Author: The Duelist's Heiress PM
Marik is ill, and the only one he will allow near him is his daughter. But little does he know that her being there is what aids in his healing. But both father and daughter must heal from harm done to them in the past. Hope you like.Rated: Fiction T - English - Family/Hurt/Comfort - Marik I. - Chapters: 14 - Words: 16,378 - Reviews: 96 - Favs: 11 - Follows: 5 - Updated: 12-08-10 - Published: 01-04-08 - id: 3991569
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
DH AN: I have an update of Healing Presence before I start my finals. Please enjoy Chapter Fourteen.
POV: Mhera 1st
As I entered the kitchen, I found my thoughts once again irreversibly tangled beyond comprehension. To make matters worse, I had no idea why my mind chose to torment me in this manner; trying to pursue why seemed fruitless.
I somewhat ruefully emptied my mug into the sink, catching the teabag as it attempted to leave with the liquid. There was no doubt in my mind that it would have been trouble later, as the drain for the sink was rather large and lacked a garbage disposal. Keeping the teabag suspended between two of my fingers, I sidestepped towards the trashcan, somewhat carelessly tossing the teabag into the receptacle; only affording a second glance to ensure that it did go in, rather than stick to the outside of the can.
With a calm sigh, I plucked a fresh teabag from the cabinet above and to the right of the sink, setting the acquired item next to the hotplate. I then rinsed the mug out and refilled it with water, after which I placed it on the hotplate. Taking a seat, I sank into the hard back of the chair, rotating my shoulders back until I felt somewhat relaxed. This stress was doing nothing positive for me.
When the water was warm enough, I removed the mug from the hotplate; adding the teabag and the desired amount of sweetener. As the aroma of steeping tea filled the air, I sighed, relief merely masking the stress rather than easing it away; it was a wonderful feeling regardless.
I suddenly shivered, any relief I possessed snatched away by the frantic voice from my prior nightmare that sounded suddenly, echoing through my mind like a bell soon after. The mere acknowledgement of it simply terrified me. My shoulders involuntarily shook as I braced myself on the table. Weren't nightmares supposed to leave one as soon as they woke? It was strange that I was filled with heart-wrenching pity while within the experience, yet, now awake, was now shying away from it as if it were a loaded weapon. Feeling pallor flood my face as I inhaled swiftly, another realization jabbed at the front of my mind. The sounds of bare feet dragging against a gritty floor, the tension that hung in the air- all the other details slammed into me with enough momentum to create a hole in a solid concrete block. It sent me recoiling back into my chair to the point where it was precariously leaning on the back legs.
When the front legs snapped back to contact with the stone tiles, my whole body was vibrating with a fear that had nothing to do with my chair. That child, whoever they were, had been betrayed in the most frightening of ways. They were screaming to be heard, literally. I suppose what frightened me most was that even if I knew what was happening in its entirety…I wouldn't have been able to do anything to prevent it or otherwise. Of the few things I possessed certainty on, the one idea that I comprehended from the start was the fact that, if the events of my nightmare truly occurred in reality; the event therein had already passed.
Another circumstance allowed my mind to wrap firmly around the idea that I witnessed an event experienced months, years, decades, possibly centuries prior; the presence of The Leader and his revelation not only served as an indication of my nightmare's possible reality to my lucidity aided pondering; but nerved me further as well. Aside from my failure to remember his more familiar identity of The R.H. until now, the recent appearances of said individual were far too warranted, yet I never expected them when they came. He was never one to make his purpose to comfort me when in full persona, as he had been in all his recent appearances throughout the course of this ordeal. I remained unsure of whether my own mind was solely responsible for the far too realistic representation or if there was another force that played a part in this as well; either one was likely.
I pulled my hair out of the braid it had been in for hours by removing the small band at the bottom. The mere act of releasing that tension seemed to release the additional tension that had nothing to do with the twists that held my hair in the desired style.
I heaved a sigh laced with a worry that was far too easily perceptible. I felt the worry permeating every fiber of my being; those circumstances were far and in between. I pressed my fingers hard against the table, merely enough to present pressure, not to cause pain. I was worried, though not about my father's health; I had no doubt that he would recover with no indication that he ever suffered from an illness.
What worried me most was that every one of my father's behaviors that I had grown accustomed to in the past six years could be considered nothing more than an elaborate façade. Every trait he exhibited in the past two to three days seemed to counter those which he took comfort in under normal circumstances, save for the well-deserved lecture I received on my poor excuses for "polished" essays.
