Dark Acadamia Quotes - Tumblr Posts
the only thing harder than the ride to the vet is the ride home.
"i couldnt do it i couldnt stay i couldnt watch her die i instead fled to the waiting room like the coward i am i could not even wait alone and i begged my love to join me."
-- Goodbye To My Cat
"this false reality is far better than my real one."
i think you are the love of my life but we have only been together for nine months i think you are the love of my life but i am only 17 i think you are the love of my life but what if we break up i think you are the love of my life but what if you arent?
this time last week i felt like my life was over and did not plan on continuing today i have laughed more than i ever have before it may be overused advice but it really is worth it to keep going.
"for a while, it felt like sex was all we did. the second we were alone, our clothes came off. i was content with this for some time - happy, even - but then i came to wonder whether it was me that you loved or my body. yesterday, we had fun. youthful, giggling fun that left us both is a laughing fit. i do not think i have ever laughed so hard. while i enjoy having sex, i want to laugh with you, too."
-- a message to my love
maybe i really have misunderstood my mother all this time.
an author told me to write how can i let her down?
when i was 12 i realised that my attraction was not limited to boys i made minor hints to test the waters with my other but never wished to do anything with it on our way to girl guides she asked me whether i liked girls i denied it i wish that she told me that she would still love me as a sinner.
"my parents are immigrants and i have adopted their accent this has caused the people of this country to judge me the second i open my mouth they view me as an outsider - different for some reason they have resented me for it and all i know is that the way that i speak has ruined my chance at making something of myself and i fear that i cannot undo it."
-- second gen immigrant
"not enough is being done to protect us this school doesnt care regardless of what we have done for it simply because we are different it seems that being queer has stripped us of our humanity in their eyes."
-- homophobic high school
exams are what decimate the small amount of confidence i have cultivated over the past year i call them The Annual Reckoning.
i hate the pressure that comes from the annual testing when i find out whether the hundreds of hours of studying were worth it although it never seems to be.
i hope that some day they will enjoy my words.
when i was a girl i did not know that there was anything wrong with my body. now i see the cracks.
To Decadent Poets - Summary
Hey, guys! That's my book here, I decided to post a few chapters (or maybe more) after translating it from Brazilian Portuguese to English. I really wanted to share this work and hope you enjoy it.
Here's a quick summary of the book:
Title: Taigh Hill Dedications
Series: To Decadent Poets
Tags: Dark Academia, Poetry, World War II, Scotland, Art;
If you liked... you're gonna like this: Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter (especially Marauders era), Anne with an E, Enola Holmes, Pride and Prejudice, etc.
Trigger Warning: child abuse/neglect, abusive relationships, racism, antisemitism, xenophobia, biphobia, homophobia, anxiety crisis, mentions of abortion, PTSD, post-partum depression.
Add: The book didn't have a Sensitive Editor, so any problems with how people of color, disabilities, or queer people are portrayed can be discussed directly with the author.
Synopsis: When the war begins Christian is sent to the North of Scotland to live with his estranged godfather in his isolated property. He couldn't imagine he would've found his kindred spirits at that forgotten place, his family in every way but blood.
Noah is a jew, Oliver is German, and Annie has a strong head that can rival his own. All of them were very different but their love for art and an old mystery of the old property can be enough to join them forever or never again allow their friendship to flourish.
Author's note: Historical accuracy is not something this author tried to pass on in this story, dear readers. There are a lot of historical changes happening in the books and in no way should this book be considered a good account of real events of the time they represent.
Summary (with links):
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7 - Coming soon...
Taigh Hill Dedications - Chapter 1
Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!
“In a Midnight dreary while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door ‘Tis some visitor’ I muttered ‘tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more’” — The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe
People could go fuck themselves, this was Christian Anthony Evans's motto for life.
From experience, the boy could say for sure that seeking people's approval was always something bad. And Christian had learned that in the worst way possible: through the suffering of being rejected by his own father. When he was a kid, Chris couldn't understand why Maxwell wouldn't behave like his friend's parents did, carrying him on his shoulders and laughing at silly jokes that made no sense.
“Your father doesn't know how to express his own love,” his mother Jeanne would say patiently while putting him to bed when his bedtime would come. “He feels too intensely, Chris, and tries to hide these feelings to protect himself.”
