Broken (The Captive #5.5)(74)

"I won't," he vowed.

"Atticus…"

"I have chosen my path Camille; I will never look back with regret. You will be able to move on with time but for me it is too late. The only thing for me to move on to is death and I will gladly accept that death once Genny has been avenged."

A sob escaped her; she grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed it before releasing it just as quickly. She was the only one that had realized just how much he despised being touched now. "You will always be my brother."

"You are the only sister I've ever had, or ever will, no matter what else you hear," he told her honestly. "Stay safe Camille."

"You also Atticus."

Unwilling to touch her again, he slid past her and out the doorway. He hurried down the narrow hallway, up the stairs, and across the deck. Exiting the ship, his boots rang across the wooden dock as he walked to Merle's waiting ship. When Camille arrived at her destination, his ship would return to him in Italy, but until then it was hers to use as she saw fit.

Striding across the plank, he stepped off of it and onto the deck of Merle's ship. He finally turned to watch his ship pull away from the dock. The wind ruffled his hair, the seagulls screamed above him as he stood and watched the last little piece of his humanity sail away. The emptiness within him felt all-consuming when he turned away from watching the ship sail into the horizon.

His uncle Nyles stepped off of the plank and onto the deck of Merle's ship. Fine lines of anger were still etched around his pinched mouth and furrowed brows. He'd been in a frenzy when it was discovered that his brother had also been killed in the raid by the humans.

Atticus smiled inwardly as he recalled the look in his father's eyes before he had tossed the torch onto the rushes. Outwardly, he continued to display the appropriate amount of rage and grief that would have been expected of him over his father's murder. He simply had to think of Genny in order to do so.

"Driven from our homes by humans," his uncle muttered and straightened his tunic.

"It seems to be the way of things," Atticus murmured. "They have a fair amount of control over us."

"Too much," his uncle's eyes glimmered as they met Atticus's gaze. "Far too much."

Atticus debated pushing it further but he bit his tongue, sowing the seeds of discontent would take time. To push it now, and too forcefully, could alienate those he needed on his side and cause suspicion to fall on his ultimate agenda.

"We should do something about that," his uncle continued as the ropes mooring the ship to the dock were tossed onto the deck.

Atticus fought back a smile. He turned away and strode down the steps to the hall below. Merle was heading for the stairs just as he descended. "I disposed of all the blood we had stored onboard," Merle said in a low voice when he reached him. "I didn't want to take the chance that my father would find it. There's no reason for him to know what we had planned."

Atticus's teeth clenched at the reminder of the completely different journey this was supposed to have been. "You're right."

He could feel Merle's eyes burning into his back as he walked down the hall to the small room he'd been assigned while on board. Closing the door, he threw the locks into place and leaned against it. His gaze fell on the small wooden trunk in the corner; he took a few minutes to steady himself before walking over and pulling it away from the wall. He hadn't dared open it until now.

Though he tried to control them, his hands were trembling as he lifted the lid. The scent of Genny assailed him immediately. He almost slammed the lid closed again but the scent of asters and the memories contained within this box ensnared him. That's all they were though, memories, and it's all it was, a box.

He gently pulled out the clothing still tucked within, Camille had taken some things but she'd left a few behind for him. With extreme care, he removed the thick bundle of parchment tucked within the bottom of the trunk. Leaning his back against the wall, he drew his legs up and propped the documents on his knees. His fingers traced over the small, neat handwriting so lovingly inscribed upon the pages before him. The date on the first one was from ten years ago, she would have been only twelve years old.

He immersed himself in her words, smiling sometimes, becoming angry at others, as he experienced the ups, downs, and plans of her life. She'd written nearly every day for the past ten years, sometimes just a sentence or two and sometimes detailed paragraphs of what she'd experienced.

Then she had discovered him and though there was still some unhappiness within those pages, there was so much love and laughter that for the first time since the night he'd found her lifeless body, he felt tears streaking down his face again. This was her last gift to him, one that he could revisit often. One that would serve as a reminder of the woman he'd loved and lost, and would allow him to experience the love she'd had for him over and over again through her eyes.

When he was done reading, he wanted to hug the parchments against his chest but it was far too precious to him to risk harming it in some way. Placing them carefully back in the chest, he removed the blank parchment, ink, and quill tucked inside before settling the bottom back into place and returning the clothing. Slipping her ribbons from his pocket, he ran his fingers over them one more time and inhaled her sweet scent before placing them on top of the tunics. If he continued to keep them with him, they would only get ruined and that was something he refused to have happen.