Disclaimer: All my original characters and plot. I don't own Tortall or the places, but the people. Enjoy!

Through the Eyes of a Warrior

Story 3

The Final Wish of a Dying Man

Shock held me in my place as I stared at the ghastly image of my dying father. We stared at each other; mine a glare of confusion and mistrust, while his eyes held apology and regret.

"Is this what Tortall does to our daughters?"

I pulled away before my father could touch the scar on my right cheek. "You should see what age has done to you." I thought bitterly, but remained calm. "I came here only to see you die, old man." My sour words gave me away. "As you wished me to do so."

My father's dry, cracked lips sagged at this and he observed me for a moment, before moving into our ancient house. "Would you have some tea, Demina?"

Entering the house, I felt the stale chill that had overtaken the place, the odd smell of death and tattered tapestries waving in the wind. "No." I replied flatly.

Turning to me, my father frowned. "It hasn't poison in it, child."

Knowing that from my first steps into this house were ones of agonizing memories and cruel words, I softened. "Forgive me. I feel unwell."

"Ahh," my father smiled, "tea is the remedy then."

The years must have been hard on him, for I could see it by the shadows on his face. I remember long ago, the strength my father had. Built like a lord, superior looking, slim from fighting battles, and tall—he was taller then, towering over me, but now he just looked like any other man to me. Since I first saw my father at four, when he returned from a war, I knew I wanted to be like him—majestic and bold, kind and courtly. Never did I believe I could prepare myself for the way he appeared now—like an old pauper. At least those large eyebrows of his held their dark, brooding color, but his lips had grown thin, covering teeth that seemed too large for him, and he far too thin for a man his age.

I wanted to ask if he was doing well…he looked so incredibly taught and torn. How did he even stay on his feet? Where had all the servants gone?

"Why don't you let me get the tea, Father?"

"No, no, I'm all right," Father replied, "I shan't bother you with trivial things."

"What of Emma and Delanna?"

Father glanced over his shoulder as he filled the cups with the prepared water. "I told them not to come back. They're wasting their time with this old man."

A pang of regret stung my side and I rose from the table. "I ask none of your pity." Father waved me to sit down. "Take your seat, child, I am well enough."

When Father placed the tea before me his hand shook, but he steadied it quickly and placed sugar and cream on the table as he sat across from me. There was some silence as I prepared my tea to drink, and Father smiled as he sipped his own unadulterated tea. "My, you've grown little one. The years have gone by so quickly…made you a lady. And a knight."

The youngest of a brood of four children, I knew my father less than my three brothers, but well enough for being the only girl. "Change is expected."

My father gazed at me for a moment, I pretended as if he was only a speck of dust as I gazed through the kitchen window. "How long have the servants been gone?"

"Some months now." Father sighed.

"Was this before or after you wrote me?"

"I can't remember." Father sipped his tea. "The days are a blur."

Turning to him, I saw the age that had crept into his formerly young face once again. Every time I viewed my father's new image, it was as if I was gazing upon him for the first time. He had changed that much. I averted my eyes.

"Yes." I agreed, setting my tea down. "The doctors can do nothing?"

"Everything they tried failed." Father replied. "It was no use."

The thick dark brown hair father once had turned now to a sickly, dark gray. My hair was like his, my eyes, too, dark and contemplative. All my brothers had taken after my mother, the light hair, the brilliant eyes, but I had dull gray eyes and my father had eyes nearly all black.

"And my brothers?"

"They came other days." Father replied. "They came and left with sadness, but they will forget my name soon enough."

"And I won't?"

Father stared at me. "You and I have far too much in common for that."

Damn him for being right. I wanted to walk out then, but I had promised to stay until his death. I did not believe at the time how hard it may have been.

"Your brothers have promised to come after this ordeal is over." My father smiled and reached slowly across the table. "I hope I have not burdened you."

Glancing at my father, I gently lay my hand atop his, noting how cold his was, but I managed to force a smile.

The day was quiet. I took to the large library and Father rested in his chambers. Although it was hard to concentrate, I found pleasure in the books as the sun filtered into the library and birds chirped outside. The fresh air smelled sweet due to the new spring rain that had come yesterday.

