c. 2021
He stood in the doorway, watching her. The room was neatly organised – never changing.
The old woman stilled, and then a small smile lit up her face. "Will you stand there all day then?"
He smiled slightly, stepping forward and shutting the door behind him. His voice was quiet when he answered, and she weakly turned her head to face him. "Guten tag, Marta."
She lightly patted the bed. "Sit down, Papa – or what shall I call you now?"
He crossed the room, shifting her legs over and sitting beside her. "You may call me that – it can hardly do me harm."
She poked him. "Don't cater to me."
He sighed. "I hardly am, Marta – the room is secure. You may call me what you would."
She hesitated for a moment, and then relaxed back into the bed. "What is your name now, Papa?"
He reached out, brushing her silver hair back behind her ear. "I am Erik Andrews now."
"Erik? An American?"
"Ja. A natural-born citizen."
"And a doctor too?"
"Of course – what else would I be?"
"You like school too much."
"You did too, young lady – you're hardly one to judge."
"You went to college with me!"
He smiled. "The advantages of being dying first rather young..."
She winced. "I would rather you didn't die at all."
"Oh? Marta, as I have said before, then you would have died there waiting for your father."
"I needn't like it. But medicine again?"
It was his turn to wince. "No – I am dabbling again in history."
"...who died?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Papa, when you were Andrei, it was because your good friend died – and you held a doctorate in history. So, who died?"
"...this is why I refuse to let others near me – they presume to much."
She smiled. "You were ever in denial about yourself. Now...?"
"I could simply refuse to tell you until the end."
"I could remind you that I am dying and you would not deny your daughter one last thing, would you?"
He glared at her, and her grin only widened.
"I learnt from you, Papa – you hardly expect me to play fair, do you?"
"You are mortal. You should not be so...flippant."
"Would you rather I bewail my fate?"
He flinched sharply from her, and she nodded.
"Now, who died?"
he hesitated, and the gave in with a sigh. "Remember what I told you of Abigail?"
"That her husband was immortal like yourself?"
"I...I found him."
"Oh? Papa – that's terrific!"
He didn't answer.
"...isn't it?"
He dropped his head in his hands. "Marta, I am hardly trusting – and am am eccentric at the best of times. I...I presumed to much upon his understanding, upon our common fate..."
She sighed. "You made a mess of it didn't you."
"I hardly could have expected less."
She frowned. "I know you're better at interactions than that – you're just too excitable."
He lifted his head to glare at her.
"Yes, you. But excitement makes you lose your reason, and lets you make mistakes, and then you tear yourself apart in hindsight, and then you withdraw from all around you so you don't make the same mistake again."
"...he believes that I killed his wife."
She groaned. "Oh, Papa..."
"I was hardly going to correct him – I offered to, after all."
"She was in great pain – he would have forgiven you."
"...I would not ever want to know that someone I loved was in great pain, so much so that they let another kill them in cold blood."
"You would do it yourself – you're too old to close your eyes."
He sighed again.
"Will you return to the medical field?"
"Yes, eventually." He reached out and took her hand.
"Don't cry."
He smiled slightly. "You cannot see me, liebchen."
"I hardly need to." She carefully reached out for his face, and he guided her hand to it. "You have cried enough."
"Simiel was still there."
"He is still alive?"
"Yes – nearly seventy-seven this year." He blinked his eyes hard, and then smiled slightly. "And more loyal to his father than you yours."
She slapped him, almost glancing off. "I'm blind. I could barely remember that you were my 'brother' Aldrich rather than my father! Moving constantly was too hard for me, yet you could not remain-" She began coughing, and he reached across her to get her cup of water from the side table.
"Calm yourself."
She took a careful sip, closing her eyes and lying back until her breathing slowed again. "...Leaving was necessary." They were quiet for a moment, and then she slapped his hand away from hers. "I'm not dead yet, Papa – you don't need to keep checking my pulse."
He glanced away for a second before looking back. "You were the one that called me back, Marta – as you sent me away."
She tilted her head for a moment, and then held up her arms.
He glanced at them in confusion. "Marta – you're hardly a child I can simply carry around."
"I've no doubt you could carry me if you wished." She gestured impatiently with her hands; and he rolled his eyes, lifting her up and pulling her close to sit beside and lean on him.
His tone was slightly sarcastic when he bent lower to look at her face, even though she couldn't see him. "Comfortable, child?"
"Of course, Papa."
He shook his head, sighing in mock exasperation. "Ach, liebchen..."
She poked him lightly, smiling. "Stop it – you haven't been hugged in a while anyway."
"And by which doctor was I prescribed hugs, prithee?"
"None. But by family."
He closed his eyes for a moment. "What will I do without you, Marta..."
"You will go on, as you always have before and always will after. And someday, you and John will meet again -" She poked him in the side when he opened his mouth to contradict her, and he subsided with a sigh. "You and he shall meet again on neutral terms at least, and you shall get a second chance. One can't live like you two must and not get that chance."
"I think that you are incorrigibly naïve."
She smiled. "Hardly. It would be impossible to when one has you as a father, ja?"
He sighed. "Ja, liebchen."
AN: Marta Richter is eighty-one years old. Title from Lyke Wake Dirge because I was listening to the Turn soundtrack while writing this. 'John' was Abigail's name for Henry while she lived with Adam. 12-23-2015