Chapter 37
Warmth licked my skin, the sound of crackling wood burning in a fireplace nearby. I burrowed into the sensation, slowly opening my eyes as the aroma of a rich pipe tobacco my father used to smoke filled the room.
As a young boy, I loved tiptoeing into his study as he worked, watching him with reverent intent. He never looked up when I entered, but I always noticed the upturn of his lips as he heard the door creak open and the soft padding of my feet across the hardwood floor.
My father considered himself a collector of sorts. Varying knickknacks lined his shelves—rare finds he stumbled across in his travels, or gifts from foreign dignitaries. He never balked when I asked questions or begged him to tell me stories of how he acquired each one, not even if I had heard them a thousand times before.
I would sit on the worn rug by the fire as he plucked the object from its home and settled into his favorite leather armchair. He spoke purposefully, ensuring I understood the history while regaling me with tales that seemed fitting for fantasy novels.
Most items were older than we could comprehend, displayed atop deep-set bookshelves built into the wall. I modeled much of my style after his own; the mixture of dark wood and deep, jewel-toned colors quickly became my haven.
On the day of his funeral, Leonora had his room dismantled, turning it into a parlor she never used just because she could. Everything he loved had been removed, leaving no sign that he had ever claimed the spot as his own.
It was comforting, knowing that here, some things had been preserved.
“I had hoped to see a more wrinkled face, son.”
I slowly turned toward the voice, noticing a familiar figure lounging on the leather armchair across from me. He looked just as I remembered, with soft silver strands peeking through dark hair. His grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he studied me, running his hand down a neatly trimmed beard.
“Father?” I sat up, noting the lack of pain I experienced. “Am I?—”
“Dead?” His expression sobered before nodding. “You are.”
I hardly remembered what happened in the moments leading up to my death. Each memory seemed out of reach, placed behind a distorted pane of glass that did not make sense. “And this?” I asked. “Where am I?”
My father took his pipe and brought the curved stem to his mouth, burning the sweet tobacco inside. He savored the flavor, tipping his head back and sending soft smoke rings from his lips. “This is an in-between, of sorts. A holding place for those departed souls that have not yet found a home.”
My brows furrowed. “As in judgment?”
“Yes and no,” he said, setting the pipe on its stand. He twirled the smoke around his fingers, letting it dance between the spaces. “There are many reasons one may end up here, and that is but one of them.”
I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. “Will you always speak in riddles?”
My father laughed, the deep, rich sound making my heart long for the time we no longer had. “I cannot spill the secrets of the heavens,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I am merely a messenger with a morbid curiosity.”
“And what would that be?”
He tilted his head. “To meet the man my son grew to be.”
Shame crept in from the shadows, draping its bony hands over my shoulders like a leaden weight. It fed off my distress, knowing I would much rather take my failures to the grave. “I do not know if you will be pleased with what you find.”
My father crossed his ankle over his knee, settling into the leather. “Why not let me decide for myself?”
My gaze fell to my lap. “Because I would rather not sully whatever you have envisioned.” How was I to tell him of the atrocities I had committed during my lifetime? In his absence, I had let my mother poison my heart and mind, changing me into the very monster he never wanted me to become.
Despite my reservations, I allowed the kindness in his eyes to convince me. I told him everything. I let each act of brutality speak for itself, chronologically cataloging decades of abuse and undeserved privilege. It felt almost cathartic to speak of my actions, and I wondered if I craved atonement at his hand—if this confession could somehow cleanse my shadowed soul.
It was not until I uttered Calia’s name that I faltered, knowing the grievances I committed against her were perhaps the worst. I could already hear his admonishments, asking me why I had not learned from my mistakes with Corvina.
As I finished, I let my gaze fall to my lap. “I am so ashamed of my mistakes, Father.”
For long moments we sat in silence, the only sound coming from the crackling wood in the hearth. “Do you think I do not know you?” he asked. When I did not respond, he spoke again. “Look at me, son.” My eyes met his, reluctantly. “I know what is in here,” he said, touching his heart. “That is all I have ever cared about, and I can tell that has not changed, despite the horrible things you believe you have done.”
His jaw ticked as he glanced toward the fire. “I am sorry I was not there for you as I should have been. I allowed my work to take precedence over being a father, leaving you with that… creature, even when a sneaking suspicion told me to stay.”
