âMy mom canât forget that day. How could she?â The man falls silent. âShe felt like theyâd torn into her, snatched her child right from her womb, and left her bleeding.
âShe bled for a long time after that day, and no one could mend her wound. That kind of wound never heals, it just scars. Itâs always there. That kind of memory you carry around your whole life.
âMy dad carried that kind of memory around with him too. That feeling of losing someone, having them taken from you, and being completely, utterly powerless to stop it.
âTo watch someone you love being hurt, and not being able to stop the pain. The moment when you realize that youâd rather die than let that person feel any more pain.
âEven though Beth wasnât suffering, my mom realized sheâd rather die than let anyone take her child away from her. Itâs funny, the things we remember. Sometimes itâs images or smells or sounds. Sometimes itâs just a feeling.
âI have a memory of my mom. Iâve spent years trying to figure out if it really is a memory or if itâs just something I was told or something that I imagined. Either way, itâs what I have left of her.â
The man closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, heâs smiling. The journalist watches him, her eyes stinging with tears. She doesnât know why sheâs crying.
âWhatâs the memory?â she whispers. Her voice sounds wrong, like itâs disturbing the calm his voice had created.
His eyes meet hers for a second. âThe ocean,â he says softly. He stares at the fire. âItâs near the ocean. I canât see it, but I can smell it, hear it. My dad was holding me, I think. My mom was facing me. I think.
âI hear the waves and thereâs another sound. A sound like bells or chimes. I like to think it was her laughter. But I donât know. I canât see her face, her body, but I can sense her near me.
âMost of all, I remember how I was feeling. I was longing for her. I wanted her to hold me, but my dad wouldnât let me because she was laughing too much.
âI think Iâd like to think thatâs what it was. I remember expecting her to hold me. Not like when my dad held meâhis arms were hard and hairy. Her arms were white and soft. I always felt safer in her arms.
âI think she sang too. I donât remember her voice or any songs, but I remember the feeling of her throat and her breathing when she held me and sang. Thatâs my memory of my mom.â
âItâs beautiful,â the journalist murmurs.
âI wish I had more to tell you about.â The man gives her a small smile. âI donât even know if it was real.â
âIf you believe it is, what does it matter?â
He shakes his head slowly. âI never really knew what kind of person she was. I barely met her, and she barely got to meet me.
âNow, it isnât growing up without a mom that bothers me most, itâs the fact that I barely even remember her. That I never will.
âThey say you canât miss something you never had. How can I miss someone that I barely knew? I donât miss her. How can I? But I still long for her.
âThatâs what hurts the most. The fact that I donât miss her, when I know she would have missed me. Even for the short amount of time that we were together, she would have missed me.
âLike she missed Beth, she would have died for me, and I canât even miss her.â
âYou canât blame yourselfâ¦â
âI donât.â The man leans toward the journalist, his eyes wide and urgent. The journalist feels her cheeks flushing, but she canât turn away from his gaze.
Eventually, he leans away from her. Heâs smiling again. âThat day may have been the worst day of her life, but it was also the day that hardened her.
âShe was bleeding, but her wound healed, scabbed over, and she wrapped herself in a shield. That shield was her fear and anger. And that made her stronger, bolder.
âIf you think about it, maybe if they hadnât taken Beth away, the revolution might not have happened. Or she wouldnât have been part of it.
âWe can even go as far as saying that we might still be at war now had they not taken Beth away from her. Subjective history.
âHer shield protected her from her emotions, but it didnât make her invincible. She had made a promise, and if it was the last thing she ever did, she was going to find Beth and take her away.â
***
~If itâs the last thing I ever do. If itâs the last thing I ever doâ¦~
I repeat this to myself because I know itâs the truth. Iâm surrounded by lies, illusions, and falsities, so I hold onto my only truth.
Every night, I still hear Beth crying, and I have to fight myself not to get out of bed and search for her. As the nights go by, my tears dry against my cheeks, and my ears stop ringing until I hear only silence.
I barely notice Ericâs anger when he takes me to Hectorâs room. He walks behind me, like a guard, and when Hector opens the door, he is red with rage. But I donât care.
Hector is rough, but Iâm not what he wants. After a few nights, he tires of my limpness and asks for Gael again. Eric is overjoyed. He has me back. Iâm his again, only his.
He wraps me in his arms and holds me tightly, promising heâll never let me go again, never let another man touch me. He tells me I should never let another man touch me, never let another man even look at me.
Itâs in direct conflict with the very core belief of Albion. But I donât care.
Eric holds me in his arms each night. I know he wants me to feel safe with him, I know heâs trying to make up for my lost child.
He never talks about her, but when he sees my tears, he kisses them away and cradles me in his arms until I stop crying. I can feel it, even through my pain, even through the thick walls Iâve built around myself. He loves me. In his own way.
One night, as heâs holding me, his face buried in my hair, I catch a glimpse of a smile on his lips. Heâs happy.
I know he was happy when Beth was around, and I know he wants me to bear his children tooâeight of them, if he gets his way. Heâd want to see them bring me joy. He might even let me keep them.
Could he do that? Could he declare them special, needing to stay with their mother? I donât think he could. But I wonder if he would, for me. Eric loves me. I see it in his eyes.
Itâs the same way I looked at Beth and she looked at me. Love.
Weâre not supposed to love people. Weâre supposed to love Albion. Weâre supposed to devote our lives to Albion.
Eric is a Master. A Master of Albion, a superior being who dedicates his life to Albion, managing the armies, the women and children, feeding the population, and handling workers and war prisoners.
The Masters govern Albion, they rule Albion. How can Eric love me? And how far would he go to keep me safe?
I should feel secure in his love. With the love of a Master, I could live off him. I could stay by his side, bear his children, and serve Albion with him.
Thatâs what he wants. For me to be with him, to stand by his side, to stay in his shadow and protect him. He wants me to love him. I could. I could love him and stay with him.
Or I could exploit him, use his love, and betray him. Even though Iâve grown accustomed to his arms and his kisses and find solace in his embrace, I donât feel safe.
My thoughts drift into dangerous territories, and Eric canât pull me back. He adds to my shield, to my walls, but he canât break through them.
Sometimes, I want to let him. It would make it easier to love him. But he never finds the entrance. He seems to wander aimlessly, without purpose or direction.
Thereâs something about his touch, his love, that scares me. The chill at his core that I recognized a long time ago. His mood swings donât scare me anymore; I have no daughter to protect.
Itâs his love that scares me more. The intensity in his eyes when he looks at me, the strength in his hands when he holds me. His constant need to find me during the day. And at night, he wonât let me go.
Even if I were permanently attached to his side, he wouldnât be satisfied. He wants to consume me and protect me simultaneously.
Iâm scared of what he would do for me. What he would destroy for me.
What would he do to me if I left him?