There is a sheet of wood in the basement with holes from throwing stars, and one you always carry with you, to remind you that I’m safe.
There is paint and herbs, alchemy and magic; your father gets lost in painting (I do not comment on how he is nearly out of red) a way to channel his rage without burning an entire Kingdom down in fury for what was done to me.
You have stuck to me like a shadow since I was brought home; you are a young teen now; old enough to understand what happened to the man both your fathers fell in love with, old enough to know I have no family now besides the three of you.
You sit at my side, your eyes so much like my own (and how my Heart would break when I’d see that shared shade of green in another life, but not knowing why) going from me, to your father, and back. To the red of his canvas, hints of gold and black; he has painted the fire he so wishes to burn; there is rage in his eyes when he sees how I am hurt, how I am healing.
Our lives should have been different (we should have been planning a wedding) with my coming here. But it was ruin that brought me here; ruin and jailbreak and long nights with the three of you surrounding me; at my side through the night for fear of me dying; for fear of me being stolen yet again.
Is there hope that our small Family will not be torn apart by rage and grief?
In moments like this I can feel it; a small flame flickering at the edges of our Hearts.