Poems. I loved poems. They were simple and to the point. Sometimes books made me impatient, so I flipped through a selection of poems that had been worn by years of constant use.

Lo,

The road is long,

On this journey I partake,

I walk alone,

In the land men forsake,

Whispers from memories,

Make the trees shiver,

I hear their voices,

Over and over,

'Shall I ever reach home?'

I wonder aloud,

'I'm here, so alone,

And I wish to be out!'

But I will keep walking,

Until I will find,

Somewhere to call home,

Someone to call mine.

By Lord Godfrey Valcourt of Pearlmouth

"Aye, Lord Godfrey," I sighed closing the book of poems, making dust rise, "you've my condolences."

I heard a faint struggle for air. Father was coughing. Instantly I ran to where the sound came from, the book at my side. I saw Father leaning on the wall in the hall. "Father are you—"

"Away, child, away," Father shoved at me for my efforts to help him, "I've no need of assistance, 'tis only a cough. It comes and goes."

Father stood and cleared his throat on the white handkerchief, now soiled yellow and spotted with dried blood. "I thought you were resting."

Managing to stand on his own, Father continued down the hall. "I couldn't."

"Is something the matter?"

Father glanced at the book in my hands, ignoring my question as he smirked. "Ahh, you were in the library."

"That I was."

"At the sound of her song my heart becomes coward," Father recited with a distant look on his face, "I look to her eyes, her lips red as a flower."

"You and your poetry." I laughed. "Is there anything you need?"

Father smiled. "A good book."

Going on ahead of me, Father beckoned me with his hand. "Come, child, we shall go to the library."

Father had always been a kind man. Never saying a word of cruelty, always the gentleman, and always loving toward his children, but there had been an odd distance between he and I. Perhaps because…I did not remember his image when he returned for the first time or there could have been many other reasons. I never knew my mother, for she had died giving birth to me, and for some time as a young girl I suspected Father blamed me for her death, but as I grew I found he held no umbrage towards me for it. Whatever reason it was that Father and I took such caution between each other was never spoken of.

When I went to be a knight, Father disapproved. He did not yell or holler, he simply gave me his coarse blessing, got to his feet, and walked away, slamming the door to his chambers behind him. What did he need of me? Oh foul fate!

After all I was the only child following in his footsteps. Each of my brothers had either become clergymen or far-off land owners. I, on the other hand, wanted to become a knight.

Father continued ahead of me, but I heard an odd sound. A woman's singing. "Emma!" I said suddenly.

Without thinking, I dashed off down the hall, passing Father abruptly, and heading downstairs to see an empty kitchen. Where in the world was she? The singing became louder. "Emma!" I cried and ran through the corridor to the front door.

I threw it open to see the gray haired old maid coming closer over the cobblestone with a slow moving mule. The old woman beside Emma urged the mule on. I felt a grin overtake my face. "Emma! Delanna!"

Soon, we were in the kitchen, hugging each other with happiness. "When we received word our wee Mina were here, we 'ad ta come!" Emma said, kissing my nose.

"If there's at least one livin' 'ere," Delanna commented, "we're 'ere, too."

"Oh, Delanna!" I hugged her small frame again.

A young girl had come with them, no older than myself, and she had Emma's bright eyes. Her name was Gilliana and she was Emma's youngest child.

"How good it is to have happiness in these halls again."

I turned to see my father approaching, Emma, Delanna, and Gilliana all bowed in respect. They averted their eyes so as not to see his changed figure and mourn for him. "What?" Father queried. "I do not bring death with me."

"No, my lord," Delanna agreed, "but you must rest for a time. We will take care of things from now on."

"My," Emma sighed, "I was gettin' tired o' my children!"

The day went well and I learned that happiness was not something from fairytales, but my darkest days were yet to come. Father's condition worsened ten fold in less than a week's time and soon he was confined to his bed, insisting that I come to read to him the books he wished to hear. "My ears thirst for an angel's voice," father said, "and my eyes wish for a beautiful face."

So I read to Father and he remained in a peaceful state, his eyes closed as he breathed slowly and saw the vivid scenes I so desperately tried to portray for him. When I came to read to him on a fairly rainy day, Father insisted I keep the windows open. "I am comforted by it's sound," Father informed as I threw open the shutters, "I know that the world cries with me on these days."

