Peace. It was a fleeting feeling. One of the few feelings that were indescribably fleeting. There one moment, gone the next.

And yet, when I woke, the peace of acceptance drilled deep into my soul and left me with a languid sort of relaxation I wasn't sure even still existed for those like me. But there I was, in bed, feeling as if my bones would melt into the covers, the Gift humming with happiness within me, and things I needed to do but no way on all four worlds was I leaving such a feeling. So I slept until Jack woke me up by banging into my room.

I nearly stabbed him, but then, the feeling was still there and so I smiled instead. Which seemed to scare him. If not for Momma pushing him inside, I believe he would've bolted. But when I wiped the dopey smile off my face, he relaxed, throwing a ball into the air and catching it, telling me all about how much he enjoyed the new home and how he hoped to spar with Sir Rowen. Rowen had promised to show him a longsword. I would have words with Rowen about dangling such things in front of my brother. The kid was liable to lop his own head off.

I enjoyed it more than I thought. Jack chatting my ear off felt... normal. And while a pang of guilt drove shards of glass-like pain into my heart every time I saw the still healing raised ridges along his arms and neck, it wasn't as sharp.

Jill came and fiddled with a book, Hans came by to see how I was doing and bring word of the balls–which he was helping me wiggle out of, thank The King.

Half-way done and now I had to decide if it truly was what I wanted.

Sitting in bed gave me too long to think and made me fidget as the languid peace wore down, so I finally finagled Momma into a knife lesson.

She was the best thrower I knew, and without some divine intervention, it was likely I’d be out of the next competition. The joust had knocked me back. Knife throwing had the chance to knock me out entirely.

And I wasn’t ready to admit defeat. Not yet. Even if I couldn't quite admit to myself why.

“Hold it like this,” Momma says, adjusting my grip minutely until the tip is pressed between my thumb and forefinger.

I eye it dubiously. “It feels like it’s gonna slip out of my fingers.”

She puts her hands on her hips, fighting a smile. “Is that not the point?” Her smile nearly broke free.

I stifle a sigh. Yep. Yep, it is.

I throw. The handle smacks square into the center of the target. Just like always. My target gets hit—always—just not with the pointy end of the metal.

Momma glances between me and the blade laying on the ground, her eyes thoughtful as she taps a finger on her thigh. “Again,” she says.

I throw until my fingers bleed. Not literally, but my arm feels a bit noodle-esque.

“Aria, remember when you were a girl and I taught you knife throwing?”

I pause in picking up a sunburst blade, glancing up at her to see a smile on her face I don’t exactly like. It’s kinda scary. “Yes...?”

“There was a point where you were throwing the blades at anything that moved. I was terrified you were going to accidentally poke one of your siblings, even though I only allowed you use of dull blades.” She comes near, bending to pick up the last blade, running a finger over the starburst near the hilt while a bittersweet smile shapes her lips. She hands it back to me, standing up and dusting off her hands. “I taught you to throw. But I didn’t exactly teach you to throw point first.”

My jaw drops open, a tiny sound like a kitten mewl passing my lips. “You... what?”

That grin is back. “I taught you to throw hilt first. And you were blasted good, hon. But when I later came around to letting you throw real blades, you were so frustrated and adamant that knife throwing wasn’t for you. You gave it up.”

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“You let me believe it?”

She catches my eyes, a frown tugging at her lips. “I didn’t want you near weapons of war any more than your father. Perhaps a whole lot less because I saw your father right after he lost his bond. But I knew your spirit, and you needed to be trained in defense and offense, even if it was not what I desired.”

Weirdly enough, I get it. If I could take Jill’s Gift—and the horrors and pain of such a thing—away simply by not teaching her how to use it, then wouldn’t I choose that in a heartbeat?

But Jill needs to know how to control it, and I wanted to be a warrior—two very different things.

“So… why not tell me later?” I ask, fiddling with one of my black blades. It would’ve been useful as a vigilante to know how to stick things with a thrown blade. And yes, a bit of bitterness about thinking myself incapable of the competition rolled through my veins, but I quickly shoved it back. I'd done enough damage. No use being angry at Momma for something I understand.

