The Storyteller's Lament
Once upon a time he had spun her stories of far off kingdoms and mystical
times. Of charming princes and dazzling damsels. When he won the first
time, she had teased him, asking if she was now one. If some day her prince
would come.
He had laughed at that while he spun a modern day tale for her.
One that had him using the forces under his command to ward off randy
college boys and protect her virtue.
A year later he had spun another tale for her after a disastrous date with
a probable prince.
He had told her of his worse fears.
He had never really thought it would come true.
It was the makings of movies and fiction, not reality.
He had made her cry--- the one thing he had promised himself he would never
do to his daughters.
And while he was drying her tears, she had told him that she understood as
he held her and promised her that it would be ok.
It was, after all, just a worse case scenario.
And yet. . .
here, they were, three years later, and it was a reality.
The worse case scenarios now running around his head were far worse than
any stories he could have made up that night.
They were too much for him to bear.
Shakily, he stood in the doorway of her room as he had so many times over
the years, only this time she wasn't here and it was his fault. . .
He had spun a story, never believing that it could be a reality.
Yet it was his reality. . .
This, all of it, was his fault.
He would not admit defeat.
His arrogance.
He should have never allowed the execution.
He should have kept his promise to Abbey.
He should never have told her that story. . .
He had known should something happen, he'd be helpless, and he was.
He knew his world would crumble, and it had.
Slowly, as he turned and stared down the corridors of a house that wasn't
truly his, the realization of just how powerless he was overtook him and he
crumpled to the floor and wept, pushing away the concerned hands of those
who were paid to protect him.
But they couldn't.
They hadn't.
They had failed her.
He had failed her.
He had spun a story for her. . .
Not a tale of princes and princesses or of magical fairies, but of his wore
nightmares.
It was never supposed to come true. . .
Only, it had. . .
Once upon a time he had spun her stories of far off kingdoms and mystical
times. Of charming princes and dazzling damsels. When he won the first
time, she had teased him, asking if she was now one. If some day her prince
would come.
He had laughed at that while he spun a modern day tale for her.
One that had him using the forces under his command to ward off randy
college boys and protect her virtue.
A year later he had spun another tale for her after a disastrous date with
a probable prince.
He had told her of his worse fears.
He had never really thought it would come true.
It was the makings of movies and fiction, not reality.
He had made her cry--- the one thing he had promised himself he would never
do to his daughters.
And while he was drying her tears, she had told him that she understood as
he held her and promised her that it would be ok.
It was, after all, just a worse case scenario.
And yet. . .
here, they were, three years later, and it was a reality.
The worse case scenarios now running around his head were far worse than
any stories he could have made up that night.
They were too much for him to bear.
Shakily, he stood in the doorway of her room as he had so many times over
the years, only this time she wasn't here and it was his fault. . .
He had spun a story, never believing that it could be a reality.
Yet it was his reality. . .
This, all of it, was his fault.
He would not admit defeat.
His arrogance.
He should have never allowed the execution.
He should have kept his promise to Abbey.
He should never have told her that story. . .
He had known should something happen, he'd be helpless, and he was.
He knew his world would crumble, and it had.
Slowly, as he turned and stared down the corridors of a house that wasn't
truly his, the realization of just how powerless he was overtook him and he
crumpled to the floor and wept, pushing away the concerned hands of those
who were paid to protect him.
But they couldn't.
They hadn't.
They had failed her.
He had failed her.
He had spun a story for her. . .
Not a tale of princes and princesses or of magical fairies, but of his wore
nightmares.
It was never supposed to come true. . .
Only, it had. . .
