2.13 Last Will and Testament

LIBRA

I hadn’t thought about the attic for years, but soon we would need another room and perhaps the unused space there could be put to good use. Even after all this time it seemed wrong to enter it, like violating a sanctuary. My father’s sanctuary.

The air was only half breathable. I coughed, disturbing the cobwebs hanging like lace from the rafters. The room was surprisingly neat, though my father hadn’t been a neat person. Books were tucked away in boxes along the wall, next to an imposing suit of armor. The table stood out, dark against the peeling white paint. Upon it was a single sheet of paper. I picked it up.

To my dearest family.

My hands began to tremble and I almost dropped my father’s last will and testament.

These are things I should have told you when I was still alive but was too afraid to.

You always said, Yuki, that alchemists were long dead, and I never said a word otherwise. But this isn’t true.

I am an alchemist. Our family is descended from alchemists, and the alchemy is passed down through the last-born child to the next generation. Libra, as my only child, you are the heir to the alchemy. This is why we can see reapers. This is why our family will always be haunted by them.

We disrupt the balance or life and death. I have done it myself, brewing several youth potions that extend life. But an alchemist can only ever brew enough potion to support one person, and I could not stand the thought of living without you, Yuki. I once gave you a glass of potion without telling you what it was because I was afraid. Forgive me.

I am a coward; a strange sort of coward that chooses death over immortality, because there is someone I can’t bear to outlive. A coward that could not tell the truth to my family. Even as I write this I cannot help but worry what you will think of me when you read this. I cannot help hope you won’t ever find this.

To my daughter, Libra, I bequeath everything I have. Under this table is my stash of youth potions, and the recipe to make them. If you ever find someone you want to spend eternity with, one that will stay with you…

Grim’s face flashed in my mind. Father thought this might happen all along.

Use them. These are for you.

P.S. I fed a vial to the plant. I felt my little helper deserved it. I hope you don’t mind.

The tears were hazy in my eyes as I looked up to the windowsill. A plant was flowering, its roots breaking through the crudely baked clay pot in search of better soil. Its flower looked like nothing I’d ever seen before.

I carefully lifted the plant together with what was left of the pot and descended from the attic. As I locked the door behind me I knew I would never open it again, that I would not be able to tell Grim of this.

I shared with my father the same choice, the same decision for the same reason, and now, the same guilt.

The pot I put on the kitchen counter. Resting my head on my elbows, I looked out the window. There they were- my reason to live, my reason to die. Watching Grim playing with our daughter in the garden, I stood and cried for a long time.

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Believe it or not, that’s the end of generation 2. Yay! I’ll be back next week with generation 3, and there’ll probably be an afterword in between. Thanks for sticking around for this unfulfilling story with many holes. Love ya all!