Epilogue
EPILOGUE
Flames clawed at the night sky, painting the world in shades of amber and gold. The fire's glow bathed our small gathering, illuminating the faces of those few my mother had allowed into her life. Malcolm and Sue flanked me, their presence a silent bulwark against the crushing weight of grief. Lachlan and Anika hovered nearby, while Stephen and Cade stood just off to the side. A small gathering, but meaningful. Wasn't that better?
Before us, the pyre devoured my mother's wrapped body. In our world, shifters were denied the luxury of burial. No graves for us, no markers, nothing. What we had was this—a bonfire, a final blaze of glory to send off our dead.
The baker had done his job well. Herbs and cloth enshrouded my mother, fuelling the flames that consumed her. I couldn't see her, but I felt her presence. It whispered on the wind, brushed against that dark membrane of emotion I could never fully penetrate but always sense. If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe she stood beside me.
I didn't cry at my mother's funeral. Didn't fall to my knees. I stood, unflinching, letting the heat of the flames sear against my skin, as if it could burn away the hollowness inside me.
One by one, the others drifted away. Bodies take time to burn, and no one expected us to stand vigil all night. But I couldn't move. When the fire died and only ashes remained, they'd be scattered. A name and stone in the garden would be all that remained to prove she'd lived, that she'd carved out some kind of life here.
Malcolm was the last to leave my side. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, a solid presence allowing me my silence.
"I was so stupid," I finally choked out. "I?—"
"This is not your fault." Malcolm's voice cut through my self-recrimination.
"Isn't it?" The words scraped out of me, harsh and bitter. "If I hadn't met Tia, if I hadn't?—"
"You can't live your life on 'ifs'." Malcolm's tone brooked no argument. "Your mother's death was not your fault. You know this, and she would tell you the same. Your father chose his actions, not you."
"But my father would never have found me if?—"
"Do you think you and your mother would have evaded him your entire life? Your parents made their choices. They own them, not you. You own yours." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Tomorrow, you and Stephen ship out for the Sentinels. It's a new chapter, a chance at a fresh start."
I stuffed my hands in my pockets, blew out a breath that misted in the cooling air. "It feels like betrayal of my mother."
Malcolm's hand landed on my shoulder, warm and grounding. For a few moments, he said nothing, the crackling of the dying fire filling the silence.
"I might not be your father, Raven," he finally said, his voice low and intense, "but you've been part of my family since the day we picked you and your mother up. You will always be part of it. So, forgive me, but I'll speak to you as I would my son."
His grip on my shoulder tightened, forcing me to meet his gaze. The firelight danced in his eyes. "You have a choice here. You can live a life filled with bitterness and regret. You can be angry at your father, angry at yourself, and wallow in self-pity, seeing this as your fault. No one would blame you for that."
He paused, his eyes boring into mine. "Or ... you could live the life your mother wanted you to have. She gave up everything for you, not just when she died, but when she left her pack. She made her choices out of love for her son. You have the choice to honour her gift, to live the life she dreamed for you."
I heaved in a breath. Not sure I could allow myself the latter choice.
"It's up to you, Raven," he said softly, squeezing my shoulder one last time before letting go. "It will always be up to you."