Between Bruises & Blooms

Nehemia,

I think
that is what hurts most—

you knew.

You knew
what your death
would do to her.

You knew
she would find you.

Knew grief
would tear through
whatever fragile walls
she had built.

Knew Celaena
would blame herself
before she blamed
the world.

And still,

you stepped willingly
toward the blade.

Not because
you wanted to die.

Because you had begun
to believe
your death
could accomplish
what your life
could not.

God,
I hated you
for that.

For a little while.

Because love
is supposed
to make us stay.

Isn't it?

Love is supposed
to make us fight
to come home.

But you looked
at a sleeping kingdom,
at a girl
hiding inside
an assassin's name,

and decided
someone had to strike
the match.

So you made yourself
kindling.

And Celaena burned.

She burned
through grief.

Through rage.

Through every lie
she had wrapped
around her own name.

Until eventually

Aelin
stood in the ashes.

Maybe that
was what you wanted.

Maybe you knew
there was a queen
buried inside her
who would never rise
while she still had
somewhere comfortable
to hide.

But knowing that
doesn't make it hurt less.

Because revolutions
sound beautiful
when history tells them.

History rarely mentions
the body
on the bedroom floor.

The friend
who came too late.

The screaming.

The guilt.

The girl
who would spend
the rest of her life
carrying someone
who decided
she had to become
a ghost

before her friend
could become
a queen.