Chapter 30 - Ashes Between Us

(Caring Mother)

*

The fire is gone, but still I burn, in dreams that drag the night to ash, where echoes of a child's lost cry still bloom like bruises in my chest.

You sit beside me — small and fierce, your hurt a blade I cannot blunt. And in your voice, I hear the storm of all the things I failed to hold.

You ask me why I chase the wind, why ghosts still pull me from your light. But how can I forget the son whose name still scars the quiet nights?

You are here, warm breath and bones, but love is cruel when split in two. I gave my heart to both my stars — and lost one in a sky that fell.

Your anger breaks, and I am shattered, not by hate, but love grown wild. You tremble in my arms again, a storm no lullaby can calm.

And though I stay, though I return, I see the question in your gaze — Am I enough to keep you here, or will you chase what slips away?

I do not know.
But still, I stay.
I hold you close.
And let you cry.
And pray, one day,
we’ll both be whole
beneath a sky
no longer burning.

*

---

"Was it the same nightmare?"

Adonis’s voice floated through the haze, soft but impossible to ignore. I didn't answer. The words stuck somewhere between my throat and my chest, thick as smoke.

The fire still clung to me — not in flesh, but in memory. I could feel it: the burning air scraping my lungs, the crackle of wood splitting apart, the weight of ash settling into my hair, my skin, my soul. I pressed my palms into my thighs, grounding myself in the now, in the worn fabric of my trousers and the chill that clung to the early morning air.

Without another word, I heard the creak of Adonis’s chair as she stood. I listened to the gentle shuffle of her feet moving across the wooden floor, the soft clink of a cup being set down, the faint crackle of magic as she whispered a spell under her breath.

The scent of crushed herbs and warm water drifted toward me. Sharp, earthy, almost metallic beneath the clean heat of the steam. A moment later, I felt the weight of the cup press into my hands.

"Here," Adonis murmured, sitting beside me. "Drink. It’ll calm you."

I lifted the cup to my lips, letting the warmth kiss my skin before I dared a sip. The taste was bitter and wild, like the smell of wet stone after a storm, but it was real. It pulled me back into my body, piece by piece.

Adonis sat close enough that I could feel the familiar comfort of her presence, like an anchor holding me steady against a tide I hadn’t realized was still pulling me under.

After a long moment, she spoke again, her tone lighter but beneath it, I heard the careful hope threading through her words.

"I've been working on a new spell," she said, fingers drumming softly on her knee. "Something stronger. Something that might bypass the restrictions keeping us from finding him."

I froze, the cup halting halfway to my lips.

My heart, battered and scarred, thudded once, hard enough to hurt. I turned toward her slowly, afraid to believe but unable to stop the spark flaring to life in my chest.

"You..." My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, tried again. "You think it’ll work?"

Her smile was small but sure, as if she already knew the answer. "I wouldn't say it if I didn’t believe it."

I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, letting that fragile hope seep into the hollow spaces inside me. If there was even a chance— even the slimmest sliver— I would chase it. I would tear down mountains and bleed the earth dry if it meant finding him.

Adonis must have seen the resolve in my face, because her expression softened, some of her own tension draining away. She reached out, her hand resting lightly against my armored shoulder. The metal was cold, but her touch was not.

Before I could speak, the floorboards above us creaked.

Anne descended the stairs slowly, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. Her nightdress hung slipped off one shoulder, and her hair stuck out in wild, untamed curls.

She blinked at the two of us, her voice rough with sleep.
"Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Aunt Adonis."

Adonis smiled warmly and patted the empty space beside her. "Good morning, little mouse."

I set the cup down carefully, the lingering warmth bleeding into the worn wood of the table.

Anne’s gaze drifted downward, catching the glint of my armor in the early light. Her brow furrowed.

"Are you going to look for my big brother again?" she asked, voice small but heavy with meaning.

I knelt so we were eye level, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. "Your aunt is working on a spell," I said gently. "One that could finally help us find him."

Anne’s nose scrunched. Her hands tightened into small fists at her sides.

"But Mama," she whispered, glancing between us, "maybe we should stop looking..."

The words hit me harder than any nightmare.

Anne hesitated, then pushed on, her voice cracking slightly.

"We don't even know if he's still alive." Anne continued, her voice trembling just a little. "Maybe it's better to let him go..."

The room felt suddenly colder, the warm steam of the herbs forgotten. I stared at her — at her youth, her innocence, her fear — and for a moment, I didn’t know whether I wanted to gather her into my arms or shout against the cruelty of time.

Instead, I simply breathed, the ache settling deep into my bones.

A silence fell between us, heavy and aching.

Anne stared at me, her bottom lip trembling, her small fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

I opened my mouth, searching for something — anything — that would soothe the hurt I saw etched across her young face.


But no words came.

How could I explain it to her?


How could I make her understand the hollow place inside me that would never heal until I found him — my son, her brother — the boy whose laughter used to fill my heart with joy, whose absence still lingered like the smell of smoke in the ruins of a home?

