Chapter 38 – The Weight of What Remains
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I know his name, I feel his face, I’ve chased him through the years and space. A mother’s heart does not forget. He lives in every breath I’ve kept.
But every time I walk that road, Another weight is softly sowed. My daughter waits with eyes that burn, and wonders when—or if—I’ll turn.
How do I hold what's out of reach, and still protect the ones I teach? If love is torn in more than two, then let me break—before they do.
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The silence in the room returned like an old companion.
My eyes drifted over the open pages of the book in front of me, the same one I’d been staring at before Bellatrix left to follow her daughter. The runes shimmered faintly with residual magic, but I couldn’t bring myself to read a single word.
The faint scent of the tea still lingered in the room—soft, floral, with a bitter herbal undertone that clung to the air like memory. The cup she had handed me sat untouched on the table now, half-empty, its warmth long since faded. Across from me, the chair where she’d once sat was quiet and still, the cushion sunken slightly in her absence. Even the echo of her presence had begun to slip away, like steam dissolving into air.
I had been sitting in a daze for what felt like years, the quiet stretching endlessly around me.
Anne’s voice still echoed faintly—sharp, wounded. I could still see the way Bellatrix had stood, torn between apology and urgency, before she slipped out after her daughter. The door had closed softly behind them.
And now, I was alone again.
The flash of memories had come like a storm—raw and uninvited. Sixteen years, unraveled in mere moments. My mind had taken me back to the very beginning, to the fire-lit ruins of a village I had never meant to find, to the woman whose grief became the center of my world. But the past had passed, as it always does.
And now I was here. Back in this room. Back in the present.
I breathed in slowly, letting it settle around me like smoke curling through the pages of time.
These last six years… they had been different.
Different from everything before. Different from the weight of training and duty, from the endless ache of control and restraint. Different even from the solitude I once called strength.
When she accepted my invitation, I hadn’t expected anything. Not warmth. Not trust. Certainly not the life we built in the quiet corners of this mansion. But the moment she stepped through my door with Anne in her arms, something shifted. Something softened.
And Anne…
I hadn’t expected to love her. Not Anne, not the daughter of the woman I couldn’t have. But she was a wildfire—loud, bright, fiercely alive. A child without a father, but never once diminished by the absence.
Watching her grow had felt like watching Bellatrix heal, if only a little. I saw the sharpness in her questions, the quiet ache behind her strength. She was already ten when they came to live with me, but in many ways, she was still learning how to be a child. I watched her wrestle with magic she barely understood, stumble through lessons she insisted on mastering alone.
Bellatrix wasn’t always there—her days often swallowed by the endless search for her son—but when she was, her presence was grounding. Anne learned to fill in the silences herself. Sometimes with fire, sometimes with silence. And still, somehow, she grew. I envied them at times… envied how even in absence, they belonged to each other.
But I also… loved it.
I loved the quiet moments—unseen, unspoken. The ones that happened long after the world had fallen asleep.
Late nights in the library where we’d speak of everything and nothing. Tea brewed too strong, or too sweet, and the way Bellatrix always wrinkled her nose before taking another sip anyway. The books we never finished. The walks we took through the garden, our shoulders brushing, the silence between us feeling less like absence and more like a shared breath.
I loved her laugh. Gods, I loved her laugh.
And when the nightmares came—when she’d wake up clutching the necklace I gave her, eyes wild, body trembling—I was there. I didn’t always know what to say. But I stayed. I always stayed.
Helping her search for him became more than just a promise. It became a purpose. Every lead, every whisper, every scrap of information—I chased it for her. For them. Not because she asked me to, but because I wanted to.
Because somewhere between those sleepless nights and quiet mornings, that old, aching love only grew heavier.
I had loved her for years—long before the war, long before I even understood what love truly meant. It had lived inside me like a secret too sacred to speak, a warmth too dangerous to touch. I had buried it once, years ago, when she chose that knight, told myself she deserved someone gentler, someone whole.
But the years had stripped that lie bare.
Waking to her laughter, watching her raise a daughter from grief into fire—it broke down every wall I built. My silence had stopped being noble long ago. It had become cowardice. A chain I wore like a shield
I told myself I had time. That I could wait. That being near her was enough. But it wasn’t. Not anymore.
She had trusted me—with her grief, her fury, her daughter.
And I had stayed quiet.
Until now.
I looked down at my hands, resting on my knees.
Steady. Controlled. Always controlled.
And yet inside me, something stirred. A tide refusing to be held back.
I reached for the book I had been reading—some ancient text on celestial alignment and soul-bound fates—but my hand froze halfway. Fingers hovering. Then curling into a slow, trembling fist.
No more reading. No more waiting.
It’s time.
I opened my hand and stared at the palm, as though I might find the courage written there.
Even if she turns away…
Even if she says she doesn’t feel the same…
Even if it breaks me—
“I’ll tell her,” I whispered.
The words barely left my lips, but they made the air shift. As if the house itself had been holding its breath, waiting for me to finally say them.
“I love her,” I breathed.
