The Flame That Never Dies

Chapter 11, Grady-

Grady had always been taught that thinking and feeling were opposites. Yet he believed they were sisters; one could not exist without the other, and the absence—not disappearance, for one never simply disappeared—of one would expand the presence of the other.

The absence of thought, for he didn't allow himself to think, led him to anger.

If he thought, he would confront his guilt. But if he didn't, he could make it through the day. One. At. A. Time.

And to make it through, he stoked his anger.

Anger at the Black Swan.

Anger at the Councillors for creating such an organization.

Anger at himself, for being so weak.

But to recognize the cause of his anger was to think, and thinking would lead to guilt.

So he didn't ask himself why he felt this way. He just... felt.

Edaline went into Jolie's room and didn't come out for days at a time.

Days. That's how much had passed—at least he thought. The funeral was in another few days.

Days, seconds, minutes. It didn't mean anything anymore. They were all moments—moments where his daughter was gone, moments he'd taken for granted before.

But if he remembered those times he would be thinking, so he pushed them to the back of his mind.

He moved around. He cooked. Kept busy, but also not. Mostly he did things from muscle memory; things he already knew how to do, so he didn't have to think about doing them.

And he let the anger simmer. In the back of his mind, waiting.

He wasn't sure what for—wasn't sure what he would do, what he could do. All he knew was that the Black Swan had shown him who he was dealing with. That the fire was his fault. Jolie's death was his...

No. He couldn't think like that. Couldn't think at all.

A buzzing in his pocket made him reach for his Imparter. He hadn't realized he was standing in his room or how long he'd been there.

What if hours had passed?

"Hello," he said, clicking the Imparter on. The gravelly voice that was his own surprised him. Had he spoken at all since the fire?

Councillor Oralie reached for the screen as if she was about to grab Grady's hand and take a reading of his emotions if she could. "Mr. Ruewen... no, I can't call you that. This is too personal. Grady, how are you and Edaline doing?"

He tried to shrug, but his shoulders were so stiff, indicating he had indeed been standing there for a while. "I... I'm not sure." It was an honest answer, yet one that held back some truth. While Councillor Oralie had always been kind, Grady and Edaline weren't particularly close to her; telling her of their grief felt too... raw.

"I understand. I... I don't want to say this, but the Council ordered someone to, and I quickly volunteered before Bronte could. I figured he wasn't exactly the face you'd want to see today."

He was surprised to find himself grateful for that. "What don't you want to say?"

She sighed. "The Council wants you back on your assignment a week after the funeral. That's all the time we can give you, apparently—it's a delicate situation, as you know, and a longer absence could create problems."

Fury was the first thing to rise, but he pushed it down. He wasn't angry at the Council, but at the Black Swan. At the fire, at the tragedy, at his helplessness.