Prior context not needed, looking for harsh insightful reviews

The door creaks open with a mourning wail. An empty bottle hangs loose in my fingertips and I lean heavy into the frame.

The clock ticks one, til the clock ticks none. 

Daylight filters through parted curtains, where the faded fabric sways with the breaths of a springtime breeze. I take a tentative step, rousing a groan from the time-worn wood. The fire has long since burned out, leaving a single log blistered and charred, still clinging to life amidst the ashes.

Remnants of an empty vase scattered in the carpet.

I had been escorted to his body before it burned. 

Pristine, swaddled kindly in soft linen, his features are frozen in rest. Atop primed pyre, he lay as if I had caught him in sleep. 

Nearly cruel to see him like that, vulnerable, so very human. 

“Ani—Sange,” Fearik had corrected himself as soon as he spoke. He may have been loyal to my father, but he knows better than to disrespect the family’s scion. “The torch.” 

I had felt it then, the thrum in my ears, dulling the ache as the flame was passed. Within my chest a raging fire, as though I had thrown myself upon the pyre, had kicked aside his corpse and taken his place. 

His body set to ash, his soul freed. Yet, I’m left here, walking in his shadow, tripping in his shoes. 

“May the goddess look kindly upon his soul.” The words like gravel atop my tongue as I recited the prayer. “Tread beyond the cruelty of man into the hands of the divine, heed not the cries of the damned and remain faithful. Hold your head high, reap the rewards of your sacrifice,” the last utterance clawed through my teeth, “I release you, Father.” The flames licked at the kindling, a billow of sun touched crimson that had grown far above my own unseeing eyes. The heat kissed my face as I whispered, hushed so the words may come to rest only between my father’s bones and the gods, “give my love to Rahlo and Mother.”

I suppose it’s almost poetic that he might leave this world in a manner of fire and ash, to foil my mother and brother who lie at rest beneath the earth. 

My hand glides across the wall, tracing the grooves that once measured growing heights, two marks turned one, two marks turned none. Dust clings to the books resting atop their shelves, pages yellowed, untouched.

It’s as though my very breath disturbs this place, this limbo, a time frozen and forgotten. 

Numb fingers trail the faded spines. A subtle tragedy of stories bound to the confines of their own profound realities, locked in perpetual struggle, barreling towards endings already written. 

A song dances amidst the silence, her voice cradles sorrow. The sweetness of perfume—lavender and honey. 

Sunset silks ripple in the shattered daylight, glittering in the split between reality and fiction, life and fairytale. Beckon an ending unwritten.

I watch through the window of distant eyes as my body works with its own accord. I have no say as it reaches out, fingers catching the brilliance. 

My heart may cease to beat, to find no breath.

Through the threads, I can hear him, giggling beneath a fort of pillows and sheets spinning elaborate stories. The faintest glow of gold, seeping through the fabric, our only confession. His love lay in the tales of heroes—as most boys do—good defeating evil, youthful dreams of all things great and grand. 

Time fractured and imploding. 

The curtain is drawn. 

The room is untouched, untouched by dust, untouched by time, everything exactly as it had been. 

The world I left—the world I ran from.

The world, you killed to get back.

There is clothing strewn about, Father never bothered to pick it up. The bed is unmade, a map discarded in the mess. 

I took little with me.

There is nothing left for me here. Yet, my feet root themselves, made at home within the silted floorboards.

What did you expect?

Comfort? Forgiveness?

A plush sheep on the floor, glass eyes accused. I reach for it. Does it remember the hands that once cradled it in innocence as the ones that grip it tight now? How might it come to know the fingers that pierce through fabric flesh, as if it is the only thing between me and perdition?

Lie yourself upon the alter,

before past sins.

Death taunts, she always had a way with words, whispering envy of the blessed rest of eternity. Luring, baiting promises of peace, to the edge, the rope, the knife, the waters. I didn’t want to die—I don’t want to die—I just—

Look to the light,

let your blood feed the soil.

I think my legs give out. I don’t feel when my knees hit the floor. 

It won’t be enough,

it will never be enough.

—I can’t.

Redemption?

You know you’re damned.

Memories, faces—the choir taken by Death’s sweet vice—ripples and waves, sights to behold: Mother and Rahlo, but there are others there too, Estra, Carrow, Kili. 

What do you want?

I don’t know.

Bullshit.

What do you want!?

I don’t know!

WHAT DO YOU—

“I WANT IT TO BE ME!” My voice cracks, a foreign scream echoing in the endless void. Soundless sobs mistake my silence for contentment. “Why can’t it be me?”