"Aye," I agreed with a smile as I sat in the torn leather seated chair by his bed, "what shall I read to you today?"

Father waved my notion away. "The time has come to bring forth the words of heart."

I became frigid. What did he know of the heart? "Tell me, Demina, why did you not return?"

For a moment I was speechless, but I found the words to reply. "I did not believe you wished for my presence."

"You're my daughter, my little one," Father smiled gently at me, "I might have liked to see you marry."

A lump caught in my throat. "It was short lived."

"And I would have mourned with you."

I was losing my temper. "Father, my private affairs are to be left as so."

Staring at me for a quiet moment, Father searched my eyes, then sighed and close his own. "I was afraid…" Father sighed, "that your fate may be bound to Gerard's."

"Gerard?" I asked confused. "Who is Gerard?"

"Your brother."

I stared at Father for a long moment. I had no brothers carrying the name Gerard and I knew no brother of mine had joined the knighthood. "What do you mean?"

"I suppose it is time you learn the truth…" Father shifted uncomfortably, "the truth of your mother's death, the truth of my absence…the truth about Gerard."

Father gestured for me to come closer. I took his offer and then Father began his story. "Thirty years ago I was a young man." Father began. "I fought for kings and I loved a woman, your mother, Lady Delia D'Ormonde of the Copper Isles. A year following our joyous marriage we had our first child—a son, named Gerard. We were so happy. Gerard was a strong young boy, always besting those his own age, but kind and protective of those younger than him. Gerard was the visage of the perfect young man. Then he joined the knighthood."

Father paused for a moment to lick his dry lips and then sighed. "I was never prouder. My first son following in my footsteps, expecting his brothers to do the same. Eric, the youngest then, was only a toddler, not nearly weaned. Gerard returned now and then and upon his returns there was great celebrations held. Then there was the autumn harvest just before your birth, when Gerard did not return." I went to speak, but Father continued. "But this is not where the story ends. When the letter arrived, saying that Gerard had died in combat…Delia and I fell to pieces. Delia took it harder than I, I suppose all mothers do, but she took no food and grew weary as you suffered in her womb. Two months after the letter arrived, Delia birthed you and your twin sister."

"My what?"

"She was first to be born." Father said with sorrow and coughed a little. "Her breath gave out…she was too weak, but you…you, Demina, were our miracle. Your mother loved every inch of you…she never wanted to let go of you."

I felt father's icy hand grip mine strongly, searching for warmth and the good memory to keep hold of. "But your mother continued to digress." Father continued, freeing my hand. "And finally I woke one morning to find her dead in my arms…I tried to revive Delia…but when I found I could not I went mad. I smashed things in my room, screamed curses at the gods, and when I heard your desperate cries…I prepared to end my misery. I saw your little form, squirming about with fear, and the shard I prepared to kill the both of us with fell to the ground. When I lifted you in my arms your little cries ceased and you slept peacefully. That day I rode off and I did not return for three years. By then you knew me not, you were frightened of me. Those who reared you told a strange tale of the time before you, so I went on living as if…nothing ever happened."

My whole body felt numb…strangely numb. "But…why wasn't I told this?"

"Things were…easier to pretend that Gerard had never been born rather than deal with the painful memory of his death, your mother," Father bit his bottom lip, "and my madness…"

Through the eyes of a warrior I saw a once vibrant man now broken. Still, Father retained a great dignity in his weakened state. Without thinking, I reached over and took my father's hand in mine, despite how chilly it was, and I held it tightly in my grip. Opening his eyes, Father gazed at me. "Oh how I love you little one."

I felt my insides tugging at me. "Do you approve of me, Father?"

Father lifted his free hand to touch my cheek. "You are my child. If you are happy then so shall I be."

Leaning forward, I kissed my father's forehead and smiled. "Thank you."

In the following week my father did not wake from his slumber and we buried him beside my mother and two unmarked graves in the family plot just outside our house. Only my brother Erik came in time to see Father being lowered into the ground.

"I believe you made what days he had left pleasurable." Erik commented, then glanced at me. "He always loved you best."

I furrowed my brows, turning to Erik. "Erik. If you believe that, then you hardly knew him."