Caesaria

XIV

He'd steeled himself, expecting to see his mother behind the bedroom door. In the back of his mind, he struggled over what to say, whether it be an apology, a greeting, or if he should even speak at all. His relief was palpable when he saw it was only Lucy, propped up by pillows in the candlelit darkness. Hers was a ghostly pallor, opposed to his own warm and earthy skin. The scrapes and bruises on her face were blatant, yet healing. He was glad. But petrified.

"Jackie..." she said, rubbing her eyes. Her long black hair was a frizzy rat's nest. That was nothing new. "Oh. Oh, should it hurt to smile?"

He laughed a little. "You're lucky if that's the worst of it."

"Ugh, my whole head hurts," she said, eyes closed softly. Then, eyes opening into a perplexed, joking glare, "Why are you just standing there? Come here!" she said, unbroken arm outstretched. He could see her jaw clench painfully, her eyes narrow into little peepholes. But it all became blurry as he staggered to the bed, collapsed next to her and began to sob.

She was always gracious. She was always good. She returned all of his apologies, absolving him, freeing him from his terrible shame. A shame, she said, that he should never have felt. I fell down the waterfall. I slipped. I am the one responsible for me, not you. Never you. He fought and argued with her through his snot-nosed mumbling, and she held him in her lap for as long as he went on, no matter how much it may have hurt her.

"None of this," she said, with her unyielding stare, "none of this was your fault."

"I should never have brought you there. If I hadn't --"

She almost laughed a little, something that almost made him mad. How can you laugh? You almost died, and this is funny to you?

"It was my idea, Jackson."

"Yes, and I listened to it. I should've said no."

"It doesn't matter," she promised.

"But it does, Lucy, by the Spirits, it does!"

"You know I'll never agree. So don't bother arguing, big brother, I'm a thousand times more stubborn than you are."

He sighed, shaking his head, wiping his fleeting tears. He'd cried himself dry. With a scoff, he said, "I guess that's good news. At least you're still yourself."

"I hope so."

"Do you... well, remember it all?"

"Most of it. It's coming back, slowly. I remember slipping in the water."

He nodded. "On a rock. Coated with algae."

"That's what dad said. But the fall itself is a blur. He said you found me in a cave. With a man."

"Yes. I did."

"I remember him. I think. Golden hair."

"That's him," he grimaced.

"You don't sound too... pleased. Dad said he's being held in the Barrows?"

"I wouldn't really know. I've been gone these past few days, since you fell," he said; then, quickly, "I was scouting. You can never be too careful with Outlanders. Where there's one, there's almost always another."

She placed a hand on his. "Alright, where'd you actually go?"

He rolled his eyes, then smirked a little at her. "To that gnarled tree, the big oak with all the twisted roots. Near the Canyon edge. The one dad used to take us to. Still scouting. But not really."

She smiled. "You don't have to hide the fact that you were praying."

He shrugged, blushing. "I know you don't believe in it."