At seven, Chris could understand his dad, or at least, he tried to understand the man he admired the most in the whole world. At sixteen, after countless ignored anniversaries and conversations, he was tired of his mother's excuses for his father's behavior and simply decided not to care. Well, not about everything: Chris cared about his mom and his friends, but not about his father.
Never about Maxwell.
When Jeanne had something to say about Maxwell, he didn't want to hear. Ignore just how he was ignored, Chris thought, and he couldn't be happier after he started to really do it, occupying his time with entertaining his mother, since she suffered just like — or even more than — him with his father's absence. He would have fun with his friends until late — at least after his fourteenth birthday — so he could avoid his dad all day but the five minutes through breakfast.
It was for this reason that when Maxwell came into the house that cold September afternoon, Chris and Jeanne knew there was something wrong.
At first, the day seemed like any other day: Chris woke up at the same hour to go to school, had breakfast in an uncomfortable silence between his parents, gave his mother a goodbye kiss, and left without looking at his dad. When he came back home at lunchtime, the employees served the food while Nana, the old housekeeper who had raised Jeanne, knit in her rocking chair with an amused smile to Chris. Both of them, like his mother and him, had been very close since he was a kid and she loved to curl her finger through Chris's hair, commenting on how she had only seen his deep shade of red hair in books.
Nana was the one who had awakened the boy's taste for literature, although he rarely mentioned he liked books. For some reason, his friends seemed to think reading was boring and Chris didn't know what to think about it. He thought books were so interesting and truthful, so full of emotions and adventures, capable of curing all his pain with their magic infinite stories. He loved them immediately.
“You're quiet today,” said the old housekeeper with her sweet husky voice, her white hair as soft as cotton.
“I'm eating, Nana,” said Chris in response with a sly smile to the older one while he leaned back and looked at her. “Weren't you the one to teach me it's impolite to eat with my mouth open?”
“Sassy boy,” she provoked, laughing, and got Chris to smile, too. Then, he returned to his food. The old lady, though, seemed restless and said: “I think something is happening.”
“What is it, Nana?” the boy asked, frowning when he looked up from his plate to look at the older woman carefully while she rocked herself and looked at the window, lost in thoughts.
Nana, though, just shook her head and strongly clipped her tongue, smiling a little, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.
“Nothing, son, just an old lady's silly feelings” she finally answered and Chris snorted, sarcastically.
Like his step-grandma could be considered anything near silly.
Knowing what he meant with that snorting, Nana just smiled and got back to her knitting. After some seconds of silence, which was broken just by the soft noise of the needles hitting each other, Chris gave up and continued to eat, aware he wouldn't get an answer from the old lady.
The rest of the afternoon also passed without any problem: after lunch, he got himself clean and went down, where he knew his mother would spend her whole afternoon, waiting for visits that wouldn't come and for a husband who wouldn't come home until late at night. Jeanne was the sweetest person Chris had ever met in his life and it wasn't rare for Nana to say he should always give thanks for having a mother like her, because not many people in the world were like his mother. In fact, there were too many insufferable ignorant people and Chris could even include some of his own friends on the bill. And his parents too.
As always, Jeanne was sitting on the burgundy patterned sofa, staring at the window in front of her, so lost inside herself that Chris laughed at the sight of her open-mouthed and starry-eyed, something anyone would find weird and still, his mother was beautiful.
Silently, he allowed Jeanne to compose herself after this moment of distraction when his arrival woke her up, and walked to the right bookshelf, at the back of the living room. There was two of them, each one in one side of the marble fireplace. The wood floor ran the vertical, from the window to the bookshelves and the cream-colored wall, smooth like his mother, who had decorated the room.
“How about a bit of Jane Eyre today?” the boy offered when his mother turned to him, holding the black vellum and golden words book for her to see it.
“No, I think I want some poetry today” was Jeanne's answer.
Her voice sounded to Chris's ears like a feeling symphony, he almost closed his eyes to hear it better. There were always so many tones printed on Jeanne's voice that it was almost impossible to understand all of it.
However, instead of closing his eyes, Chris just smiled jokingly and raised an eyebrow:
“You guess or you sure?” he raised his hands in peace when his mother gave him that look.
In Chris's opinion, every mother had a look capable of stopping their children from doing whatever they were doing. It was a warning mixed with a caring firmness, hard to explain, but he could feel he should stop what was annoying her at that moment.
“Right, lemme sit next to you then.”
