Fireborn

22 ¦ A Glimmer of Hope

As I made my way towards the cemetery for the Memorial, I watched mourners with dazed apathy. People hugged each other by the graves or gave each other reassuring pats on the back.

I walked alone.

A pained scream echoed across the field. Whipping towards the ghastly cry, I saw a middle-aged Risan woman fall to her knees before a grave of a third-year Healer. Another woman knelt beside her as they comforted one another.

Sometimes the wounds of the spirit are the hardest ones to heal.

My body felt heavy. So heavy. Too heavy to carry. In my darkest moments, I longed for my essence to float in the cosmos next to Peter and Bragda. Far away from here, peaceful and free.

Most of the past three days I spent in my bed, reliving the horrors of the past few days in my nightmares. I thought the Grieving Memorial would assuage the pain, but I was wrong.

When I caught sight of Alicia at the back of the cemetery, I halted mid-stride. She was tracing her fingertips over a bit of the Memorial Wall they'd erected for the countless dead that had never returned. Solid black marble. Relentless and daunting, the square monument protected our beloved dead, warding them from the evil Gatál who stood on our very doorstep.

My vision grew blurry as I walked past the vast sea of names. Thousands and thousands of villagers from every corner of the Neutral Zone. All those who'd died in battle from every class and race. All those who'd succumbed to injuries or disease. All those who'd committed suicide from grief or guilt.

No distinctions. No ribbons. No colors.

Death and war was the great unifier.

We all wore black that day.

As I approached, Alicia was tracing the intricate carving of Marcus' name with a piece of baking paper and black charcoal. Silently, I stood beside her, and she brushed her fingers over his name again and again, as though she were trying to cast a spell to bring him back to life.

"I saw Bragda's name," she whispered in a choked voice, leading me further along the wall.

Alicia sniffled and pointed to a name. There it stood along the top of the Wall, low enough that I could reach if I stood on my tiptoes. I touched it, feeling the rough marble of the carving.

Bragda Ironfist.

My sister was gone.

My breath caught in my throat, and Alicia patted my back. "It's okay, Liselle. You can cry."

Pressing my palm against the polished black marble, my Risan receptors detected remnants of all the pain and sorrow etched forever along the Wall's surface. It scorched my spirit with an inferno fueled by a million grieving souls.

You can cry. You should cry. Force it if you must, damn you!

But the tears refused to come.

I didn't feel sad.

I felt angry. Angry at myself.

A deep and utter loathing burned inside me, making me want to rip the universe to shreds and turn back time to bring her back. If I'd joined the Fireborn like Peter had asked--if I'd accepted Father's call--I might have been able to prevent this.

My own self-righteousness had led me to reject that calling.

And look what happened.

My insides crawled and twisted upon themselves as I leaned my palm against that wall, squeezing my eyes shut. My Risan receptors imbibed all the pain and anguish of the mourners around me, their emotions swarming around me like bilious smog.