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 Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 8:02 am
7.22.09
When you come upon the scene, it is a weak and dying Herald that you find, unable even to stand. A few scattered feathers on the ground are the only remnants of the wings it once possessed. It has come to this place to die...or be saved? That, of course, is up to you.
You are alone when you find the angel. The Heralds have long gone unsaved, and though it appears to you, it does not hold much hope of living on. Near to where the two of you meet rests a grey stone slab that the angel seems desperate to reach. With your help, the Herald climbs upon it, needing something from you to save its life. What will you choose to give it? And what significance does that item hold for you? Is it a family heirloom? Something you happened to have on hand? Something you'd purchased earlier that day? A lucky charm?
Aodh wandered carelessly through the dim streets of Durem, an advanced copy of his newest novel, Exquisite Fear, propped open in his hands. No matter how often he was published, the man always felt a sort of incredible wonder seeing his own thoughts and words put down and bound for everyone to share. It was the best rush he knew.
Just a day and a half earlier, Aodh's bicycle had been mangled by a speeding and possibly inebriated man in a black pickup, and he had been forced to leave it crumpled in a scrapyard for a mere 500 gold. At the time he had been a spitting, cussing, angry little bugger who did nothing but curse the public transportation he was forced to employ. The bus ride into the city had been unreasonably uncomfortable and filled with teenagers he was certain would sooner slice his throat and steal his money than say "hello", paranoia withstanding. The meeting over his newest work, though...that had gone swimmingly. The cover art was beautiful if not incredibly macabre, showing the Victorian home that played the main villain in high contrast with a small girl on its porch, playing with a doll (and although there had been no doll in the story, Aodh found it to be a charming use of artistic license). Of course, the little girl had no head, as that certain bit on anatomy laid further back and enveloped in shadow against a far porch-post. It wasn't entirely obvious what it was as there were no particularly-lighted features beyond vague lines of wind hair. It could just as easily have been a toy or decoration, of course, but the evil in every man's heart knew just what that small round object was.
Aodh was very proud.
He wandered through the city a while, wanting at least to reach a fine stopping point before choosing a bus stop and waiting for either a bus or a mugging, which ever came first. He didn't realize that not only had the sun gone and the streetlights erupted in halogen glory, but the streets had gone mysteriously empty. That is, not until he felt It. He couldn't explain what It was, and even his best memoir struggled with comparisons and obvious oxymoron in an attempt to describe just what it felt like. It was something like a breath, really, but with no body and with no air. He felt it on his neck, and yet it was more of an emotional or neurological action than a physical one. He heard it clearly, but he was certain that the noise sounded only in his head.
Something was near.
Aodh lifted his head from the book and peered about himself in curiosity. What was it this time? A ghost, a Fae, an unsavory person? No, he saw nothing. Nothing yet. The man's attention had shifted entirely from the excitement of his day to the creeping dread of the unknown. He didn't like being startled, and yet knew that there was a chance something may suddenly appear. It was this sort of fear that he wrote about. It was this terror that his novels tried to convey.
His nose began to run, perhaps from the chill summer night, and he sniffled. Unfortunately, that only suspended whatever fluid there was for the briefest of moments, and it gladly continued roiling when the inhale was through. Only when the smooth wetness began to run to his chin did he realize that this was likely not a stuffy nose. He lifted a hand and gently touched the offending liquid, and was neither surprised nor contended when it came away a deep, shimmering red.
"Bloody Hell," he murmured, snuffling slightly as the grisly torrent began, dripping noisily against his his book as he whispered more curses upon pickup trucks and buses. Aodh tilted his head back to try and stem the flow, pinching his nostrils together and walking carefully so as to not run into anything unsavory. It slipped his mind that this bleed was likely a warning. It slipped his mind entirely, until he saw the glow.
It was a strange, whitish-blue streaming that deeply contrasted with the artificial yellow streetlights, and rather than emerge from any one source it seemed to stretch up to the heavens and fade into oblivion. He stared upward a moment more, afraid of what may be below it, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his head.