He traded the books on the bookshelf and sat beside his mom, without caring about the fact that she continued to look out the window as she always did, still waiting for someone who would never come. Chris just looked at his mother's red hair and looked down, to the pages of his book. Edgar Allan Poe wasn't Jeanne's style, but Chris was sure she wouldn't hear a word he said, so he just took a deep breath and started:
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…”
And just like that they spend the afternoon, with his mom looking through the window and Chris's voice, soft and sounding for the reading, filling up the room with the word master's words. He read poems and some tales to his mother and, at the end of the third tale — Berenice — Chris closed the book and supported it on his bent leg, looking to Jeanne with hesitation before asking softly:
“Why don't you try to paint for a while?”
That woke Jeanne up and she looked at him, speechless for a moment with her son's suggestion, then smiled, but there was something painful in her smile, something that made Chris's heart contort inside him.
“Why don't you read to me a little more, cariad? Or maybe I could. Your throat must be dry already” was all that Jeanne said as an answer.
Chris didn't say anything for a couple of seconds, just staring at his mom and trying to convince her silently to talk to him, but it was in vain. Jeanne could be twenty times more stubborn than her son and just looked back at him, that soft expression making keeping the discussion up impossible for Chris. The boy looked away and handed the book to Jeanne in silence, giving up after a few minutes, but before the delicate hands could hold the book, the front door pounded open with a wicked noise and Maxwell appeared in the opening that led to the living room.
Different from the days he used to arrive early, his hair was a mess and his cravat really twisted. And his eyes, the one thing father and son shared, shone like crazy, wide. That expression in his usually stoic father made his wife move, standing from the sofa and going quickly to him with her preoccupation printed in her expression. Chris also got up, hesitant and unsure what to do, not linking a bit the change in his routine.
“Max, what happened?” asked Jeanne to her husband with a frown. Chris looked at his father, who was staring at him without even blinking, and put his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth while trying to ignore the uncomfortable aura of the room. “Max, talk to me.”
“I'll… let you talk,” said Chris when he heard the urgency in his mom's voice.
He didn't want to see Jeanne like that, especially because of his dad, but when Chris motioned to the exit, Maxwell moved abruptly, as if he had just woken up from a dream, and said with a husky voice:
“No, I need to talk with you two.”
Chris felt his body go stiff, resisting Maxwell's authoritarian tone, but the boy forced himself to just nod, clearly uncomfortable, and sat back on the sofa, putting the book in his hand on the table beside it while his father held Jeanne by the shoulders, firmly gentle, and put her in one of the armchairs.
For a moment, all of the three stood there in silence, looking at each other as if they were strangers. Chris was impatient but just vibrated his own leg while massaging his right hand, which was sore. Maxwell's eyes fixated on his son's hand, who recoiled quietly under his stare, ignoring his pity expression.
When he was younger, Chris had an accident and broke his hand, which had never been cured quite right. Maxwell didn't even go to the hospital, although his mother told him he was worried. Not enough to go to a hospital, apparently. The older man didn't seem satisfied when he knew Chris could never be a part of the military like him because of his hand.
“Talk to us, Max,” said Jeanne, taking her husband's hand, while he was standing.
The older man looked at them and sat down, his face frozen in an angst expression made Chris's heart beat faster inside his chest.
"Today by afternoon, less than an hour ago, the prime minister decided we're at war against Germany,” said Maxwell, and Chris almost snorted his disdain if it wasn't the preoccupation he was feeling.
Different from his friends, he didn't share their arrogant beliefs of England's superiority. Actually, he didn't even understand it, but maybe that was the result of his mother being Scottish, and Scotland, in general, was still sore about England. None of them spoke for a long time, then Maxwell cleared his throat and said, looking at his son:
“You and your mother will go to your godfather's estate at the north of Scotland in a week. It's already decided, Elijah has given his permission…”
“Hold on” Chris got up, his hand in the air, making his father stop. “How come, out of nowhere, I'll go to Scotland? What about school? My education? What the hell am I going to do in the middle of Scotland?”
“You'll be secure!” Maxwell yelled, closing his eyes as if asking for patience Chris also had to control his own temper, but just because of his mom's eyes on him. “And don't worry, Elijah was an Oxford professor, he will be able to take care of your education.”
The last words were said in an impatient tone that made Chris want to continue the discussion, but he was tired of all of this. He knew his father wasn't sending him to Scotland to free him from some responsibility: Chris wouldn't be able to fight in a war even if he wanted to. So that meant England was expecting violent attacks on the capital. Air Strikes, probably, but attacks nonetheless.
