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That’s what crying was—freedom. You could only cry when there were no more urgent responsibilities. Only when there was no one watching you who depended on your strength. Only when the people around you wouldn’t take advantage of your tears.
Tears are precious. Don’t waste them on your enemies. Save them for your friends.
Adults were always scared. They hid it in a million ways—caution or confidence, disinterest or anger, a firm hand or warm embrace or sage advice—but the fear was always there if you knew how to see it.
“Go in peace.” She meant it when she said it. That was why he had refused to go with them, or to allow them to come with him. He didn’t want peace.
They knew that all of history was a lie told to instill fear in those whose fearlessness could have rewritten it.
But they didn’t know powerlessness. They didn’t know what it meant to have your gods stolen from you, leaving you blind to your own past. They didn’t know what it was to be deprived of iron, waiting helplessly for monsters to come ruin everything you loved. They didn’t know how it felt to live in a world with no friends, no heroes. A world of never-ending thirst. And their ignorance made them weak.
