Hope Sundered

Lark awoke well past dawn, his head cloudier than the bleak winter sky above. He was very late for duty. With bleary eyes set on the ground before him, he trudged across town and up a flight of stone stairs, each lumbering step laden with the awkward heaviness of crippling fatigue.

Finally he reached his post atop the wall overlooking the eastern bank. Waiting for him was his stool, his ration of arrows, a clay jug of water, and Losigalender. His heart sank, anticipating the scolding he knew he deserved. In a city full of people depending on him for survival, Losi was the last person he wanted to disappoint.

“I’m worried about you, son,” Losigalender said, his voice devoid of reproach.

Lark diverted his blank stare to the flagstones beneath his feet. “I, uh…I mean, you don’t have to—”

“You were going to become my son-in-law this spring, and Keila’s death does nothing to change how much I care about you. You’re family, perhaps now more than ever. I just want you to know you don’t have to suffer alone. I’m here for you.”

Lark sighed, biting his lip as his eyes glassed over. “I’m alright,” he managed after a moment.

Losigalender’s eyes narrowed. “No, you’re not—and that’s ok. You’re not weak for showing pain. We lost everything Lark. We have to make the decision to keep on living every day, and that takes courage. But if you bury your grief under false stoicism, it’ll consume your heart until there’s nothing left but a hard, bitter husk.

“Part of healing is grieving. I want you to cry for her, son; not because I want you to be heartbroken, but because she was worth crying for. Holding back your tears would be to deny you felt anything for her at all.”

Lark could no longer suppress his feelings and reached for Losigalender’s waiting embrace. What began as choking sobs evolved into fully vented anguish. He buried his face in Losigalender’s chest and screamed.

Lark poured out his fury toward Zordecai, the monster responsible for destroying his present and future in one night. The coward who seemed impossible to kill because of the countless men willing to throw their own lives away to protect him.

When he’d spent everything, Lark pulled away and composed himself, nodding his appreciation to his surrogate father and apologizing for the tears on his shoulder.

“Please be careful,” Losigalender warned, seeing the red in Lark’s eyes and knowing it wasn’t all from crying. “Some bottles become impossible to crawl out of.”

Lark sniffled and chuckled. “I knew I had at least one lecture coming.”

“You’re a good man, Lark, and possibly the best archer in the realm. I’d hate to see you throw that away.”

Lark scoffed. “But I feel so useless up here! Every day I sit on that stool waiting for an order that doesn’t come. And even if it did, I can’t hit the one target that matters!”

“You’ll get your chance before this is over. I’ve no doubt about that.” Losigalender’s tone was firm and his eyes were full of support. “If anyone can find a way to hit that maniac, it’s you.”

“In that case you’d better pray for Yajuel to send me a magical arrow from above…that…” Lark’s voice trailed off, following his gaze up to the sky where it became lost in the passing clouds.

“What is it, Lark?”

“I need paint. White paint.”