Most would consider him vulnerable in this state of illness. I did not see it that way; it was bothersome to think of my father as ever being vulnerable…it was bothersome to see him in this state, not because I ever thought him invincible; rather it was because he never allowed vulnerability or weakness to be visible, especially to me.
This thought process reminded me that every action my father took had a reason. Prodded by the memory of when he showed me my mother's coat of arms under the known guise of The R.H., he simultaneously taught me that I would never fully understand his methods, and that every action he took had a purpose, seeable or not. His revelation and subsequent concealment of the tapestry was not an act of denial of any devotion he possessed for my mother, but a gesture expressing acceptance of a course of events that only he could take responsibility for. When I later pondered my incorrect assumption of his denial weeks later, I realized my failure to recall the gentleness of his touches on the fabric. He had treated it with an unmatchable respect, as if the tapestry were so fragile it would tear at the slightest touch. If the act was one of denial, I doubt the tapestry would even be hanging on a wall.
When my father revealed anything to me, it was never done with the mannerisms of an individual who was backed into a proverbial corner; rather it was with quiet reverence and awareness that he did so. If it was ever accidental, he held a calm composure, able to dissuade any perception of weakness that was entertained. In addition, when encountered with the opportunity and gifted with the patience, the cadence of his words rarely possessed their usual sharply tense edge, rather it was with a gently slow pace laced with warm undertones that lacked any guile supporting his revelations to complement an unmatched possession of demeanor that only he could claim as his own. I inwardly squirmed as I remembered the one recallable event proving my generalization was not the rule.
I set my chin into my hands as I pondered another subject. I was almost certain my father's aversion to vulnerability lay in his past. But I have enough sense not to pry. My father would reveal what he wished, when he wished. I was not to initiate a relation. For the most part, I have been able to keep that in mind and abide by it; save for when I begged my father to relate how he met and eventually married my mother. He obliged, but I could see how torn he was; at some points his face showed something he would not allow himself to speak; wishing that I never asked him to relate the matter. His face betrayed his words, showing sorrow, anguish, and grief that neither years nor decades nor could a century begin to heal.
When I once again requested he tell me after almost six years merely a day prior to the present, my father once again obliged; the sorrow and grief were not present in his face as that was already altered due to his illness. Rather, the somber melancholy revealed itself in his voice, the tones of lament masked by ones of forced elation.
I shook myself from those thoughts with an involuntary glance at the table. Not wishing to repeat my earlier mistake of allowing the tea to cool to an undesirable temperature, I eagerly drained my mug as I caught my hastily forgotten essay on the hallway floor. Though it was for a decent reason at the time, any further attempts to prolong my avoidance of the task at hand would not be in my best interest. I had promised that I would work on the necessary revisions and was unwilling to let any more time get away from me.
I retrieved my paper, pen and moleskin notebook from the floor where the haste in my flight was evident, the two sheets of paper flung across from where I sat. Placing the tray back into the kitchen cabinet, I then paced toward my room but went one room further. Entering the room, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness as I caught sight of the modest fireplace centered on the far wall. Leaving the door slightly ajar to allow a small sliver of light entrance, I stepped toward the fireplace to grab the tinderbox and a match from the small compartment at the right hidden by a Wall-Switch. I set the two items on the mantle in favor of setting down my other materials on the side table; it would not be in my best interest if I were to drop them into the fireplace.
I struck the match, setting the tinder alight. After selecting a few logs from the pyramid shaped pile to the right of the fireplace to sustain the flames; I took a seat only to feel my shoulders scream with pain as the suppressed stress on them from carrying my father on them finally revealed itself. I was certain that the adrenaline that coursed through me as I carried him had been the only reason I was able to avoid the pain until now. The dull aching feeling made my muscles throb minutely. It was difficult to steel my mind away from the exhaustive feeling to work on the essay that was breathing down my neck. The heat from the fireplace was lulling me into an insurmountable state of semi-consciousness. My thoughts were now less muddled. My eyelids grew heavy upon hearing the siren song of sleep, accepting its enticing invitation to forget my turbulent thoughts for a moment in favor of the sensation of the stress easing away that I so desperately sought.
DH: I hope you enjoyed this. I enjoy writing this, shame on me for being so forgetful. I have no idea what the next update will be. I hope to update a few times during my break. Please review.