Disclaimer: I'm only playing in Pat's beautiful playground.
Chapter 6: Refuge
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I awoke hours later in a cocoon of warmth, nestled in the thick blankets of Father's childhood bed. It was morning, and sunlight streamed through the window with all the harsh brightness of a new day. My chest felt almost unbearably heavy and my head hurt terribly, but the sun was too bright to go back to sleep. I struggled weakly to my feet and padded out into the kitchen, the blanket trailing behind me along the rough wooden floor.
Grandmother was sitting at the small table with a steaming cup, and she looked up as I approached, her lined face breaking into a smile.
"How are you feeling?"
"Okay," I mumbled, sliding into the chair beside her. I pulled the blanket tighter around me as I stared around the small room, making eye contact with everything but her. "Where's Grandfather?"
"At Timmon's," she said, lowering her cup back onto the table. I felt the vibrations running along the wood until they brushed my fingertips. "Your father's there as well, bargaining for bits. Timmon was the one who came out to treat you last night."
"Oh," I whispered, guilt stabbing through me, wild and hot. Father had spent more money on me, after all the nobles they paid to Eamon. I had thought leaving would be best, and I hadn't even managed a day on my own. I'd only made things worse. My arms began to shake, and I pulled the blanket tighter around me, drawing in a shaky breath that didn't seem barely enough. I tried again, but the air felt thick as jelly.
Grandmother let out a weary sigh and got to her feet. I heard her bustling around as I stared at the rough grain that spilled across the tabletop, my thoughts a guilty, terrified whirl as my lungs struggled to draw in enough air. She appeared at my shoulder, placing a steaming mug in front of me. The vapor had a minty scent that somehow soothed my lungs as I breathed it in. I reached out, clasping both hands around it, and brought it slowly to my lips. It was bitter, but warm and soothing all the same.
"Timmon left that for you," Grandmother said, and I glanced up to see her watching me from her reclaimed seat across the table. "The tea is good for your lungs. Make sure you drink it all."
I nodded, taking another small sip. It burned my throat a bit on the way down, but a little pain was nothing compared to freely taken air. My lungs had betrayed me often enough in my young life that I had come to fear those moments like other children feared demons. A fear I had forgotten in the face of my heavy grief.
"What happened, child?" Grandmother asked, after I had been silent for a long while, staring down at my half-drunk tea.
I shrugged. I could feel the familiar prickling at the edges of my eyes and I blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling.
"Your poor mother nearly lost her mind when you ran off like that yesterday," Grandmother said gently, and I stared guiltily down into my cup, refusing to meet her eyes. "Searched high and low for you. Your father and grandfather too. We had half the neighborhood looking. Tehlu hold me, we didn't expect you to turn up here. Why did you come?"
I shrugged again. A silent tear rolled down my cheek, breaking off to land on the table below. I stared at where it had fallen, watching it momentarily darken the wood.
"Are things bad at home?" Grandmother pressed.
I glanced up at her then, wide-eyed, and finally met her gaze. Her eyes were warm; light blue and crinkly around the edges — the same shade as Father's, though larger and more inviting. Father's eyes had looked something like that once, before everything with Denna wore him down and they became perpetually cloaked in shadow.
"I thought so," she said gently, nodding to herself. She reached across the table, laying her warm, withered hand atop mine. "Losing Denna… it's a hard thing. Life can often be cruel, child. I'm sorry you've come to know this side of her so soon."
"Everything's so empty without her," I whispered. "Even Mother and Father…" And then I was off, talking more than I had talked in days. Telling Grandmother tearfully about mother's grief and father's silence, and my own sadness and anger.
"I'm making it all worse," I admitted, through a heavy torrent of tears. "I say cruel things I don't mean, and I can't stop, Grandmother. It's like a demon's taken hold of me. I'm sure Mother and Father both hate me. They'd be happier if I weren't there."
Grandmother firmly shook her head, her eyes sharp. "That isn't true at all. Your parents love you. Harlan's always had a habit of withdrawing when things grew difficult. And your mother is in terrible pain, but she loves you so. She spent half the night watching over you while you slept."