Now, in his life, Aodh had seen children-ghosts and redcaps and murdered lovers. Everything ugly or altogether depressing that had ever existed had likely decided to visit him at one point in time. This thing, however, this creature or being, pulled violently at his heartstrings.
It lay in the street, pressed against a filling gutter and catching leaves and trash in its beautiful white hair. Its hand moved slightly in the cold river, and he thought that just once he saw its chest heave.
This was the supernatural event he was to come across?
He approached slowly, wary of Dibbuks or demons and other tricksy beasts, but when he grew close enough to see its gentle face, he knew that this was no such creature. It gently rolled half-lidded grey-blue eyes to his face, so sad and full of pain, and it reached out to him. Against his baser instincts, Aodh took its hand.
The being struggled to try and push itself to its feet, or perhaps to just sit, but it could not succeed. Its feathers floated gently atop the water surrounding it as if trying in vain to assist in some way. Nose still gushing, Aodh put his book aside, open on the pavement, and lifted the cold and disturbingly light being into his arms. He stepped back onto the cobbled sidewalk, nearly falling face-first over what he simply assumed was an unusually large protruding cobblestone. Surprisingly, the being reached down as he wobbled to catch his balance. It wanted to be on the pavement? Alright. Who was he to judge?
Aodh gently laid the being out on its back on the large, smooth stone and crouched beside it, unintentionally noticing that it was neither male nor female, at least in the way humans imagine gender. The being made a little noise like a child's sleeping murmur or a muffled sound of pleasure, a weak and trembling hand reaching for what but the bloodied book. Confused but still simply obedient, Aodh took the object up, considering its worth.
"You can have it, if you want," he said, then gently placing the spine of the book in the being's pale hand, "Here. It's yours."
At that moment, a small smile crept onto the being's face, and it closed its eyes, holding the book close to its chest. Aodh stayed a while longer, waiting for something to happen, anything at all, and when nothing did he found that it had become somewhat difficult to breathe, and decided to continue on his way. Spirits were strange, he knew. Sometimes all they wanted was an object or an acknowledgment, or very rarely someone to talk to. It wasn't his place to meddle any further.
the entry to go along with this prompt
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Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2009 10:42 am
7.23.09
You sit inside, protected and comfortable as the weather rages outside. The evening meal is on the table, and you're filled with an intense feeling of well-being.
Your mind veers, against your will, to the dying creature that you had come across. It certainly wouldn?t be comfortable tonight. What are you thinking? It's probably already long gone. But...what if it isn't?
What's it actually like outside? Do you go in search of the Herald? What do you bring to make it more comfortable, if so? Do you even find it?
His mind wandered back to the strange occurrence of that night and the sad, frail creature he had left on the sidewalk. He peered down at his food, still warm and delicious and rich, and felt suddenly guilty. It wasn't like him to leave someone alone like that, especially someone so clearly frail. What was he doing, enjoying his cushy human life while that poor being froze on the street. What if it had been hit by a car? What if someone unsavory had come to harm it? He sighed and took another bite of fish, standing and heading to his bedroom to grab a comforter before scraping his leftovers into a Tupperware container and heading out for the bus again. Such things ran all night, didn't they?
Aodh learned that, yes, buses ran all night. Unfortunately, the people on them only got increasingly terrifying as the hours ticked by. A young man of entirely indeterminate race, age, and multitude of facial piercings stared at him the entire time, and Aodh had once kicked his foot intentionally to see if he was tangible and, thus, alive.
He was.
When the rest of the awkward ride was completed, Aodh hopped off at the bus stop he had arrived at earlier in the day. Unfortunately, he had no idea how far that was to the being he had abandoned as he had wandered for so long reading. Well, he would simply have to wander again.
Following his instincts or intuition, whatever one would call it, he wandered for perhaps 15 minutes. The fish had gone cold under his arm when he finally spotted the pale creature, still sprawled on the pavement and no longer bathed in warm glow. Aodh approached carefully, checking for signs of life. He was awash in murderer's guilt until he saw the gentle rise and fall of a ribbed chest. So it was alive, at least. For now.