“I'll help Chris with his bags,” said Jeanne calmly, exchanging looks with her son before turning to her husband and adding: “But I'm staying here.”
“No, you won't!” Maxwell had an immediate reaction, turning to his wife with an expression nearly panicked.
Even feeling himself shivering and his body freezing with fear, Chris turned to his mom and stood silent, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“Max, I'm not gonna argue with you. I'm staying and that's final” said Jeanne with a silent firmness, her eyes shining strong to her husband, who swallowed and tried to protest, but the woman was already exposing arguments: “You're gonna need me here to take care of everything. Wars last year, you know that, and we won't leave this house for anyone to enter, we won't leave Nana here alone and in danger, I won't abuse my friend's hospitality, we won't leave our things to thieves and mostly, I won't leave you here alone for the time you'll be in England, even if it is just a little.”
The two adults looked at each other in a silent argument and Chris took advantage of that to climb up the stairs in his room's direction. His mom knew how to take care of herself and, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do or say to convince her to go with him. With Jeanne's stubbornness, there wasn't a soul capable of making her go to Scotland with him and Chris knew it better than anyone.
Sighing, confused, he passed his finger through his hair, feeling the curls straightening in his hand.
He had a lot to think about.
Go to Chapter 2
Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!
And I'll tell thee: Love to understand'em 'Cause only those who loved could hear Could listen and understand stars. — Milky Way, Olavo Bilac
Oliver smiled from his house's window when he saw his father walking through the street, satisfied because Anton had come back home safe and sound. Not that he was afraid of the war, but he was afraid of what people could do to a German immigrant in the middle of it.
Of course, Oliver understood England's fear, but it didn't make him any less worried about his father, not even a little bit. The war had started six days ago and, on that day, especially, their memories of Germany were particularly hard on Anton and himself, but his father couldn't get out of work early to spend time with his son, especially because his dad's boss, the Terrible Mister Kurtz, as Oliver used to call him, didn't allowed it.
In general, the day had been good, something really surprising. Oliver had gone to school and had some fun with the colleagues he had, even if all those memories were there, pinching him every moment of the day and if it was hard to breathe sometimes. That was the reason why the sight of his dad entering through the door was such a relief for Oliver: he didn't know if he could go through the day without Anton's help.
The moment he heard the noise of the key scratching the door, Oliver left his bed and climbed down the stairs to the hall. Anton had just put his keys on the table when the boy hit the first floor and, when his eyes met, they stared at each other, motionless.
His dad looked like he had aged a lot more than the three years that had passed since Liora, Oliver's mom, had been taken from their house by the SS. That day, November 9th, 1936, would be marked in their memories forever. Anton tried to hide since then, but Oliver knew his dad was exhausted to the bone since they fled Germany to England.
The old man's blonde hair was grey and his eyes had dark circles and wrinkles. Anton walked increasingly more shrunken, trying not to drawn attention to himself in the middle of English society, because everyone knew that dark times would come to each one of the beings who lived under European skies.
“Let's go,” said Anton with his strong German accent in English, without a greeting, but stretching his hand to him with a sorry glow in his light-green eyes. “I'm going to make some dinner. Did you excuse Mrs. Mason, didn't you?”
Oliver swallowed hard and nodded, letting his father guide him by his dad's hand on his back, realizing how shaken they were by the touch. Anton didn't speak while making toast with jam for them, because the old man had no idea how to cook. Sometimes, Oliver thought that was the biggest mistake: how could someone leave to other such a basic necessity as food making?
Any other day, he'd have annoyed his dad with that, but not that day. Neither of them knew how to act normal even if they tried, Oliver knew that for sure. They had tried nine months ago on his mom's birthday and four months ago, on Hadrian's birthday.
Because of that, neither of them spoke while eating, facing the plaid white and red tablecloth they used for picnics in the countryside when his dad had to travel for work. Oliver had such sweet memories with his father and was grateful to Anton for all of them. He was a wonderful dad and had always been, Oliver just hadn't been capable of noticing it before they'd lost his mom.
When the boy got up after finishing up, aware that his every move was monitored by his dad, Anton caught his attention with a calm and tired tone of voice. He had been using this voice after the German soldiers had taken Liora, much weaker than his usual baritone voice, the voice his mother used to love echoing through the house in endless songs.
“Oliver,” he said, “sit down again, I want to talk to you about something.”