"Still," I whispered. "I can't go home…"
"You surely could, child," Grandmother said. "I think your parents will miss you terribly otherwise."
"No," I said firmly. "They won't. I made Mother cry. I'm horrible."
Grandmother sighed again. "You are the last thing from horrible, I promise you. Listen to me. Grief can drive a heart to terrible things, and you are far too young to be well-versed in its defenses. Your mother surely understands this and will not hold it against you. You said hard words, child, but a short apology can go a long way. Do you understand?"
I nodded, biting back my lip to try and stem the tears. She made it sound so easy. But the thought of facing Mother filled me with a terrible dread. I looked away, pulling at a loose thread on the edge of the blanket. My heart seemed to be fluttering like a trapped bird in my chest, the frantic beating of its wings making my whole body tremble.
Grandmother was silent for a while, considering me. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle. "You have the entire world on your shoulders, child. Tehlu knows, it's hard to bear." She sighed. "It pains me to see you so at odds with your mother… and far be it from me to meddle, but perhaps a short time apart would do good for all of you. You can stay here for a while if that pleases you. Until things are settled. Let's say through the holidays… but no longer. Then you must return and put things right at home."
"Really?" I asked, my face lighting up. "Oh, Grandmother, thank you! I'll do all sorts of chores. The dishes, and the cooking. And I'll clean…"
Grandmother smiled drily. "I rather think I won't turn over my kitchen to a child just yet. But you can certainly join me. I'll show you how to make a proper pie."
We made short work of it after that. Grandmother spoke with Grandfather and Father when they returned from their meeting with Old Tim, and they agreed it would be best if I remained for a while.
Father lightly kissed my forehead and promised he would bring over my things if this was truly what I wanted. Too torn to speak, I could only nod. Mother stopped by shortly after, her clothes dusted with specks of white powder and a small case of my clothes in her hands. She gave me a watery smile and made some attempts at asking me to come back home, but her heart didn't seem to be in it.
"I miss you," she told me gently, sitting beside me in the kitchen as she brushed absently at a white spot on her skirt. "The house is empty with you gone."
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, glancing down guiltily at my hands. "I'm sorry I'm so…" I trailed off, frustrated. Tehlu, I felt awful. Why was it so hard to find the words? "I reckon we all need"— I paused, thinking back to what Grandmother had said before adding wisely —"time apart."
Mother frowned but didn't contradict me. She twirled her smokestone ring upon her finger in silence, her dark eyes a bit shiny, and then slipped it off and handed it to me across the table.
"It's held together with binding knots," she said softly, echoing words her own mother had once spoken. "Take it. And remember that I love you. All right?" Her voice choked up slightly on the last word, and my own eyes teared up.
I nodded, closing my hands over the ring, still warm from her touch. Mother reached out and brushed a hand lightly against my cheek.
"Little bird—" she began, and then stopped herself, as if remembering our last argument. She paused before continuing. "I understand that you don't want to come home right now. It's okay. Don't apologize. Your bed will always be there for you, whenever you're ready. Anytime."
"Okay," I said, my voice small. "I know. I promise."
She gave me a sad smile and pulled me tight against her chest, holding me there for a long moment before she finally turned to leave. I watched her go, guilt snaking through me. When she was gone, I glanced down to see a dusting of white powder pressed against my shirt, where Mother had held me. I brushed my fingers against it.
Flour.
She had been baking.
I nearly grinned with sudden relief. I had only been gone a day, and Mother was baking pies. I had made the right decision after all. Perhaps things would be back to normal much sooner than I anticipated.
It was a silly notion, and I was foolish beyond words for entertaining it. And I can blame my youth, or my frozen, fractured lungs. Or simply my utter stupidity. But it never even crossed my mind that she might have been baking — waiting — for me.
Days passed, and High Mourning was finally upon us. Encanis and his horde of demons descended on the streets, clad in masks and swirling black robes. I wasn't able to enjoy it at all as next day I awoke with a terrible cold. Old Tim was called upon once more, and he returned quickly, bringing more tea and small packets of medicine, which Grandmother brewed for me. I spent the next few days confined to my bed, struggling to breathe, with nothing but time on my hands. Time to dwell on the painful thoughts that cut me from the inside. To ache for Mother's embrace. To make attempts at half-formed apologies that always fell short, like bridges built of stones without mortar. They would never hold.
