she was already moving—quick, purposeful.
Her sandals whispered over the reed mat as she took the pot from the brazier, spooned the rabbit and herbs into clay bowls, and wrapped them with linen to keep them warm.
She tore flatbread from the stack on the table, bound it with a strip of cloth, filled a small jar with wine, and packed it all into a woven basket.
The motion of it—the quiet urgency—felt like a spell to drive sorrow from the room.
It was a good idea. After what had happened this morning with my mother’s refusal to speak of my father, and after Salvatore’s fall from grace, the thought of the sea felt like a reprieve.
When we stepped outside, twilight had deepened into indigo. The first stars shimmered above the rooftops. The night wrapped itself around us like a lover’s arms as we made our way toward the shore, a single torch lighting our path.