Scales and Swords ✓

68: Grace

Why do we fear the night sky when we have the stars and the moon? Why do we allow darkness to hold our attention and overlook light? Why do we care more for what we don't have rather than what we do have?

Perhaps its beacuse, when we close our eyes we only ever see a blank nothingness and when we wake we try our very best to make up for what we lack. But is that all there is to life, constantly seeking for something to compensate the void within us? And at what point can we sit back and say, "this is all I'll ever need."

Perhaps that is why life is so brutal. Because everyone's fighting to find and keep the things that fill their darkness. Then does that make life any less worth living?

I'd disagree. Because once we recognize our infinite hunger then can we seek our infinite sustenance. Though it may bring little, but even little is something and once we appreciate even the tiniest things life becomes every bit worth it. I'd like to think that's what my real parents thought. That I was worth it. That however small I was, I could bring a little bit more light to the world.

Uta certainly lived such a life. A life worth living. Appreciating every bit she had been given, even the broken and jagged things. Even the murk and mud. Even a child whom she knew the world would hate. Even me.

One life lost. One given. Isn't that just how the world works? It just isn't big enough for all of us. Death is natural. We only fear the unfamiliarity of it. That was what she told me. But she forgot to mention that death hurts like a punch to the gut.

The pain threatened to cripple me. But I didn't dare cry lest I fall apart. I couldn't allow myself to not when I had been entrusted with someone as precious as the moon itself. So I stood and I left, holding her gingerly in my arms. She didn't cry and she didn't fuss. So new to the world and yet so calm.

We were greeted by a herd. They knew the moment they laid eyes on Tsiho and I. They rushed past us, tears streaming down their cheeks, a wail on their lips. An elderly woman arrived last, coming up to greet us. She caressed Tsiho's cheek with a wrinkly finger and gazed at the newborn.

"What were her last words?"

I didn't realize the old woman was speaking to me until a moment later. "She asked me to remind Tsiho every day of how precious she is." Only then did I recognize the weight of Uta's last words.

The old woman stepped back and stared up at me, her brows creased. "Do you realize what that means?"

I shied away from her gaze. "I know I didn't deserve to be the last person she spoke to. If she'd known who I was she wouldn't have said so."

"She knew," the woman said, "we all knew." My heart crumbled under the impact of her words. "The child's father has been taken as well. We can only hope he lives. We will respect Uta's last wishes but if you don't trust you are capable, we can always take her in."

"She trusted me," I faltered. After every thing I had done and she still thought I was worth it. I promised not to cry. But this newfound knowledge crushed me.

Yet another shrill wail rang through the air and kept me from crumbling. For her wail signaled the end to another life.

I watched as Cyr, Nareem and Dolce strode into the community hall.

"Let me take the child. You go bid your last goodbyes."

Although I was reluctant to let her go, I eventually handed Tsiho to the old woman and found my way to the community hall. With each step I wondered who I'd bid goodbye to next.

It's a strange thing to wonder who among your friends have died. Relief flushes through you to know some have survived but heartache is promised regardless.