The wail of an opening door.

“Sange?” A soft question, tentative. Priya takes a step, then another, treading on the quiet pads of her feet. “I heard shouting.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, it’s crueler than intended and I swat away angry tears, though I know I cannot hide the swollen redness of my eyes. “I’m fine.” She offers me a hand: I stand and stumble, she steadies me. 

“Are you drunk?”

“I said, I’m fine.” I don’t reject as she guides me to a chair. I collapse into the plush cushions, and choke a shallow breath. 

“People who go through with what you did aren’t normally fine,” she scolds. I open my mouth to retort, but she cuts me off, placing a glass of water in my hands. “Drink.” I do, and the tightness in my chest loosens ever-slightly. “I can’t expect you to be okay, and I wish there was a world in which you were, but I need you to be. We all need you.” She lights a match, and tosses it into the fireplace. Kneeling she fosters the embers until they grow to a steady flame. “It’s not just about you anymore, you have a responsibility to them.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.” She takes a seat in the chair across from me. A chilling breeze sweeps a plume of ash and sparks. “You came back, you chose this. And yes, it is going to be hard, and yes it will probably eat you alive for the rest of your life but you need to defend it.” A lump forms in my throat. She leans forward and takes my hands in hers, her voice softens with her gaze. “Look at me.” I can’t.

“Priya it’s—we’re not kids anymore.”

“No,” she pulls away to prod the fire once more, and I’m left cold in her absence, “we’re not. You need to get your shit together.”

A bitter smile, and through gritted teeth I try to explain, “I wish it were that simple.”

“Try me.”

I scoff. “What are you? My therapist?”

Go on,

tell her.

Priya stares, before recollection dawns. 

“You still hear them.” I can’t meet her eyes. “Sange—”

‘Crazy bitch’,

isn’t that what he called you,

when you begged on your knees for help?

“I’m not crazy!” I push up from my chair, my cheeks flushed red with the embarrassment of admittance.

She says nothing.

Little miss monster,

she hears voices.

“I can’t—” Tripping, I break for the door, but not before she catches my wrist. “Let go!” The tears fall freely, I don’t bother to try and stop them now.

Little miss monster,

got her family killed.

Twice.

“I’m not letting you run away.” I could fight her. I could tear myself away. “Not again.”

“Is that what this is about?” I growl, spinning back on her. 

Anger is easy.

Anger is safe. 

And what if I am tired of anger?

“Don’t start snapping at me like I don’t know why you bite.” She lets go of me, crossing her arms.

“Oh, look, she's a poet.”

“And you’re a dog.” I snarl but I don’t meet her gaze. “You ran—”

“I made it out,” I interject. The fire spits within the confines of its hearth, playing nimbly along the edge of open air. 

“Is there a difference?” She moves to take the chair across from my father’s and gestures for me to join her, and hesitantly I do.

“There is to me.” I can’t bring myself to take his place. Sobriety forces itself through me like a needle through thread, it weaves to bind body and mind, bringing the steady lift of fog and with it the sharpened pain of knowing, of feeling. 

“Sit,” she commands, “it’s not his place anymore.” It’s as if she can read my thoughts, or perhaps I’m still too drunk to control my face. It’s safer to assume the latter. I obey, because what am I more than a dog, blissfully eager for my next leash. 

I stare at her, unable to form the words to ward the stubborn silence.

“Look,” Priya begins, interrupted by a sigh, “I know you can’t do this on your own. So here’s the deal, I will follow you, and I will be your blade and shield in this—whatever we’re facing—but I need you to pull yourself together.” I nod and she continues. “You are going to sober up and play nice. I am going to talk to Fearik to organize the group. We should be on the move before sunrise in two days.” She stands, straightening the silk of her skirt draped from the sharp curve of her hips, the beaded fabric ripples, fading blue to grey in the falling light. “You have an hour.” 

The meeting is at dusk and Priya comes to collect me just before then. I haven’t left the house since we talked, in fact I barely left the chair. I have, however, bathed, changed, and spent almost fifteen minutes attempting to perfect the smudged black liner around my eyes. 

When she arrives, Priya doesn’t bother to knock, letting herself in through the unlocked door. 

“You look nice,” she remarks, standing before me in the foyer, “though unbraid you’re hair, you’re not looking for a fight, no reason keeping it practical.” I frown, but oblige, slipping the band off and combing my fingers through the consequential waves. 

“Better?” I ask, a little bitter. She nods, and waves for me to follow. Together we step into the street.