The now-cold fish was discarded and split open on the street, left for rats and cats and scavenging dogs. Aodh laid the comforter out and gently lifted the being again, admiring its delicate, slender frame. He wrapped it in the blanket like a large papoose and touched its face. The angel managed another small smile that warmed the heart, although it seemed to have lost the ability to open its eyes.
"And you, you are a little mystery," Aodh said softly, struggling to his feet and heading back for the bus stop, the location of which he had now mercifully memorized. For the first time in 3 days, the bus was entirely empty of passengers, and Aodh sighed contentedly as he sat down, the angel laying across his lap with its head nestled into his belly. He gently pet its hair, making silent promises to make it well; to keep it safe.
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Posted: Sat Jul 25, 2009 9:16 am
to keep and to care for
(solo i)
That night, Aodh built a bed on the couch for the angel with clean linens and laid it down to rest. He escaped to his own bedroom, casting nervous glances at the wall between himself and the being for a good long time before falling into an uneasy and restless sleep. As with most independent artists (or at least those not currently in school), he awakened much after the sun when his body had decided that it had had enough. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and putting off going to see how the angel was doing as long as he could. His first thought was to go feed and water Eun, but even that chore took only a minute or two.
Finally relenting and gathering the strength to see what he had no doubt was a very dead angel on his couch, Aodh dressed himself relatively carelessly and crept for the living room, leaving behind a softly singing and rather happy bird. His head emerged first, trying to get a little peek to ready himself for whatever he was about to encounter. Unfortunately, all he could see from that angle was a shape topped with bright white hair curled beneath an old quilt. He breathed deeply to steel himself and shuffled to the couch, ready for the worst.
What he saw was the gentle face of the angel, lips slightly parted as it breathed softly. It seemed stronger now, if not only slightly, and its chest rose and fell with a more even pace. Aodh smiled. He had done a good thing, he was sure. Within minutes, the house filled with the sweet and savory syrupy smell of breakfast being cooked. Breakfast in Aodh's home was usually a complicated and important meal, almost always larger than the midday dinner (which, no matter what country you are from or what time of day it actually takes places, would undoubtedly be the largest meal). Today, though, he had to be careful. An angel that was dying the night before would not be able to chew, swallow, and digest complex things like pancakes and toast. In fact, he was almost certain that it wouldn't be able to lift a fork. All of this humming at the back of his mind, he made scotch pancakes with jam, eggs, and bacon for himself, and some simple scrambled eggs for the being on his couch. He felt a bit low, then. After all, wouldn't they have the best food imaginable up in Heaven? And here he was, trying to feed one of its rejects!
He set the plate with a glass of milk before the angel on a TV tray and gently touched its face. The being stirred slightly before opening its eyes and yawning. Every movement was painfully slow, and Aodh was hit with a pang of worry. Would this creature survive another night? He grabbed the angel's fork with a sigh and offered some egg to its mouth. It parted pale and dainty lips and gladly took a mouthful, chewing slowly and grimacing as the eggs slid down its throat. Was it in pain? Was eating too much work? Apparently not, as Aodh offered it another forkful and it received the food with just as much enthusiasm.
Aodh shot glances between his plate and the angel's as breakfast wore on, eating his own meal with his left hand and feeding the angel with his right. It was complicated and tiresome, but he couldn't help but feel it was somehow worth it. An ill and entirely dependent guest would not be welcome in most houses or, if they were, they would be secretly scorned. Aodh felt none of that. He was glad to have the angel here, glad to help it heal, and glad that it had made it through the night.
