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“To the Angels, and all that is good in this world, I pray that my son will be strong. He will find the strength to stand up to his father, and he will learn forgiveness in that strength. He will find his love and never let go, no matter what force may forbid them. I pray that love will meet and it will prevail, that it will climb to the highest peak and not fall to it’s death. It will stand high and strong, and no matter the storms that come its way, will never crack or splinter or break. I promise myself and all that I care about, that this will be so.”

“Silences like these were never uncomfortable for them, never an awkward space squabbling for meaningless words to fill it. It was acceptance, of a sort, an understanding. These were the people who had lived long and fitfully enough to discover that they were not alone, that there were people out there who would love and fight with them.”

“I guess—I’ve been hurt by him,' he continued, not sounding like himself, 'but the reason I am hurt is because I love him. And I know that love is weakness, and that you always told me not to give my heart to anyone who could destroy it, but I guess, that is the point of love, is it not? To give yourself so fully to another, knowing that they have the power to destroy you?”

“The relief Kieran felt was staggering. The sick-satisfaction of justice burned through him like an oil spill, waiting for him to drop a match, to let it all go up in flames as he laughed through the rain of hellfire. But he didn’t. He pocketed the metaphysical match. He vacuumed the torrential oil spill. He had just turned his wasteland into a rain forest; he would not let his resentment burn down the trees he had grown out of the garden of his own mind. Kieran himself had come too far to let the angry hand of vengeance burn away his fertile terrains, ruin his harvests of the pure flora kingdom and slaughter his animals to ribbons in sacrifice to greater demons whose jaws never shut. Homeostasis was a hard-earned tendency. Bonfires were clumsy and unwarranted; if he let it consume him and everything he’d built, all he had cultivated would be for nothing. He did not want his flowers to die.”

“What do you want?” The question stunned him. He could say he wanted nothing, that he felt like nothing, that he counted the days until darkness. He could say: Happiness beyond all worlds! A life of peace and love, entire and whole! He could say he wanted everything and nothing all at once. He thought for a moment, as the birds sang in the trees, of how often he felt like this.”

“But there would also be a time when these fears would slowly ease—when the need to constantly lock and hide and protect would soften, and she would no longer startle at the gentle passing of fingertips on her back in the morning, or a playful jostle of her shoulder by a laughing girl. These things she hoped for, and knew would come. These things she held closest to her heart, like the first peak of sun over a mountain that whispered: You can have this. You can keep this. You deserve this.”