He had hoped after he left the town, he would never have to come back under grave circumstances. Ten years had passed since that last meeting. Ten years since he had left without a second glance.
Unfortunately, he was returning and the circumstances bode ill for all those involved.
Especially the small bundle he held in his arms.
A man sat quietly at a small child's beside. He looked tired and worn, and he hadn't moved for nearly a week. Tonight, sleep had finally gotten to him, his upper body collapsed on the bed, his alabaster white hair spread around his head in a halo, the color glowing in the dark room. He was holding the hand of his small daughter, her hand engulfed by his. He kept his eyes shut peacefully despite the situation.
The girl had a high fever, lying in bed for a week. She rarely woke up, and she hardly ate. Her fever had recently broken 100 degrees, topping out at 104.
She was only four, and her life was being cut short.
A soft cough aroused her father from his sleep. He sat up slowly, yawning before fixing his blurred silver-blue eyes on his daughter—again the color seemed to glow in the dark.
She was gasping weakly, a pitiful mewling escaping her lips.
Her father sighed softly and ran his free hand over his face. He was getting too old for this. With a rumble of his stomach—or was that thunder?—he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. However, he became worried when she didn't respond to him squeezing her hand.
"Nero!" his voice was laced with urgency, a foreign tone to those who knew him.
"What?" a grumbling voice called. Another ivory-haired man entered, a small strip of light illuminating his face from the door open. His hair was clinging to his face and dripping, wet. He was drenched, holding his sopping wet shirt and jacket in one hand. Outside, the rain pouring and lighting crashed through the closed curtains. The brief flash illuminated the room, revealing its furnishings and occupants.
There was a single bed, housing the little girl. She looked frail and weak, her eyes shut tightly and her face sweat-drenched. Her hair was such a blond it seemed white.
There was an old oak chair next to the bed, looking too uncomfortable for her father to feasibly sleep no matter how exhausted he was with a red coat adorning the back. There was a matching oak nightstand, a lamp resting there which had hardly been used, and a jar that held some kind of lime-green liquid. There was a bag in the corner, holding the girl and her father's clothes, a small dresser, and a closet with closed doors.
The new-comer, Nero, was soaked to the bone, his wet jeans clinging to his legs and leaving an ever-growing puddle around his boots. He was glaring at the girl's father with soft blue eyes, but he looked exhausted as well—his skin pink from behind slammed by the rain.
The girl's father stood taller, about a foot and a half. His hair was longer, as though it would get in his face a lot, but didn't successfully hide his silver-blue eyes dripping in worry. He looked like he hadn't shaved in a white, the five o'clock shadow starting to grow to a prickling beard—showing that he was the elder of the two. He wore a skin-tight black shirt and baggy jeans, the belt he wore doing little good. He was barefoot, bright white socks standing out in the slight flash of light.
And it was dark again.
"Nero, she won't wake up," the older man said softly. His voice seemed to break in worry.
"… She's sick, Dante," The youth said patiently, "She needs to sleep. Just relax."
"I can't relax!" her father, Dante, mewled as pitifully as his daughter had, "You know she's all I have, Nero."
"Dante, lets get you fed," Nero murmured, "Kyrie made dinner. I'll watch her for you."
"…" Dante didn't move, gazing sorrowfully back down at his daughter. He was still holding her small hand, watching her small chest rise and fall as she breathed weakly. His eyes closed slightly, starting to water painfully.
He gave a soft sniffle, running his free hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"… I'll eat," Dante murmured softly, "Let me know… If she wakes up."
"I will," Nero said, starting to usher Dante toward the sweet aroma drifting in the door, "She'll be fine. You'll see."
Dante stood there a moment longer before setting her tiny hand down on the blankets. She whimpered softly, her eyes closing tightly for a moment.
"… Daddy…" Her voice was soft, almost velvet.
"I'm here, baby," Dante said softly, kissing her forehead, "I'm here."
Her eyes fluttered slightly, opening a bit, "… Daddy…?"
"… Yeah?"
"I'm hungry…" She mumbled. Dante smiled.
"All right. We'll get you fed baby," Dante told her, still smiling. His smile was goofy and lopsided, a hint of mischievousness lurking in the curve of his lips.
Nero sighed softly. Dante was smiling again—his true smile. Not the broken, painted mask he'd been wearing for days. It was real. Genuine.
"Nero?"
"I'll get her some food," The youth said, backing out of the room and closing the door.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?" Dante asked, kissing her forehead again. Even going through hell and back, the heat of her skin burned.
"… I'm warm… I don't feel good."
"I know, baby. You'll feel better," Dante said.
"… When though, Daddy…?" she asked, mewling.
"Soon," Dante smiled, kissing her forehead, "Soon."
Nero returned then, turning on the light. The room was flooded by the warm glow and the girl blinked several times before her eyes adjusted. When the pupils changed to accommodate the light, the color of her eyes shifting in the light.
"Hey, squirt," Nero grinned at her, setting a bowl of soup on the nightstand.
"Uncle Nero," She grinned, sitting up slightly.
"Uncle Nero was starting to worry you wouldn't wake up," Dante grinned childishly.
"No, I wasn't! I knew she would!" Nero objected.
"That's because I told him you were my little trooper," Dante grinned, ruffling his daughter's hair. She giggled, smiling at them.
Both men were relieved, but it seemed too coincidental. Only a few moments ago, she had shown no sign of recovery, but now…
Nero gave Dante a serious look, but the older man was too enthralled with his daughter.
The youth was suspicious. Dante's daughter had always been different, too different to even be a half demon. With those eyes of her's….
Nero was brought back to reality as Dante snapped his fingers in front of the man's face.
"Huh? What?" Nero blinked, swatting Dante's hand away.
"Where's Solace? I think he'd wanna see Phantasia, don't you?" Dante grinned.
"He's sleeping," Nero said distractedly, "I'll tell him in the morning."
"You look tired," Dante commented.
"I am. You're tired too. Get her fed and get some rest, Dante," Nero said, going for the door, "I'll see you in the morning."
"Yeah," Dante muttered, stirring the soup for his daughter. Nero gave a dismissive wave, heading down the hall.
As he walked, his brain was like a bullet-train. How could she have recovered already? A fever that high didn't disappear so quickly.
The oak paneled hall seemed longer than usual that night.
Hey guys! :D Yeah, its been a while. I got the opening paragraph as an idea while in English lol.
Well, I've been told I can't kill off the daughter by one person now. I can kill her off and still have the story continue or keep her alive and still continue it. Whatcha think?
And if you notice, Dante mentions that she is all he has. Hmmm…. Wonder what happened to Lady and Trish and the shop ;D And Patty.
Rate, comment, opinions?