A pause. My heart thudded once — hard. “Always have, always will”
A sound echoed faintly down the corridor—distant, maybe from Anne’s room. I didn’t move.
My heart thundered in my chest. It felt louder than the footsteps approaching. Louder than my breath.
Now.
No more silence.
No more waiting.
…
At last, the footsteps I’d been straining to hear finally reached the door—slow, reluctant, as if each step carried the weight of a thousand thoughts.
Bellatrix stepped into the room once more, her figure backlit by the faint golden glow from the hallway. She looked tired—more than that, hollowed out. Like whatever strength she’d summoned had been burned down to ash. Her eyes met mine briefly before she lowered them.
She simply lowered herself into the chair across from me, her spine curving inward, as if she were trying to fold in on herself.
“I put her back to sleep,” she said quietly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white.
A long breath escaped her lips—a sound so weary, it cut deeper than anything she could’ve said.
Then, she looked up at me. And there was something different in her eyes.
Not anger. Not fear.
Doubt.
“Adonis,” she murmured, voice tight, “tell me the truth.
Am I, doing the right thing?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“This.” Her voice cracked. “All of this. Looking for my son. Chasing after him like this. Am I… am I choosing a memory over what I already have? Over Anne?”
The words hit me like a slap.
She wasn’t just tired—she was unraveling.
“I saw the look on Anne’s face,” she continued, her eyes glistening. “She thinks I don’t love her enough. She thinks she’s second. And maybe… maybe she is.”
Her hands gripped the edge of the table.
“Maybe I’ve made her feel like she’s always competing with a brother she’s never even met.”
She swallowed hard and blinked fast, like holding back tears was something she’d trained herself to do.
“And I hate that I’ve done that to her. Gods, I hate it.” A breath. A stifled sob. “But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to let go. And I’m starting to wonder…”
She looked at me, finally meeting my eyes.
“…if this search is hurting us more than it’s helping.”
She drew in a long, trembling breath. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Not if it means losing the daughter I still have. Not if it means watching her hurt every time I leave.”
Her hands shook now, and she pressed them to her chest, as if trying to hold herself together.
“Tell me,” she whispered. “Should I still go through with this? Should I still try to find him? Or should I stop before I lose the daughter I already have?”
My throat clenched.
I had just spent hours preparing for the moment I could finally tell her how I felt—but not like this. Not when she looked so defeated. Not when her heart was already in pieces.
I wanted to reach for her immediately, to wrap her in my arms and promise that everything would be alright. But I stayed still.
Because what she needed now wasn’t love.
She needed truth.
“Bellatrix,” I said softly, “you’ve done everything you could. And more.”
She looked up, eyes rimmed with red.
“This spell I’ve been preparing…” I took a breath. “Let it be the last.”
Her lips parted — maybe to argue, maybe to plead — but I raised a hand, just slightly.
“If it works… if you find him — then you’ll know. You’ll finally know.”
I hesitated. My throat tightened.
“But if it doesn’t…”
I leaned forward, holding her gaze.
“Then it’s time to let go.”
Tears welled up in her eyes.
“No one will ever say you didn’t try. No one will ever accuse you of giving up. And no one… would ever question your love. You’ve carried this grief longer than most could survive. You’ve searched across kingdoms, across years. You’ve bled for hope. You’ve burned for it. And if it ends here… then let it end knowing you did everything you could.”
My voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s time to live your life. Your life. Not the one stolen from you, or the one you keep chasing—the one you still have. Right here.”
Bellatrix stared at me—silent, motionless—until her lips trembled and her shoulders gave out, like the weight of it all had finally broken past her defenses.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
And then another.
I reached across the table and took her hand.
It was cold.
I wrapped my fingers around hers gently, rubbing my thumb across her knuckles, anchoring her. She didn’t pull away.
“I’m here,” I whispered.
My voice trembled, but I meant every word. “Whatever happens… I’ll still be here.”
Bellatrix tried to speak, but no sound came. Her throat worked through a dozen words she couldn’t say, and then—finally—she nodded, tears streaking down her face.
She gave me a watery, crooked smile.
Not the one she wore for others.
Not the one that masked her pain.
But a real one. Fragile. Grateful. Soft.
“Adonis… thank you,” she whispered, voice catching.
Her fingers curled around mine, just slightly. “I don’t… I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you.”
The words landed in my chest with more force than she could ever know.
I smiled back, though it hurt.
Because I had so much more to say.
So many feelings I had buried so deep, afraid they’d spill over and ruin everything. But this wasn’t the moment.
She was holding on by threads.
And I refused to make her carry my heart, too.
So I said nothing more.
I just held her hand.
And in that silence, we let the night pass us by—together.
…
Three days passed like that.
Not in stillness, but in motion. Quiet motion. Measured steps.
She didn’t bring up her doubts again. Not once. She took each day with quiet grace, focusing on Anne with more patience than I’d seen in months. She smiled more. Sat with her longer. Laughed when Anne teased her. And each time, I watched her from afar—relieved. Proud. Heartbroken.
Because I knew she was preparing to let go.
And I was preparing the spell that would decide if she had to.