moonshadows

“Mom?”

I look up from my book to find that Tiffin has looked up from hers. “Yes, dear?”

Cornflower-blue eyes, clear as the summer sky, bore steadily into me. “Tell me about Grampa Tammis.”

She doesn’t mean his life. I set my book down. “You’re old enough to hear this now, I think-“

“I’m seventeen, Mom.”

“Tiffin, in order to understand what happened, you have to hear the whole story, and there are many things in that story that most children would be happier never knowing about their parents.”

Her face hardens. “I have to know the worst that can be done to someone if I’m to properly protect the innocent.”

“The day I turned eighteen, Blackmoore raped me.” The blue of her eyes hardens into sapphire chips. “He threatened to dismiss my father, to reveal the horror that my mother had suckled a monster, to cuff me until I cried, if I didn’t submit. I smiled and pretended that I liked it, praying that my parents wouldn’t find out, that it would be over quickly and never happen again. When he let me go, I hid in a closet for three hours and cried, muffling my sobs with a towel. I couldn’t bear to tell anyone what happened, and no one seemed curious although I swore they were all watching me silently.”

Calmly, dispassionately, I detail for my daughter the things I suffered at Blackmoore’s hand, interspersed with examples of his casual cruelty to everyone else. By the time I reach the decision to leave with Thrall, silent tears slide down her cheeks but her eyes are still cold and hard as ice, and her jaw is clenched the way her father’s does.

“…and I remember thinking, ‘he must have killed Ma first’ before the tears came.”

“Monster,” Tiffin hisses, hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles are white. “I’m glad Uncle Thrall killed him.”

“If he hadn’t, your father would have.”

With an effort, she forces the anger from her expression and what’s left is iron determination. “Thank you, Mother. I know that couldn’t have been easy for you.”

I pull her into my arms and hold her tightly, blinking back tears. “You needed to know. Just remember that justice, not vengeance, should drive you. Promise me, Tiffin.”

“I promise,” she says shakily, determination melting as it sinks in that her mother suffered such horrible things. “I swear by the spirit of my namesake that I will act for justice and not vengeance.”

She chokes, tears getting the better of her, and for many minutes she cries like a small child. I hold her and stroke her hair, murmuring comfort in common and orcish. Seventeen she may be, but the last piece of her innocence has just died beneath the onslaught of my words and nothing can cushion that blow.

“How did you ever…” she swallows and sniffles, forcing her breathing into a more steady rhythm but not making any motion to escape my embrace. “How did you ever manage to get past that enough to have us?”

“Where there’s a will, Tiffin, there’s a way. Your father didn’t give up and neither did I. The surest way to fail is to not try. I saw it as a battle against Blackmoore’s memory, and I vowed that he would not control me in death as he had in life.”

Shakily, she laughs and pulls back. “I remember when I was little, I wanted to be as strong as Dad and as beautiful as you. Now that I know…I hope I can be as strong as you, Mom.”

Gently, I brush away a stray tear and smile. “My beautiful daughter. I hope you never have to be as strong as me.”