“Where do you think you get your temper from?”
“Certainly not my mom.”
He sighs. “I think you might be mistaking patience and kindness for weakness when it comes to her.”
“Am I though? Look at her! She’s naïve and clueless. That woman spends so much time in that sad, dreary room holding my father’s hand. What part of that screamspowerandwarriorto you like everything I’ve been taught in school? There’s no way history reported any of what she did accurately.”
I glance over at my uncle’s face as he smirks to himself, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s a shame you’ll never see what I’ve seen.” His glittering hazel eyes trace over the icy lagoon in thought. “Your father was a force, yes. But your mother is the one who led armies to save us. She’s the one who played the enemy like a puppet. Who dragged their subconsciouses to hell and back.She’sthe one who won the war.”
I try to picture that beautiful blonde woman hurting anyone. Saving anyone. I mean, sure, I’ve seen the illustrations. I’ve read the descriptions of the part she’s played. But I can never see it in my head. She’s always just that sad woman sitting at his bedside.
“And if you think your father was the only one with a bad temper, you’re wrong. The day she destroyed that asylum was more pain and fury than you might ever see in your lifetime.”
Not a lot of detail for that story. They said it was a slaughter from the Fallen Saint. They said it was exacted revenge, and she gave each member what they deserved.
“I plan on doing something similar to Niklaus,” I grumble.
“Is that a fact?”
“It is.”
He’s quiet for several seconds. “I know he seems like the enemy now. But there are far worse people in this world, Sapphire. And you two will have to be on the same team to defeat them.”
Over my dead body.
Niklaus and the traitor haveleft.
But everyone else stays to say goodbye to my dad. Even though it makes me deeply uncomfortable and angry for some reason, Krimson and I always stand in the doorway to watch the interaction.
They sit around his bed, talking, sharing updates on their lives, and reminiscing.
Why? I have no idea. He’s brain-dead. He cannot hear them. He cannot feel them hold his hand. He can’t interact. But I suppose this little ritual of theirs is more to make them feel better than anything else.
“That’s how my week went, Dess.” Uncle Niles pats the top of Dad’s hand, then snickers. “I love that I can call you by that nickname now without getting the death glare.”
Though his smile fades. And he’s left with a vacant look that tells me he doesn’t love it at all. He misses that glare from my father.
However, this starts a new conversation about how mad my father was when Uncle Warrose brought up the nicknames he used to give himself as a child. Dess-aster. Dess-truction.
The room trembles with laughter.
“I hope we have a group of friends like this one day,” Krimson whispers.
I shrug. I’ll be long gone by then.
“I wonder what he was like with all of them. I mean, I know how Kane was. He liked them. Was nice. Patient,” he goes on, watching their banter with thoughtful eyes.
“And now brain-dead,” I add.
It’s disturbing how they all sit around his lifeless body like this. It’s not right. Just let him go. Let him be.
“Bite your tongue. Jesus. Sometimes I wonder if we were raised by the same woman.” Krimson furrows his brow, crosses his arms, and broods to himself. It’s the same expression Mom always says makes him look just like our father.
I turn away. Every time he’s upset with me, a knot forms in my gut. Tight and unwanted.