Anger is an emotion, rider. One that speaks of wrongs.

It makes you react rashly.

But it can also help you react justly. Without anger, you never would've been drawn to protect the innocent. You never would've had cause to stop a war. Being angry is not wrong, nor is it bad. Reacting because of it, in ways that will hurt another because of your emotion, can be.

Still, in this instance, there is no cause for anger.

That may be true, but you need to allow yourself to feel.

Momma's hand comes over the top of mine, stopping the blade from picking at my calloused palm with the sharp point and jolting me back to the present instead of Ran's words. I tilt my head up to look at her, and she has confusion in her eyes.

“You aren’t angry?” Momma asks, lips pursed. Ran barks out a laugh. “Your father thought I’d need a rowboat to get away from your wrath if you ever learned I sabotaged your training.”

I shrug, giving a tiny, wry smile. “I understand. If I knew what would come—” I trail off, scratching my head with a blade. Momma's eyes grow concerned, so I take the blade away from my head. “If I knew, maybe I wouldn’t have chosen this path. But I wouldn’t change it now, even if I could. What’s done is done.” And there's no reason to be angry!

Momma blinks. “You are too kind for us, hon. Couldn’t you ease this old woman’s guilty heart by being a little angry? Maybe throw a knife at me?”

I chuckle, but realize her eyes are filled with self-inflicted loathing. Heck, even if I'm not angry—I'm not! I think at Ran—she's still gonna try to take the guilt as if I were. I kiss her cheek. “Just teach me how to beat the other knights, and we’ll call it even, k?”

I concede. There is cause to not be angry at her. Angry at everyone else, sure.

No, you can't eat anyone.

Her petulant pout makes me hide a grin.

Momma drags me in for a tight squeeze. “You’ve got it, child of mine. Love you—”

“Always and forever,” I mumble into her shoulder, smiling. I pull back. “Do you… do you want these back?” I ask, fiddling with the blades.

Momma takes the battered but loved hilt I offer, a sad smile on her face. “When your father gave me these, it was his last desperate attempt to persuade me to marry him.”

My mouth drops into an O. “I thought they were a wedding gift?”

She laughs, a sound that measures the weight between grief and bitter-sweet love. “Ahh, that is what your father always wished to believe, considering he had already convinced my father of his marriage proposal and he was hoping I would take it as a wedding gift instead of what it genuinely was. A bribe.” She grins, the weight of the world lifting from her shoulders as her hazy blue eyes clear slightly from their grief and twinkle with the mother I knew a long time ago. The mother who was deeply in love and enjoyed every moment of her life. Her eyes dart up to catch mine, her grin broadening. “You think your love for knives came from your father?”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. Understanding dawns. “It was you!” I accuse.

She laughs again, a sound filled with pure joy that makes my heart soar in my chest. She taps my nose, smiling until her eyes squint. “Guilty. I was the one who loved knives from the time I could waddle into my father’s forge. He was a man renowned for his knives, and he helped your father come through grief by pounding and shaping at metal. He forged these blades in the depth of his sorrow, and it was when he gave them to me with hope and joy shining in his eyes that I realized he was finally a free man and could love me. Before, I was afraid. He was my best friend first, but… he was also chained to his past in ways I could not free him. He had to choose the present, choose life, before I could imagine a life with him.” She blinks, and a tear trails her cheek. “And sometimes, death is easier to choose than life, sweetheart. Or it seems so. But in the end, giving up was never an option for your father. He chose me, and eventually that meant choosing you and your siblings and offering you the love and kindness one can only have when enmeshed in the present.”

“It was a beautiful life,” I say softly, smiling even as my eyes sting. And it truly was. The times flash through my mind when we laughed around the dinner table and played games with my siblings and Ran. We didn’t have much, and sometimes food was scarce, but we never starved and love was the currency we thrived on. Love, understanding, and compassion.

It shaped me and my siblings.

It shapes me even now and makes me realize that although time passes and things change drastically with the ebb and flow of life, the love we share and the kindness we show will ever be the best thing we can give.

A lasting legacy. A timeless hope.

A joyful remembrance.