I don’t believe in family anymore.

Mother would kill me if she heard me say something like that.  But I can’t believe. Not anymore. Not now. Not ever again. How could I possibly after this?  I can’t blindly keep believing in second chances.  Maybe I still believe in them, but we’re far beyond second chances now.  It must be the hundredth by now, and I’m done.  It’s not that I don’t love her anymore; of course I do.  But I can’t believe this will work out. Her and us–it’s just not possible.  It can’t be. This can’t be what family is.

I can’t believe.

Maybe some families are whole.  Maybe some brothers and sisters are happy and healthy.  But that’s not us. I don’t have hope for us anymore. Isn’t it time we stopped hoping?  Isn’t it time we stopped deceiving people? Isn’t it time we stopped getting all our hopes up, just to watch them get dashed?

Father always told me about him.  He said he hated family, and every time a family was forged, he would do everything in his power to ruin it.  I cannot believe that anymore either. He does not hate everyone, he only hates us.  We are the only ones he ever attacks.  We are the only family who suffers.

I won’t believe.

My heart aches with the memories.  This was the last place I saw her. The memory is haunting.  The pressure of her arms around my neck. The music of her laugh, right beside my ear.  The feather-lightness of her weight as I swept her off the floor into a twirl. Her dwindling figure as she stood watching me ride away, waiting and watching till I was out of sight.

The door hangs open.  The autumn breeze flies around me, chilling me.  But I’m already cold. I don’t bother closing it; I stand looking out.  I can see the path into the forest I know she took. I can see the scuffs from his boots across the doorstep.  Why would she go with him?  How could she?

It’s over now.  I try to steel my heart to the pain; my mind to the memories.  The first day I looked into her rich brown eyes and made her call me brother.  The first time I dared to hope.  The first time I dared to love her.

I don’t believe.

The cool wind whips an old parchment off of father’s long-forgotten desk, deep in the shadows of the dim room.  It flies across the burnished, dusty wood; it lashes against my legs. It makes me jump. And for the first time, I look back.  My sword lies on the table, gleaming softly in the light of the candle. The last candle that hasn’t gone out.

Father’s sword.  The familiar blade begs me to believe.  It pleads for me to give family another chance.  To say that the previous time wasn’t the last time.  It wasn’t one-last-time, and neither is this.  It begs me to believe in new beginnings. Not second chances, but hundredth chances–and thousandth chances, and millionth and billionth.  It reminds me seventy times seven is a sum much greater than I ever learned to multiply.

Can I possibly believe again?

I step slowly toward the deserted weapon, the wooden floor creaking under my leather boots.  I grasp the hilt, and the metal is cold. Would I call her sister again? It begs me to dare to keep loving.  It pleads for me to risk my heart again. The old wounds hurt too deep–I can’t, I won’t, I don’t. Don’t want to.

I don’t want to believe in family anymore.

I remember mother’s smile; the warmth of father’s hand on my shoulder.  The pride that swelled my heart at his praise; the warmth that filled it at her whisper.

I want to believe it’s possible for her too, but I can’t.

Yet who will, if not me?  Was it the truth that father told me–he hates every family?  Have the whole, happy, healthy families felt this intense pain too?  Is the forging of every family this ugly? I grasp the cold leather of my sword belt, and sling it over my head.  The familiar weight settles on my shoulder, the familiar touch at my side. My resolve hardens at the feeling. I snatch my cloak off the table and throw it around my shoulders.  The pain sears my heart again at the thought of his first attack.  The memory of touching her lifeless hand and hoping like I had never hoped or pleaded before.  Wrapping this same cloak around her cold body and lifting her onto my horse. I hook the silver clasp at my throat, and the pain flames into anger, not despair.  I will fight.  I will fight for her.

I don’t believe he won’t win.

But I can go down fighting.  I can call him enemy for as long as conscious thought remains to me.  I can call her sister as long as my heart is still beating.  I can bear my father’s sword as long as I have strength in my hands.

As long as I can feel pain and anger, and joy and warmth, I can believe.

~*~

I don’t remember all the surrounding details, but I wrote this when I was struggling, as a sort of healing.  I’m sharing it in hopes that because of that, it might help someone else find healing.  Family is always worth it.

Happy summer, hobbits.