All His Wrath

Memories, bitter and frenzied, washed over him like salt in a fresh cut. When Paign had first learned of his father’s death in the War of Dominance, it was as if someone had, at that very moment, poured smoldering ash into his soul, melting it into slag. He’d felt all burnt inside, purged of all that was good. He’d felt only raw, cloaked in shrieking loneliness. Unlike a severe sunburn, there was no salve that Paign could have applied to his broken heart. But like the way a sunburn throbs until the skin is twisted—at which point the pain magnifies itself, almost as a most bitter punishment for having skin—Paign’s heartache and grief at the loss of his father had throbbed without respite. When by himself, the ache of it became so habitual that he had become mostly numbed to it. But when with others—who always seemed compelled to make some kind, sympathetic remark—Paign’s heart was again twisted into fresh agony. Their comments never helped. Never.