“I should have?—”
“You were a child!” he boomed, throwing his crystal tumbler against the maple walls. Shards rained to the ground, soaking the floor below in rich whiskey. He pushed to his feet, pacing as he ran his hands through his hair. I saw myself in that nervous habit. “Leonora was often cruel—I saw signs of such more than a time or two—but I had not thought it would extend to you.” His distant gaze was saturated by regret, the evidence of a thousand lifetimes of worry swimming in their depths. “Not her own flesh and blood, her child.”
He placed his hands atop the mantle, gripping the rock in a white-knuckle grip. “It took everything I had to walk away from that manor the morning Jasper came to me and begged me to stay. Even then, I had underestimated Leonora’s depravity. I rationalized my actions with optimistic falsehoods, telling myself it could not be as horrible as he had said. Children feel their emotions with such urgency, you see. I remember the first time you burst into my office during a meeting. I could barely understand you through your tears, and I thought someone had died!” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Apparently, Jasper told you that dragons were not real.”
I remembered that. My father immediately stopped what he was doing and asked the council members to give us the room. He sat me on top of his desk and dried away my tears before sending me back to my room with a promise that simply because something was not real, it was no less important.
“I should have killed her,” he whispered, staring into the flames. His memories took him away, ushering him to a time and place that haunted him, even in the heavens. “I wanted to leave her in that chamber until her body consumed itself and she was nothing more than a pile of bones and dust.”
Swallowing past the rising bile, I asked, “Then, why did you not?” I struggled not to let the slight resentment tarnish my time with him. There were so many things her death could have prevented, including his own untimely demise.
He closed his eyes and hung his head, battling my demons as well as his own. “I do not have an answer that either of us will deem acceptable. My inaction has caused untold damage, and I have been forced to live with that. Even now, I am reminded of my failures as I look at what they have done to you.” He pushed away from the fireplace and walked toward me, dropping to his knees. “Do you think me worthy of forgiveness?”
“Of course,” I said, voice breaking from the effort of keeping my emotions at bay. I clasped his hands in mine, noticing the slight tremble. “Her choices are not your fault.”
Though weakly, he smiled, and I knew what he had done. “Then why do you not extend yourself the same grace?”
It should not have been such a difficult question to answer, yet I found myself incapable of facilitating a response. Why was it so easy to offer kindness to others and so arduous to extend the same to yourself? My mind was severe in its judgment, often lacking the ability needed to see past my own flaws and self-loathing.
“Because I do not feel as though I am worthy of compassion. The things I have done?—”
He cupped my neck, bringing our foreheads together. “Are no more terrible than those done by others. You are a brilliant and tortured soul that carries the burden of unnecessary guilt. You must let that go, son. You must live your life without the culpability of others eclipsing you in darkness.”
I had spent my whole life at war with my mind, desperately clinging to the ownership of faults that kept me up at night. Even now, I heard my mother’s voice whispering in my ear, reminding me that I had failed everyone I had ever loved.
How was I to simply move past her words? It was instinct to shoulder the blame, something I did without question.
“When you return, promise me you will work on this, that you will try to extend grace to yourself as you have with me.”
I pulled back, confused by his words. “When I return?”
My father stood and nodded, walking toward his armchair, where two glasses of whiskey and pipes had inexplicably rematerialized on the table. My father winked as he handed me a crystal tumbler. “This place does have its benefits.”
Unease settled in as he handed one of each to me before taking a seat and pulling out a matchbox. Sulfur filled the space as he ran the red tip along the striking surface.
“It is not your time, son,” he said, dipping the flame into the tobacco-filled bowl. After three quick puffs, he passed it to me and repeated the process with his own. “I told you this was merely a holding space.”
I placed the stem in my mouth, tasting an errant curl of smoke. “If I am dead, how do I find my way back?”
He smiled. “Fret not. You will have a guide.”
We sat in silence, decades of unspoken conversation between us. The thought of leaving my father when I had only just gotten him back terrified me. “Will I remember this?” I asked, gesturing around the room.
Will I remember you?
“I do not know, but I desperately hope you do.” My father ran the tip of his finger along the crystal. “I cannot watch you destroy yourself any longer, Rion. You must let the past lie, and look forward instead—to a future with your lovely wife.”
My smile came easily for the first time in what seemed like forever. “I wish you could have met her.”
He raised his glass, and I joined him in a toast. “One day, I will.”