Slowly, the boy sat again, feeling the muscles on his back stiffening with the tension while Anton ran his hand through his face with a sigh full of exhaustion. That made Oliver’s heart miss a beat, sore for his dad’s pain, and he wanted to get up and hug him more than anything, but something in his father’s expression warned him not to.
“What about, dad?” he asked with caution, getting more worried when Anton stared at him with a shinier look than before.
“Do you remember me and mister Kurtz work for a Scottish man named Elijah Wood, right?” asked Anton and Oliver just nodded, frowning with the suspicion that he knew what way this was going. Anton had already tried to talk to him about it, but he thought his father had given up after a whole hour of fighting about the matter. “Mister Wood allowed you to stay with them in Scotland during the war.”
For a moment, both of them stared at each other, their eyes identical except for what they showed. Oliver was deeply mad at his dad even considering the thought of him leaving him alone in the middle of a goddamn war when they were the enemy there.
Anton, on the other hand, had decided that his son was going even if he had to force him to enter that train, the strong necessity of keeping Oliver safe was his everyday motivation and he wouldn’t give up on it that easily.
“You can’t be serious,” said Oliver after he processed the information his father had just given him. “I told you I didn’t want to go!”
“It’s not about what you want, it’s about your safety, Oliver,” Anton countered without raising his voice, his tone still calm as a windless night. “We’re talking about a war and London will be one of the most affected by it.”
“I’m not going,” Oliver declared, frowning. “You’ll be here, dad, you’re my only family.”
“And I’m going to be forever,” Anton said with a bit of soothing. “But I need you to be safe, Oliver, you know I need you to be safe.”
“Don’t use mom and Hadrian against me,” the cutting in Oliver’s tone made the older one recoil in his chair, shrinking even more and the boy hated that, he hated his father thought he had to hide from him, because of him. “You know as much as me this family would stay together if it was up to her.”
“And look how things turned out, Oliver!” Anton exclaimed and, even with the desperation in his voice, all the boy could do was resent it, because he was really trying to use his mother to make him change his mind. “You’ll go and I’m not going to discuss it further. I… can’t allow you to stay here.”
“You’d preferred if I had been taken last year,” Oliver said without looking at his dad, it seemed like such a horrible discussion he couldn’t do much to hold his tears. “It’s the reason why you want to send me away, right? Because you don’t wanna remember what you’ve lost.”
“Oliver...” Anton whispered upon hearing him, but his voice failed and he said nothing more, mainly because Oliver got up, dragging the chair on the floor and making the screeching noise echo in the house’s silence, and he left the cramped kitchen, leaving him alone.
The boy didn’t think of anything before climbing the stairs and entering his room, feeling the anger pump blood into his veins and making him hot. He threw himself on the bed, looking up at the painted stars in the white ceiling while they blurred with the unshed tears, and then focused again when they ran through his skin to the roots of his blonde hair.
Those stars reminded him of his mother and, when they’d arrived in England, to see them was like a self-inflicted punishment to compensate for the guilt Oliver carried around in his heart, but now they were just a painful sweet memory.
Liora Krause was the most wonderful person to ever exist, Oliver thought. His mom was the face of Life, always cheerful, always willing to drag the family men to a dance in the middle of the night or throw a party in the tiniest apartment in the world to close friends of their family, always willing to help old ladies cross the street and shelter and give food to shelterless boys even if one of them ended up robbing her every time.
She had a fiery spirit and carried words in her hands like her shield and sword, ready to defend the one she loved and be firm with those who needed firm words. It may have been because of that, and her harsh critique of Hitler and his hateful government, that she was marked as one of the Jewish women to be taken that night. It may have been just random. Oliver didn’t know and probably wouldn’t come a day when he’d find out.
His brother, Hadrian, was just six-year-old when he was killed by nazi soldiers. Oliver had seen it all. He saw it when the soldier pointed the gun at his brother’s head and shot, the blood and remaining brain matter spattering through the small apartment which had been his family’s, on the living room his parents used to dance and sing and play with him and Hadrian. Even after a year, Oliver could still hear in the silence the buzz the gun’s noise had caused in his ears.
Oliver heard when his father’s shuffled steps got closer and stopped by his room’s door. Hesitated. Anton carried on to his own room, closing the door quietly, so quietly Oliver barely heard it.
