The Cursed Blood, стр. 26
“For what?” Yeah, I was a little ignorant as a child. I guess I just didn’t understand how violent, long lived, and dangerous hate can be. Having tasted my share of it now over the years I’m afraid I have to agree with old White Owl’s council that before one sets off for revenge, first dig two graves.
Take my word for it, no matter how cathartic it may seem to plot things out of vengeance, it never ends well and never leaves you feeling any better. In fact, it’s been my observation that it leaves you worse, sad, hollowed out, and alone.
Worse still is when these acts of revenge escalate into blood feuds. Which with the long lived of the Fey can last for ages, much like the one between Darklings and Vraad that’s lasted centuries beyond count and exacted a terrible cost.
“Revenge,” Gramps answered simply after taking a thoughtful pull from his pipe. “Our kind knew the Vraad could never let us live and had the powerful things ever found out about the Bloodline’s survivors before we were ready…”
He shook his head and scoffed at the mere thought of this. “Well then, each and every one of them would be as good as dead, so our kind waited and watched like I said, and then we came for them as they had come for us.”
“But we missed a few and then they came for us again?” I asked, a bit of anger in me sparked at the stupidity of it all. “My parents are dead because the Vraad I saw were scared more Darklings would hunt them because I saw them. So, they thought they had to kill my family to keep their family safe?”
Gramps nodded and sighed, placing his pipe back in the ashtray where the last blackened tobacco sent up a fragrant, winding trail of smoke. “That about sums it up. Like I said, it’s been going on for ages. I thought I’d gotten the last of them. I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been to say that I was wrong.”
“My parents are dead because of you.”
I know. It was a horrible thing to say, and Gramps’ shocked, appalled, deeply wounded face told a heartbreaking tale as in an angry rage I ran off to my room and slammed the door. I’d been numb up until then, but the awful story just made it all real and the dam I’d built up in myself just gave.
I think I cried myself to sleep that night. I don’t think Gramps understood for a long time what really upset me. It wasn’t that he hadn’t managed to kill all the Vraad. No, that idea never crossed my mind. I remember thinking about that little girl in her car seat smiling at me and it made me sick thinking what could happen to her and the baby in that mother’s belly should my kind ever find them.
Was I angry and sad? Sure. I’d be lying through my teeth If I ever denied it. But the thought of the whole mess just felt cosmically unfair, none of us alive today asked for this and everyone was afraid, and people were dying because of it. It’s a waste, it’s terrible and it’s wrong.
No, it wasn’t that Gramps had failed. It was that him and all the other Darklings (at that time I hadn’t a clue how many of us there are) had let this horrible feud go on and on, and it had cost my parents—two wonderful, kind, innocent people—their lives.
To make it worse it went against everything Merlin had intended when he cast the Oldfable, the books spelled it out clear as day and they can’t lie. We were supposed to be guardians, not killers. Somewhere along the way we had lost our way. It was at that moment I think, crying into my pillow that I decided I’d never lose mine. I guess I was a bit naive. But we’ll get to that later.
The next morning, I woke to find Manx lying against my door. He whined and peered up at me almost sadly in the way only dogs can the moment I opened the door. Together we walked to the living room, me almost leaning on the huge hound, my head aching, and my eyes bleary and red from crying.
To my relief I saw White Owl sitting at the kitchen table looking pale, bandaged, and a bit frail but still quite happily tucking into a plateful of buttered toast, bacon, and eggs as Gramps worked over the gas stove with a fork at some sausages that were browning and sizzling in his favorite cast iron skillet.
Hesitantly, I took up my place where a plate was set, and orange juice poured into my favorite cup and stared at Gramps while White Owl eyed me oddly as he chowed down on a strip of crispy bacon. One big brow arched as he settled back in his seat which I remember creaked quite distressingly.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out.
And I meant it, I’d never intended to hurt Gramps and even then, I knew he had to have already been hurting quite a bit having lost his son and daughter-in-law. His shoulders sagged and he let out a long wavery breath before silently forking the cooked links onto a chipped green platter.
“It’s me that’s sorry. I let this happen. You don’t have to worry. I promise I’ll get them; I’ll get them all this time,” he replied as