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the-chaotic-christian · 6 months

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Candle in the Wind

Heather was used to not being able to sleep, she’d been an insomniac since she was a little child. But in Akolan, it seemed almost as if the city would not let her sleep. Yes, she’d slept before, a necessity for her wounds to heal, but now that they mostly were, it was like a switch had flipped and her mind was no longer producing melatonin.

So she’d crept quietly down to the living room, where the last dying embers of the fire flickered and threw shadows against the walls. She hadn’t wanted to disturb her parents for a second night, much less after the news of Jacks’ selection to be sent to Morbin’s table as a grotesque meal for his warlords.

And by now, Heather was more than used to handling her pain alone.

She was the older sister, after all, and among her responsibilities to be a perpetual worrier and rule instigator was the keeping of her emotions and hurts to herself. Yes, she talked about Smalls, but not because she was looking to share her pain with others. She remembered and spread his story because it deserved to be told, and he deserved to be remembered.

Her gaze dropped from the fire to the sketchbook open in her lap. It wasn’t her’s. It was Smalls’. He’d shown it to her, blushing, once, but had been called away in the middle of doing so, leaving the little book with her. She’d meant to return it, but had forgotten and he’d never asked. She hadn’t even realized she still had it until she discovered it at the bottom of her satchel earlier that night when searching for a bit of ink she vaguely remembered throwing into it several weeks before.

She’d told him they were good, because they were.

“Not very.” He’d replied. “I’ve never learned formally. But I always found drawing better than speaking when Wilfred and I were moving around, and there was only so long I could spend reading without it being too much.”

“Aren’t you the one always telling me I shouldn’t be afraid of my gifts?” Heather remembered asking.

“It’s hardly a gift, Heather.”

“Then why did you show it to me?”

“I-”

And that was the moment he had been called away. She softly turned the pages, as if they were made of leaves of gold, tracing the outlines of the figures Smalls had traced with a pencil months or years before. Many of the sketches were of unfamiliar figures, likely rabbits he encountered before meeting her, but some she recognized.

There was even one of Dr. Zeiger, with a note printed neatly in the corner-

The red spectacles are the thing that really get me.

The next page was one of Helmer, and the writing read,

There’s a difference between liking one’s own company and being Helmer. I wish people understood that.

That one made her laugh.

But the most surprising one was the roughly sketched picture of Kylen, and the note under that one was far less amusing than the two previous.

I don’t like him. I’m not sure why, but something doesn’t seem quite right. And no-it’s not like Evan keeps saying, because I’m jealous. There’s something larger going on, and Kyle is the eye the storm is swirling around. I just wish I knew which storm it was.

Heather gazed at the drawing for a moment, then turned the page so quickly she nearly ripped it. And what she found on the next leaf-close to the end of the book, truly-took her aback.

It was a sketch of her.

I don’t think I did her justice-she’s much, much prettier in real life. But I suspect I’ll be going away soon, and this at least will remind me of her.

I wish I’m braver.

Heather’s eyes closed. Her hand slipped out of the sketchbook, and it closed. Silent tears began to pool in her eyes, and she reached up to scrub them away out of habit.

And she was just-there was so much. Heather was angry and heartbroken, and scared. Angry because his bravery was what got him killed, what stole him from her when if he’d just gone to anyone else-

And she was heartbroken because he was gone, and never coming back. Because even though he was reckless, even though he could be equally as foolish as Evan at times, she still loved him. And she’d wanted-still wanted-a life with him, desperately. And she knew that he’d wanted the same thing, and had almost said as much before.

And the fear-that came from a fear of letting go, a fear of forgetting. She didn’t-couldn’t-forget Smalls yet. Not yet.

“Heather, dear, why are you awake?”

Heather jerked, and the sketchbook fell to the floor. Sween crossed the room, picked it up, and handed it back to her.

“Oh, I-I couldn’t sleep.” Heather replied, taking back the sketchbook.

“It’s two in the morning, Heather.”

Heather looked away. “I know, Mother. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll sleep better sitting up. How come you can’t sleep?”

Heather did not want to tell her. This felt private, sacred, in a sense. Her and Smalls’ love had been so quiet, almost unspoken, but not quite. And she wasn’t sure if she was quite ready to share this part of it, the pain that came with it. Her mother already looked bogged down enough with other worries, and Heather’s didn’t need to be pitched onto the top of that pile.

Sween sat down by the hearth. “You can tell me, Heather.” She said gently.

“Not about this.” Heather replied, fingers finding their way to her pendant necklace.

Sween was quiet for a moment, and then she sighed softly. “You’ve grown much over the last two years, Heather, because I remember a time when you told me everything. But you’ve seen war now, and that does force one to grow up a little beyond their time.”

“It forced Smalls to.” Heather murmured softly. Smalls hadn’t wanted to tell her everything about the First Warren, but she’d slowly pieced together the story from things he told her, until she had a nearly full picture. And it was an ugly one. Smalls’ childhood had been ripe with disease, trammels, and tyranny, and, though Wilfred often joked about how dark Smalls could be sometimes, but Heather didn’t blame him.

“So, is this about the prince?” Sween asked.

Heather didn’t reply immediately.

“Heather, I can’t help if you won’t talk to me.”

“You can’t help.” Heather said finally. She didn’t mean it cruelly; it was the truth. Her mother hadn’t known Smalls since he was a baby.

“Then I won’t. I’ll listen.” Sween replied. “You’re like your father in that respect, Heather, you need things to be said for you to be able to let them go.”

Tears finally began to spill down Heather’s cheeks. “But I don’t want to let him go, Mother.” She whispered. “I can’t, not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Sween said nothing, only nodded.

“He promised he wouldn’t try anything reckless.” She continued, tone turning bitter. “He promised he’d listen to Uncle Wilfred. But he didn’t and now he’s dead and I don’t know what to do.” A sob choked her, and she rubbed furiously at the tears crawling down her face.

Wordlessly, Sween got up and walked over, hugging her gently.

Heather took a shaky breath, burying her face in her mother’s embrace.

“He promised he’d come back. He promised.” She whispered.

“I know, I know.” Sween replied, rubbing her back. “I know.”

“But he didn’t and I’m so angry-” Her sentence was cut off by another sob.

“Be angry then, Heather, be angry at those who took him away from you. Be angry and let it fuel your fight. But don’t turn bitter, my dear. Bitterness is what tore Garten from this family and cut him off from what was true and right.”

“I’m so sick of feeling this way. It’s been only a week, but it feels like a lifetime.” Her voice shook painfully, and her broken arm ached. “It’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sween agreed. “It isn’t.” She sighed. “I’m tired of seeing young boys go to war and come back scarred, or not come back at all. War is poison, Heather, it is the culmination of all that is awful and hateful. We trick ourselves into believing that it is glorious so that we are not so afraid of it, but it is a sickness.”

“I think I’ve caught it.” Heather whispered.

“I think most of us have.” Sween agreed. “But though war isn’t glorious, it can be noble. And the way the prince died is the height of nobleness, fighting for those who can’t even lift their hands to defend themselves. He died in the name of freedom, my dear, in the name of a future where we live free.”

“I know.” Heather paused. “But I miss him. More than anything, I miss him. I didn’t know a person could grieve like this.”

“It’s a hollow, terrible ache.” Sween agreed.

A long silence.

“You can go to bed, mother, if you want.” Heather said, pulling away from her mother’s embrace.

“Are you okay?”

“For now.” Heather replied. And she was, mostly. Her heart still hurt, but she could weather it.