Chapter 65 #3
The attacks in Sophos, Meros, and Umbros had rattled them deeply, and they feared doing anything that might draw Ophiucae’s attention. They were convinced they could stay safe as long as they stayed out of sight.
I reminded them, with increasing fervor, that their place in the mountains was more precarious than it seemed. One strike of Ophiucae’s magic (or one well-placed rebel bomb) could bury them in a tomb of snow and stone.
I reminded them that their silence would not spare them from an enemy who judged them for who they were, not what they did, and that Ophiucae would come for them eventually—and when he did, there’d be no one left to save them. I reminded them that being the last to die still left them dead.
I reminded them that courage is a virtue.
But I was unpersuasive. The centuries they’d spent in search of enlightenment had left them no better, wiser, or kinder than any other selfish human who feared their death. In the face of self-preservation, their piety gruesomely transformed.
Restraint is a virtue, too, they insisted. It’s righteous to protect our own instead of risking their lives for those who do not share our ways. The Blessed Mother called us to isolate for this very reason.
I’d lost the letter from their late King, and in its absence, they insisted my interpretation of his cryptic words was wrong. Even what the goddess Montios said to me on the island was dismissed. A personal calling for you, they claimed, not an order for us.
The peril of giving every person a voice was that sometimes, the worst ones spoke the loudest.
The more I rebuked them, the further they entrenched.
With their minds made up, and with my singular vote on their council too small to make a difference, there was nothing I could do.
The worst part wasn’t knowing that if I failed, their deaths were inevitable—it was knowing that if I succeeded, they would take it as proof their choice was the right one, and they would never change.
Dejected, I flew back to Lumnos, my frustration simmering into something more complex. Months ago, I’d scolded Henri for saying that change could never come without violence. Now I was shouting at people to fight. I wasn’t sure if I was the one who lost my way, or if Henri had been right all along.
When I landed, my mother and brother were waiting.
I put my disappointment aside, and we held each other’s hands as we walked the long miles back to Mortal City, telling stories about Andrei along the way.
We did our best impressions, barking out his favorite lines—which, so often, were the bits of wisdom that had guided me through my hardest trials.
We fell quiet as we turned down the footpath to the blackened circle of earth that had once been our home. When we reached Andrei’s gravesite, Teller held our mother close, I clutched her hand, and together we let our tears flow for the man who had comforted us, protected us, loved us, chose us.
He gave up everything for me and Mother, even though we didn’t share a single drop of blood. For Andrei Bellator, love was enough to call us family, and for his family, he would do anything. Sacrifice anything.
And though he wasn’t perfect—who was?—gods, was I proud to bear his name.
I knelt on his grave, and I finally let go of the strength I’d been trying so hard to maintain.
I let myself feel it all—the grief, the anger, the loneliness, the fear.
I let myself mourn all the lives I wanted but couldn’t have, futures where Andrei was alive, Ophiucae was good, and Luther and I didn’t have the Kindred’s curse standing between us.
And I also let myself hope. Against all reason, I let myself believe that somehow, some way, there might still be a happy ending for us all.
Because hope was a spark. And sparks, when nurtured, could light a fire no darkness could overcome.
With that spark cupped fiercely in my heart, I led them down the river to the house Luther had built, and we wept all over again, this time with tears of joy.
We planned our post-war antics: Luther and Teller fishing out on the sea while Mother tended the garden and I lost myself in books.
We debated which of us Taran would insist on joining, and wondered whether his massive body would capsize Father’s boat.
We planned dinners in the yard and holidays by the hearth, surrounded by the loved ones we’d collected from so many different walks of life.
As we did, my anger at the Montios Descended slowly turned to pity.
Their isolation might have given them temporary peace of mind, but it had robbed them of this beautiful, precious thing that could happen when you opened your heart to a world that was different than your own.
We talked, we apologized, and we forgave. Not all families stuck together, as we’d so painfully seen, but Bellators did. For Andrei, and for ourselves, we did.
And when we made the long walk back to the palace, I realized that somewhere along the way, I found the place where I belonged, and it wasn’t in any realm or building.
Home was people.
The people who chose me, scars and all.