Once upon a time,
an angel and a devil fell in love.
It did not end well.

Thus starts The Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor. I read it about a year ago, and it soon turned into my favourite book. Not because of Prague; not because of the blue hair, or the fantastic creatures that show up; but because I finally felt for myself what Madrigal, the “devil”, was going through.
Almost.
The story, to be paraphrased, is simple. A female art student named Karou lives in Prague. On most days, she is a normal girl, just with a few oddities, like lapis lazuli hair and a habit to disappear. But on those few days, she acts as a fetcher for something very odd:
teeth.
She fetches them for her father-figure, a chimaera named Brimstone, who is often called The Wishmonger, as he trades teeth with wishes. But Karou has no idea how she, a human, ended up with the chimaera family, or where she is from, or what the teeth are for. She lives in this state until she is chased and nearly killed by a seraphim with eyes like flames, who calls himself Akiva.
Karou then learns her mysteries; she is no human at all; she was, in fact, a graceful, beautiful chimaera named Madrigal, who had fallen in love with an angel despite the eternal war that had been going on between those two species, and had dared to dream a world where people were free to love each other. And for loving an enemy, she was executed in front of her beloved, but Brimstone – who was not, in fact, a wishmonger, but someone who resurrected the dead – whisked her soul away and resurrected her into the human form.
Apart from the fact that I adore Laini Taylor as a writer – I first fell in love with The Fairies of Dreamdark Series – I fell in love with this book when I fell in love with - and loved - someone. Because, for the first time in my life, I emotionally understood Madrigal. I had always understood books logically; after all, I observe people for fun, and analyse them in my head all the time. But very rarely had I actually emotionally understood a character, especially one like this.
When I had met him, I had not known then, but it was just the same as when Madrigal had met her angel two years after the battle in which Madrigal had saved him as he lay, injured from battle and dying. Madrigal was just about to be betrothed – unwillingly – to the general of her people, Thiago. Unwilling but unsure, she had no idea what she was to do as she was (rather forcedly) in a dance with the general, when the angel found her.

Twice more Thiago passed her to new partners, and twice she was returned to him in due course. Each time was more unbearable than the last, so that she felt like a runaway returned home against her will. When, turned over to her next partner, she felt the firm pressure of leather gloves enfold her fingers, it was with a lightness like floating that she let herself be swept away. Misery lifted; wrongness lifted. The seraph’s hands came around her waist and her feet left the ground and she closed her eyes, giving herself over to feeling.
He set her back down, but didn’t let her go. “Hello,” she whispered, happy.
Happy.

And that was how it felt. I was fine by myself – I have friends who love me, and parents who dote on me like no other – but despite all the misgivings I had, despite all the things my parents were against about, I truly felt happy with him. I felt more complete, as if I had found my twin (obviously not my twin in any way, shape, or form, but that was how I felt). That weekend, I had smiled more than I ever had. I, who had to be told repeatedly during my Senior graduation picture to “smile”, was smiling without realising, all day long, for three days, despite the cold and all the mishaps.
In a way, I had felt loneliness all my life. Your parents would someday be gone; friends are there for you, but you will never be their first. But with him, I could dream for a future in which I’d be with someone I love and care for. For the first time in my life, I was not afraid of a male, which is truly remarkable, since I am usually terrified of them. Sexless, they are fine; they are fun to talk to, productive in conversations, logical. But as soon as they add that sexuality to themselves, I fear them, for they have the power to hurt without even realising.
There were things I had wished changes for. I wished he was more confident (for some inexplicable reason, he had an odd lack of confidences in things that really deserve no such thing). I wished he was a bit more ambitious; I wished he’d use a tissue. But I trusted him to be steadfast and loyal, because I am weak and I often crack.

“I’m hoping to be your blanket and your punching bag all at once.”

That was what he said. He promised – repeatedly – to not abandon me, for I was terrified of it. I think this stems from my past experiences when I had to leave behind all my friends and then gradually we’d fall apart and away, like rose petals that had lived for too long. Whatever closeness I can have, I cling onto them, always in fear that I am not good enough to be someone’s friend, to be loved by someone. In my head I know that I deserve all the love they give me, but in my heart there is a little voice telling me that it might be a pity-party, for how can people tolerate someone like me?
I admit. I am terrified of relationships. I am terrified of rejections. I am not exactly a likeable person; I am temperamental, weak, stubborn to the point of obstinate. I hate saying sorry. So I grab onto whatever goodwill they have for me like a starving beggar grabbing onto crumbs.
But as our story progressed, and words like marriage and children began to show up, I began to feel worry. It is easy to say “I love you”; but it is much more difficult to show it, for love is a conscious choice to sacrifice one’s self for another’s happiness. And he had told me repeatedly that he did, in fact, love me, but many of my questions were returned with the answer, “I don’t know”.

“Do you think love makes us grow?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you were Akiva, what would you feel?”
“I don’t know.”