The things Oliver had said to his dad weren’t even close to the truth, he knew that. And knew he had broken Anton with his false accusation, but he was so mad the word just slipped out of his tongue, without any coherent thought. He knew that wasn’t a good excuse, that when he was angry, the best thing to do was take time, calm down, and think about it when he could, but the thought of leaving his father alone scared him more than anything.
After what happened that night, Oliver’s dad didn’t rest until he got his best friend, who was a soldier, to help them flee to English territory. Once they got to England, Anton was just a shadow of the man he was before, not even close to being the father Oliver remembered or needed.
Those first months were so hard sometimes that he didn’t even want to get up, knowing the day would find countless ways of making him melt down with the memory of his mom. Oliver could hardly breath in those times and now, they were a blur in his mind, so far away the seemed to have happened years ago, but still hurt like hours ago.
Oliver couldn’t sleep.
He couldn’t sleep, not yet, not when he knew he had hurt his dad, not when he knew the nightmares would torment him during sleep, hopeless and terrifying. When the clock struck eleven PM, he rolled over, took the book from his nightstand, and opened it to his most beloved page.
The paper was worn and yellowish, and curved slightly in the corners, but Oliver passed his fingers through the written words below one his mom’s favorite poems in life. Low-toned, he read to silence the buzz in his left ear:
“Well (you say) hear stars! Right Lost thy mind!” And I tell you, however, That, to listen’em, many times I wake up And open my windows, pale and baffled…
And we talk the whole night The Milky Way, as a pale openness, shines. And, coming the sun, wistful and morose, I still search for them in the desert sky.
You say now: “My mad friend! What do you talk about? What sense Can their words have, when with you?”
And I tell thee: “Love to understand’em! ‘Cause only those who love can hear Capable of listening and understanding the stars.
Oliver, then, read what was written below Olavo Bilac's poem with attention and felt his heart clenching as he saw the familiar handwriting:
I hear the stars because I love an easy-laughing boy and the smiling young man with a silver tongue to whom I gave birth and because I love the man who makes all the stars shine in his eyes.
He knew Anton was crying in his room and knew he should go to him and apologize for what he had said, especially after re-reading his mother’s words. He knew he’d been wrong, knew that Liora’s first priority in this situation would be ensuring that her kids and husband were safe. And he knew his dad couldn’t bear to lose him, knew he was the only thread of hope Anton had in his life because he was Oliver’s as well.
Dragging himself out of bed and through the corridor, Oliver didn’t knock before entering, finding his dad crying as he clutched to a portrait of Liora and Hadrian. In the picture, they were on a family trip to the countryside of Germany. It had been in the summer so they didn’t need to worry too much about coats and gloves. They were all smiling, having fun in the grass and, if he closed his eyes, Oliver could still hear the sound of his brother’s laughter and his mother’s arms around him.
At that moment, however, the broken, sad image of his dad crying over it broke his heart and ended up making Oliver realize the severity of his words and the effect they had had on Anton, as well as the fact he’d have to deal with it.
Oliver quickly closed the space between him and Anton, gently taking the portrait off his hands and sitting beside his dad on the bed before he could say anything. Anton didn’t look at him as he said, his voice hoarse from the crying:
“I’ve never, not in a single moment, wished you to have the same fate as your mom and brother, Oliver.”
“I know,” said the boy with a painful lump in his throat, stopping him from speaking anything he needed to. “I know you didn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I said that. I’m... sorry.”
“I just want you to be safe,” murmured his father and Oliver couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.
He also started crying and hugged his dad with all his strength, as if he was never letting him go. Oliver was so completely terrified he wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with his dad just so that Anton could tuck him in like he did when Oliver was a kid — even if it wasn’t the same because of his age.
“I’m afraid, Dad,” said Oliver in a desperate whisper, “I don’t… I don’t believe anything I said to you in the kitchen, I’m just terrified of losing you too.”
Anton stayed quiet and didn’t promise anything. They knew some promises were Worth nothing in the face of war, knew Anton didn’t have a say whether he died or not in it. Instead, his dad said: “You’re a Krause, you’re Liora’s son. You carry part of her fire inside of you, Oliver, I could see that every day of my life. You’ll do it because if anyone could, it was your mom. And you are just like her”. Those words ensnared Oliver’s heart and consoled him enough that the perspective of going to the property of his dad’s boss didn’t seem so unbearable. When he nodded, consenting to the trip, Anton just said: “Let’s go down to the kitchen, I’ll make you come hot cocoa.”
Go to Chapter 3