By The Moon's Blade

3. Grasshaven, Six Months Ago

He's sent so many people here over the past few days. Not the whole village, maybe, but enough to make me feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable. Somehow, their presence has made the hole in my chest feel bigger. It's too much. I stare up at the ceiling, dreading the day ahead.

I rub my fingers on the tooth around my neck, feeling the cracks within the enamel, trying to let it ground me into my purpose. But every day becomes more of a struggle. I'm fighting an invisible enemy, and losing. Something grips at the edge of my brain, thrusting my head into clamp that seems to tighten every day.

I want to believe that my father's heart is in the right place, that he's doing what's best for me. But all I can see is someone trying to force me into some sort of perfect box. I just want to be left alone. My mind flashes back to the night I spent in agony over the fire, struggling to breathe while my father held me silently.

But, this feeling is different. The anxiety is one thing, but this pit of despair is something entirely different altogether. The inky blackness I find myself facing is something that no one could ever hope to rescue me from. All I have is myself.

The door creaks open and I sit up from my bed. I watch my father walk in and Maroka following close behind. Her kind eyes are enough to make my stomach rise with nausea and I feel those defenses flare into place. I don't need anyone's pity. She shuffles in slowly and my father shuts the door behind her. He pulls up a chair and sets it next to the far end of my bed, gesturing Maroka to take a seat.

"We don't have much, but could I go get you some tea or something?" my dad asks Maroka. He already knows my answer, I guess.

"No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, Ayduin," she responds, an edge of caution in her otherwise friendly tone.

My father nods and sits down at a chair next to her. He's not making eye contact with me.

We never really did make up from that fight. Whether it's out of pity, remorse, or a mix of both, his eyes are always tinted with the same sorrow. I don't want to hurt him, but he has never and will never understand.

Maroka turns to me, "Hi Rozi, dear. I haven't seen you in a while. Are you alright?"

Her face is soft, her wrinkles clearly defined around her mouth, gentle smiles making a permanent indentation within her skin. Her silver hair shines delicately in the light of the lantern on the table but the twinkle in her eye is weakened, almost as if this pit is sucking out all of her remaining life.

"I'm fine."

I'm lying. And she knows it.

"You don't have to lie to me. It's okay to not be okay."

The words feel like a swift punch to my stomach and I find my lungs hungry for air. But I refuse to let them see me break under the pressure. I will my face and body to remain still as I look into her gold-flecked eyes.

Maroka watches me intently and I can almost see the gentle smile break. She's noticed something. I've buried the tooth beneath my shirt, so I can't help but wonder what she sees. But we match our consistency and character and refuse to let anything show through. Perfect actors putting on the greatest show.

"I'm sure that's true, but I'm fine."

I fake a smile, as genuine as I can muster at this time. The corners of my cheeks gently curl up into a slight crescent. My lips begin to crack and bleed with the sudden stretch of skin. I savor the iron tang of blood as I lick the dryness away.

She seems a bit unsteady at my actions and the gentle smile she has been wearing begins to dissolve. The mask has started to erode.

"I don't want to be dishonest, but your father sent me in here. He's worried about you."