After all, what could I possibly say to Mother that would repair the hurt I had caused her? Nothing seemed good enough.
By the end of High Mourning, I knew two things with unshakable certainty. What happened to Denna was no one's fault. Not Father's, and certainly not Mother's. This tragedy we had to live with now was simply life. And as Grandmother said, life could be horribly cruel. We were on a new path now — one without Denna in it. Losing her had shattered the ground beneath our feet, and now our footing was uneven. Rougher. And we were standing still in the wreckage, circling the cracks while night fell and we groped through the dark. We would have to rebuild it, stone by stone. Blindly at first, until we could see the shape it was taking. And only after we did so would we be able to walk forward once more.
But more importantly, before I could lift a single stone, I would have to apologize to my parents, because — despite Grandmother's long talks about grief and how it could shape our actions — I had been a horrible brat. And Mother didn't deserve that. It didn't matter that I was young or naive or that my heart was in pieces and my words were sharp as knives without it whole. I was the one who had broken our family. Denna hadn't chosen to leave after all — had been fighting for family until her very last breath. No, I was the one who gave up.
I had to make it right. I had to come home.
But knowing you must do something and doing it are two very different things. It had always been Denna who had been brave. Took risks. Flirted with danger. Her belief unwavering until the very end. Without her to lead me, I had no idea where to place my steps.
If there is one thing in my life of which I'm most ashamed, it's how long it took me to find my own courage. But like everything else, I did it too little too late.
When I was finally strong enough to wander the house, it was nearly the winter solstice.
Grandmother looked up from the dough she was kneading when she heard me enter the kitchen and smiled in my direction.
"Nice to see you out and about."
"I got tired of laying around." I smiled a true smile — one so honest I could feel it tug at my eyes.
"Come, help me make bread for supper." She beckoned me with a heavily floured hand, and I joined her at the table, sinking my hands into the warm dough. It felt squishy beneath my fingers as I rolled it against the table. The motion reminded me of cooking with Denna, but my mood was light enough just then that it made me smile instead of crying.
"Did you see much of the pageantry?" I asked. That reminded me of Denna too, but that was okay. I was in a remembering mood.
"Tehlu banished a group of three young demons right outside the front garden yesterday," Grandmother said, turning to the stove and piling it with several logs from the firewood stack. "One tried to steal his cloak while he was distracted. Made it half a dozen feet before Tehlu caught up to him. Quite troublesome, the young ones." She gave me a smile that tugged at the wrinkles on her face. "Mind, they haven't met you."
"Grandmother!" I burst out, not sure if I should be amused, upset, or offended. "You haven't seen the main event yet… I'm sure Encanis is a much bigger troublemaker than me." I hoped, anyway. Was I as bad as all that?
"That may be," she said, glancing over my shoulder and shooing me away from the bread. "That's well enough. Run and get that towel, child."
I collected the towel and handed it to her, watching as she transferred the dough into a bowl. She covered it and placed it beside the warming stove before brushing her hands on her apron and turning to face me.
"But I suggest we skip the main event this year."
"You don't want to see Tehlu banish Encanis?" I was aghast. Denna and I had always, always watched Tehlu banish Encanis. I couldn't imagine spending Midwinter's Day any other way.
"It's unseasonably cold this year," Grandmother said, looking me over. "And you are barely well. I won't have you running off through the streets in a mob."
"But—" I began.
"Hush," she said sternly. "Don't argue. It doesn't suit you. Besides, I have asked your parents here for dinner. It is the end of a long and difficult year. Let us spend it together and see if we can't just put our own demons to bed before Thaw dawns upon us."
I was silent then, my harboring anxiety fluttering to life. Father had stopped by to check on me over the last few days, but Mother had not come to see me while I was ill. I was sure she was still hurt by my words, avoiding me as surely as I had avoided her. My fever had left me burnt out and weak. Almost unbearably lonely. I was aching to see her. But I still had no idea what I would say once we were face to face.
But Grandmother was looking at me expectantly, and I could do little but nod.