“Fearik was highest ranked after your father, and still holds a great deal of persuasion over the rest of the people, so you will want him on your side. Lyto has grown into her role as our chief strategist, if you want something done she can make it happen, though her and your father were quick to disagree, so she may be looking forward to the change in leadership…” her voice fades into the background as a familiar face catches my eye. He has a bundle in one arm and a nameless girl on the other.

“Is that West?” I feel stupid, watching him go by. Priya looks around for a moment before she spots him.

“And Miel,” Priya is unamused, “the kid is Reo, born about two months ago.”

“West found love?” I tease, waiting for a laugh or at least a smile, but she is cold.

“He’s not important, he is a mediocre fighter at best, and though Miel was competent she’s been out of shape since the baby.” We’re moving again, leaving the small family behind us. “Which brings our leading melee force to only about twenty, maybe forty if we lower our standards. Brovi, Aster, and Luth are our best, and the others respect their judgment.”

“What about Faol? Even a year below he matched me in spar.” Memories of dirty hands and sweat, the spindly boy pinned beneath me with a gap-toothed grin. 

“He took the name Kire a year after you left, and he is actually the next person I wanted to talk about. He is the figurehead of our entire militant force. Barely eighteen and damn competent, so you should respect his opinion.” 

“So the council—”

“Consists of you, Fearik, Lyto, Kire…” she trails off, slowing in front of a familiar house, a coffin of countless hours spent. There are the faded remnants of a garden in front, wilted leaves turned brown by the sun or lack of water, and flowering weeds that sprout from rotting wood beds. Laundry hangs from a line stretching out of the side window. Priya reaches for the handle. “…and me.”

The threshold passes beneath my feet.

“Sange,” Fearik rises at my entry, and there is a scuffle of chairs as the rest do the same.

“We are delighted that you could join us,” Lyto remarks, flicking her ears in measure of my authority. 

“That we are,” Kire adds, with a subtle smirk.

The three of them stand around a large oak table, Lyto and Fearik on one side and Kire on the other, leaving space for me at the head and Priya on my right hand, of whom has already crossed to take her seat. Through high windows, sunlight bathes the room, settling upon cold faces undeterred by the warm glow. 

“Please, take a seat,” Priya gestures for me to join them and I take my place. They sit as I do, settling into their chairs and turning their collective focus on me.

Fearik regards me with shallow disdain, the hot flames of his eyes licking sharply at my skin, searching for even the slightest twitch to give away my fear. I offer him no reward for his search, even as silent prayers pass unmoving lips, that he cannot hear the panicked beating of my heart in my chest, pounding in restless attempts to escape my flesh.

“I am not my father,” I surprise myself with the firmness of my tone, “and within these walls I will not play petty diplomat.” Lyto’s gaze is softer, yet tainted with remorse, pity in place of respect. The attention of a mother and her weeping child. She is looking for softness, innocence beyond my clever facade. Let her come up empty. 

“With all do respect the only thing you have is a title,” Kire remarks, leaning back in his chair. “Blood spilled is not equal to respect.” He cocks his head and folds his hands in his lap. Time has done him well, chiseled away baby fat cheeks, shaped his figure, and though he is still relatively small muscle ripples beneath deep bronzed skin. Most notable, however, is the way he watches me, with a face void of scorn or sympathy. “Tell me, why should I give you my time, let alone my loyalty?”

“Kire,” Fearik snaps at him, “her authority is from the hand of the Goddess. Hold your tongue or—” I raise a hand and Fearik falls silent. 

“I will tell you why,” I keep my voice cool, steady with confidence. An actor and her role. “Something is coming, something we have never dealt with before, something that could mean total annihilation, not just for all of us, but for everything as we know it.” 

“What?” Lyto asks with a furrowed brow. 

“I’ve seen things. There is more out there than we could have ever imagined,” I gesture past the walls that contain us, “and it’s coming here.”

“We can hold our own, we have for decades,” Kire interrupts.

“They have guns.” Benjamin had told me, and I repeat his words now. Even if at first I had scoffed, retorting that so did we—however few and far between. But he had only shook his head, before explaining the monstrose tools of carnage they possessed. I report to them the same tales he shaped then. “Massive mountable guns that shoot round after round of ammunition. Airships that can drop village-flattening bombs with the press of a button. These aliens don’t just bring about violence, they dominate it.” 

Since the start of the meeting, Priya has yet to speak until now. 

“And you want to fight.” she says.

“If what you’re saying is true than it would be suicide,” Kire adds, sitting upright once again. 

“Alone yes,” I begin, “but we wouldn’t be alone.”

“What exactly do you have in mind?” Lyto questions.

“I know how we’re going to win.”