These Barren Lands

Chapter 9

When Mama died, I couldn't be consoled. Finn would let himself into Hygge palace every night and hold me while I cried myself to sleep. Everything hurt. I couldn't imagine a world in which I deserved to live while my mother didn't. How could I have such privilege when hers was taken from her by some twisted stroke of fate?

I tried to run away from home, convinced that if Mama wasn't there, I didn't want to be there either. I didn't eat for days at a time because I didn't have the energy or desire. I slept for huge chunks of time, and when I wasn't sleeping, I was crying or disassociating.

Finn couldn't console me so he just kept me company.

Kept me from succumbing to the same fate.

So, why didn't I feel anything now?
How could I stare at the headless body of my father—the man who used to swim around with me on his shoulders singing "Ride a Little Seahorsey" and hide behind corner just so he could jump out and scare me—and feel nothing?

His body was flat against the blackened ground, one open hand flat against his bare chest and the other in the grass beside him. Deep red blood was pooling. It shone bright against the already discolored grass, creating a gory sort of blanket under him. It was all coming from the morbid stump that was his neck.

His head...

Where was his head?

As panic balls up in the center of my chest, I start to pat the grass around him. The blood splatters up my arms as I foolishly look for it.
That's my first hint that maybe I'm not numb.
I feel something. That something just so happens to be idiocy.

I hear the heavy footfalls before I see the boots. The squelching sound they make in the mud makes my hair bristle. Someone gasps softly, swears in Anjordian, and steps back again. I'm on my hands and knees in a pool of blood, searching for my father's severed head. I know exactly how this looks.

"Help me," I shout at whoever is standing over me. There's a hint of desperation in my voice that I'm a little ashamed of. "I need to find it!"
No one moves. I grab Papa by the shoulders and hoist him onto his side. Maybe it's under him? All I find is bloody mud. So, I gently lower his body back down and start searching through the nearby foliage. Someone nearby vomits.

"Help me!" I snap again, not looking up.

A short distance away from where Papa's body landed, there's a nest of briars. Their thorns are glinting from the water that poured over them when the ice melted. At one point in time, the vines had flowers on them, but the battle either fried them or the frosty mornings did.

Maybe that's where Papa's head went.

I crawl towards them, ignoring the way my knees sink into the mud, the way my uniform is now soaked through with hot liquid, the way my hair is glued to my forehead. Gritting my teeth, I shove my arms into the thorn bush. Its sharp teeth bite into my skin, shredding the sensitive tissue, but I don't pull them out. Instead, I feel around for hair—beautiful golden hair that I used to practice my braiding skills on, that reminded me of the color of a soft winter sun, not too bright and just what you need.

Plus, the pain centers me.

It reminds me that I'm alive.

But I don't deserve to be. They do. Not me.
Why am I always the one who survives? Why can't She have taken me instead for once?
I jump when two hands land on my shoulders. The sharp movement drives the thorns into my arms, and I gasp in pain.

Good. I deserve worse. I let them both die. I wasn't strong enough to protect them.

"Ari," a soft voice says. It's deep, masculine, meant to be calming.