Love is not just the moment’s decision; it happens every day, in self-control and perseverance. To not give up on another, until it is truly clear that giving up is the best option for the other person. And I felt unsure that he could persevere; life is hard. My life might be categorised into “extremely hard”. And it was doubtful that suddenly, my life would get easy, for I had never learned how to “settle” with the results. I had a truly vicious fight with Jack when we had ended the relationship; we remained friends afterwards, but only because he was as intense as I was, and we had vomited all we had to say to each other. It was hurtful on both parties, but that was the truth.
Jack had shown he could persevere. He persevered music instructions (and trust me, those are not fun until you reach a certain level; not if you want to progress fast, at least). He had persevered through our fight and had remained celibate ever since, and had said nothing when I had misunderstood that he had, in fact, lied to me and was cheating on another woman with his girlfriend (who turned out to be a gross misunderstanding on my part). He made no excuses.
He wanted to get married after he graduated. That was about three years away. I would be in graduate school, and worries mounted. It was unclear if funds were readily available. What about children? Who’d move to where? What about his education? (I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d be okay with Dr and Mr title. I am not Bernadette and it is rather clear that Howard from The Big Bang Theory isn’t really completely happy about Dr and Mr Wolowitz.) What would happen if most of my friends were Dr. XXXX and he wasn’t? I’d be living in a different world, wouldn’t I? (In fact, this is one of the common reasons why working/graduate student couple break up. Apart from not having any time.) If he had said “I don’t want a doctorate, I want to be a writer”, then that would have been fine; after all, PhDs just have PhDs in common. But the degree is a symbol of perseverance and work and not giving up. Not settling.
Divorce would not be an option; this being an international marriage, it was just going to get very messy and may, in fact, unwittingly make me into an international criminal. Divorce can be avoided, if neither party gives up. There is no “dealbreaker” except to admit defeat. And so I wanted an evidence – anything – that would show he was not going to do that. It could have been anything, really. “I overcame my least favourite subject” was really enough. But those who settle run away from problems without tackling them head-on. And those who run away admit defeat. And those who admit defeat in marriage end up in divorce.
First fight turned into our last. He gave up; refused to even listen; and, from what I learned, his entire family celebrated this “new-found freedom”. But if I was so burdensome, why didn’t he say so? And if he was the kind who do not keep their words, why did he say he was the kind to begin with? If keeping words is not important to him at all, then why bother telling me that he kept his words?
I would have loved my worries to be proven wrong (and I hate being proven wrong). But this time, I was proven right, and it brought me no joy. Just a dull ache that intensified at random times. Because I really was planning to uproot my life for him; because I had spent the last five months with him in mind most of the time (down to when I was selecting my clothes); and all those had been laughed at and trodden upon, as if my efforts were less than worthless. Because my heart and my affections had been, apparently, less than worthless, and ought to be celebrated when gotten rid of.
My friends had been wonderful to me; I got messages from Europe, Australia, even Japan, wondering if I was doing alright, if I needed to talk. Jack had offered to stand in lieu of him while I recuperated and tried to stand on my own two feet again, because I felt acutely alone, as if someone had taken away my coat in middle of winter. I needed affirmation that my affections and my efforts were worth being appreciated for, and that I deserved to be in this world. Matt and I met up in Toronto and he listened to me (over a rather expensive dish of pasta, I might say) as I rather incoherently retold my stories. Jeremy scolded me for feeling so dejected. Dietrich, Adam, and Robyn sent me messages. I really got support from all over the world, much to my amazement.
Cheating doesn’t hurt by itself; it is the shards of the broken promise, fragments of words unfulfilled, that stabs people’s hearts and rips them apart. It is the broken trust that breaks a heart. And after promising me so many times that he would not do it, he shattered what taped-up, banged-up, cracked-all-over remnants of my “heart” I possessed. And apparently, he walked away, laughing, glad to be rid of me.
And if I loved him, I should be able to celebrate his choice; but I find it difficult to do so, because it is difficult to accept and not mind that my risk and my energy had been less than nothing. Sometimes I wish I had not chosen the path of faith, because it is much easier to hate and to hope for ill than to wish well for those who rejected you. It is difficult to offer the other cheek. I keep trying to think that this was for the best, and that I should be thankful for all the sweet memories he gave me, but it’s so difficult when just his mere smile made me smile as well. When his good morning from across the border brightened my otherwise monotonous and boring day. It’s difficult not to cry when I remember myself rushing home after rehearsal so that I could talk to him for just a minute longer. Because just as Akiva’s existence had made Madrigal happy, so did he to me.
There are many things I wish; but wishes are fragile things that easily pop like bubbles. I wish I had kissed him more. I wish I had told him that I loved him (seriously, not in baby talk) far more times than I had. I wish I could have made him understand that to yearn for people is okay; and that “not hurting for company” while being in a chatroom is just trying to convince yourself that loneliness is part of you. I wish I could have told him that he wasn’t alone (although that might be arrogant of me).
Wishes are indeed fragile; but hope is much stronger. With faith, one can hope; and with hope, one can love. I had lost faith in him, waiting day after day, staring at the “offline” status, ill and alone (I’d been ill for the past six weeks), fighting nausea and pain and weight loss (that has somehow contributed to my sub-career… not really a welcome bonus), and with lost faith, I had lost hope. And if I loved him still, I should be able to hope well for him, but it is so difficult.

Until the night that he had finally seen Madrigal again, he hadn’t even known what a wishbone was. She wore one on a cord around her neck, so incongruous a thing against her silk gown, her silken skin.
“It’s a wishbone,” she’d told him, holding it out. “You hook your finger around the spur, like this, and we each make a wish and pull. Whoever gets the bigger piece gets their wish.”
“Magic?” Akiva had asked. “What bird does this come from, that its bones make magic?”
“Oh, it’s not magic. The wishes don’t really come true.”
“Then why do it?”
She shrugged. “Hope? Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there’s no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.”

I no longer wish for those things; wishing that the past would change is futile. And I no longer hope that I can return to the state I had been in, that of bliss and happiness, because the person I had known is no longer the person I know. The virtues I loved so dearly – the steadfastness, the loyalty, the accepting, forgiving spirit – had all been overturned. Once you know, you cannot unknow. I have to start walking again, despite my skinned knees and my broken heart.
But I do hope that some day, I can truly wish happiness for him. Because then, I can say, “I truly loved him until the end.”