I reached out slowly, but before my fingers could graze her, Anne flinched back, her voice rising sharply.

"We don't need him!" she cried, her face crumpling.
"We're fine without him!"

The words struck me harder than any blade could have.


I recoiled as if burned, my hand falling limply to my side.

Adonis shifted beside me, setting down her cup with a soft clink, opening her mouth to speak but Anne whirled toward her, fury burning in her teary eyes.

"And you!" Anne snapped, her voice raw and shaking. "It's your fault! Ever since you gave Mama that stupid blue necklace, she hasn't been the same!"

The air seemed to crack around us, tension pulsing like a second heartbeat in the room.

"You took her away from me!" Anne’s voice broke into a sob.

"She barely smiles anymore... She barely looks at me sometimes! She's always lost somewhere else, chasing ghosts!"

Each word drove deeper, tearing through the armor I wore more easily than any sword.

I wanted to tell her she was wrong.


I wanted to gather her into my arms and swear she was everything to me — my anchor, my light, my hope in the endless dark.

But another part of me the part still bound by a mother's love that had no limits, no expiration date couldn't let go of the son I had lost.

Tears blurred my vision.


Through the distortion, I saw Anne standing there: small, fierce, broken.


My little girl.


The one who had never known her brother, and yet had carried the weight of his absence her entire life.

The cup in my hands shook.


The steam rising from it seemed to blur the edges of the world, smudging the lines between past and present, love and grief.

Adonis reached for Anne, her movements careful, her voice soft.


But Anne jerked away from her too, turning toward the stairs, her breath hitching with each step.

For a long moment, no one moved.

The only sounds were the low crackle of the hearth and Anne’s retreating footsteps, each one echoing in the hollow spaces inside me.

The door slammed behind her like thunder cracking through my chest.

I stood there, silent, the echoes of her words still clinging to the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear. My hand trembled as I brought the cup to my lips, only to find it cold.

What was I doing?

My fingers curled tighter around the handle. Then I exhaled, slow and sharp, and handed it back to Adonis without a word. Her fingers closed around it gently, and though she said nothing, I felt the weight of her concern pressing into my back as I turned and walked away.

The hallway stretched long and quiet. Each step I took felt heavier than the last, as if grief had seeped into my boots.

I paused at our room door.

My knuckles hovered for a moment.

“Anne?” My voice was barely a whisper.

Then I knocked — not hard, just enough to be heard. A rhythm soft and uncertain. A heartbeat trying to find its match.

No answer.

I opened the door.

The room was dim, heavy with stillness. Anne sat on the far end of our bed, arms crossed, her shoulders pulled tight. Her jaw was set, her glare sharpened to a blade the moment our eyes met.

But I didn’t flinch.

I walked in without asking, and the door clicked shut behind me. My armor whispered against itself with each step as I crossed to her, then slowly lowered myself beside her.

I didn’t speak. Just letting the silence stretch between us, taut and fragile.

“I’m sorry,” I said at last, my voice low, brittle at the edges.

But before the words could find their way further, Anne’s breath caught in her throat. Her chin quivered, and the fury in her eyes shattered like glass under pressure.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, Mama,” she whispered, barely more than a breath — raw and trembling, like it had been clawing at her from the inside.

I stilled.

The weight of those words was so small, so quiet… and it shattered me.

She wasn’t angry because she didn’t care.

She was angry because she cared too much.

Before I could speak, she folded forward, her hands flying to her face as tears streamed down.

I reached for her, slow and deliberate, and this time she didn’t recoil. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, holding her tight against my chest. Her shoulders trembled. Then the dam broke.

Anne buried her face into the hollow of my shoulder and sobbed. Her fists balled into the fabric between the plates of my armor, and I felt the sting of her tears bleeding through to my skin.

I wrapped my arms around her tightly, Like she was five years old again and I could still fix the world with an embrace. Her body trembled in my arms, shaking so hard I thought my own heart might tear in two.

I brushed a hand gently through her hair, slow and careful, the same way I did when she was little and her nightmares came in waves. But this wasn’t a child’s fear. This was heavier, deeper. It had roots now. Grown from too many nights I’d left her behind chasing ghosts and shadows.

“I’m right here,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say. Not knowing if that even meant anything anymore.

She didn’t respond but her hand clutched at my arm, gripping it in a desperate fistful like if she let go, I might vanish again

My heart broke quietly.

Because she was right.

Every time I chased the shadow of my son, I left her behind in the light — waiting, watching.

And she was. She always was.

But a mother’s heart is never whole when one of her children is missing. No matter how much love fills the part that remains.

I closed my eyes.

Held her tighter.

And let the silence speak for me — all the things I couldn’t say. All the wounds I hadn’t healed. All the guilt I couldn’t scrub away.

There was no fixing this with soft words.

Only staying.

Only holding on.

And even though she didn’t say it, I could feel the question lingering in her breath — why wasn’t I enough to keep you here?

And that was the one I didn’t know how to answer.