Wild ​Reverence

by Rebecca Ross

“Matilda?” my mother repeated, surprised. “Why?” “It means mighty in battle.”

War only makes love flame brighter, defiant. It seems to bloom from the bloodshed you leave behind, unfurling from the most unlikely places. From the broken seams of the world. From the graves and the anguish and the fear you inspire.”

I wanted someone to claim me.

You hold on to her. But who could hold on to the wind? And—better yet—who would be so foolish as to trust—to love—such a wild being?

This is the beginning of the end, I thought. If heartless gods can be made soft by such love, we are all doomed.

She was not mine by spoken vow but something deeper. Something that felt older, stronger, darker, like a language that had been sung centuries ago but had now been forgotten. Something that simmered in the blood, calling to me, calling to her.

Dear Matilda, I wrote. I let the words flow for her. And when the ink dried, I gave my very heart to the fire.

“Oh child, you are still quite young, aren’t you? He longs to worship you, but not in the way you think.”

My home is your home. My arms are a haven for you to rest. My last name is yours if you desire it. I will love you to my grave, and even beyond it, when the mists welcome me, when I am hopefully very old and gray and grouchy and have spent the seasons beside you when you are here and dreaming of you when you are gone. I love you, dearly, Red. Come home to me. Return to me, when you can. I will be watching the skies and the river until then.

I could not hold her any more than I could the wind, but I loved her for it.

I had never called him that, but it was what he was to me. No blood tethered us, but without him, I would not have been who I was. I was the daughter he would never have. The child he had secretly wanted.