After breakfast the angel fell asleep again, smiling faintly as it did. Aodh took this time to go retrieve another copy of his novel, and although his manager seemed worried at his rushed and frantic state, he managed to make it out of there before any real questions were raised. When he returned home, he sat in the armchair against the other wall, watching the angel sleep and reading happily with small breaks here and there to get the suddenly-awakened angel a glass of water or a piece of fruit. Aodh and the being had begun to communicate in little gestures and expressions. A hand to the lips and a smile meant it was hungry. Both hands raised up toward the mouth meant it was thirsty. Aodh chuckled every so often, and he looked up to see what he felt was the angel silently laughing back.
Dinner was incredibly small, consisting of cut fruit and muffins with jam. The angel could chew the softer foods, but Aodh had to crush the harder fruits beneath his fork before feeding the being. They now shared a bowl, boundaries having been crossed by their interactions previously. Again, the angel drifted off to sleep after the meal, its belly slightly bloated. Aodh escaped once more, heading into town to buy himself a new bicycle (oh, and this one was 10-speed and shining and new) to make trips quicker. He had an irking feeling that this angel maybe a long-time guest although perhaps, he thought, that was just him hoping. Either way, he didn't want to have to nervously wait at bus stops, and through the ride worry that the angel might have perished alone in the time it took him to travel back.
Until high tea, Aodh wrote. His computer lay 2 floors higher in a dimly-lit office, and he knew that if he was to go there he may not come back down. Instead, he gathered a notebook on his lap and wrote in high, scrawling near-cursive. It was kind of charming in and old-fashioned kind of way, he reflected. The words poured from his hands like water, detailing a fallen angel taken in to shelter and bringing with it the damned. It was a bit different from Aodh's normal style, yes, but what was he to do? When inspiration hit, it hit hard. He continued until high tea, rarely stopping, and only stirred when he heard the angel rustle and saw it lift a hand to its lips. Ah, yes. It was meal time. Of course.
Aodh stood, gently tucking his notebook away in the bookcase, and headed for the kitchen where he began to prepare the meal he had nearly gotten to the angel. The fish was buttery, sweet and tangy. It melted in your mouth. Certain the angel would be grateful for such a delicious and easy-to-eat meal! At least, that was Aodh's thinking as the fish spit oil in a wide pan. When he was finished, the angel was unusually active. It sat up straight, supporting itself with a wobbling arm, and watched hungrily as Aodh entered with the meal. He had made a double portion and, again, they shared a plate. Once the angel had attempted to feed itself, but its grip was weak and trembling, and it frowned. Aodh smiled and pet its hair, and slowly it regained the sweet smile Aodh had grown to love. Predictably enough, the angel seemed to like its tea best more sugar and cream than tea at all, but the Scotsman was not one to judge as he gently tipped the cup toward the being's lips. Errant tea dribbled back down onto the saucer, and some down the angel's cheeks, but neither of the companions seemed to mind. When the angel fell asleep again, Aodh took far too much joy in wiping its face clean before returning to his writing. It was then, poised mid-word with a stock-still pen, when he realized just why he was so glad to have this angel here; why he took so much joy in caring for its every need.
This angel was his new muse.
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Posted: Sat Aug 29, 2009 4:32 pm
a trip into town
(rp i)
...in which Aodh nearly mows down a teenager and learns what the being on his couch may just be.
here.
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Posted: Mon Oct 12, 2009 9:53 pm
a cafe
(rp ii)
...in which Aodh meets a teenager he doesn't find repulsive and is likely late to yet another meeting.
here.
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Posted: Tue Oct 20, 2009 4:57 pm
a change in the wind
(solo ii)
He had met Guinevere yesterday and already Aodh had prepared his home for a child. Of course, he didn't know just how old the angel may be when it became human, so he had been forced to improvise. A truck arrived with a used twin bed and some children's furniture in the early afternoon, and the angel had watched them through the front window, smiling broadly. It was strong enough to stand for short periods of time now, and it pressed its hands against the glass like an excited child. Aodh wondered if it might have known all along it was destined to become his child and had simply not been able to tell him. Perhaps he was the best-prepared parent for a fallen 'messenger' yet.
A curtain was hung to separate the angel's bed from the area with his computer and the angel's toy box and rug and relatively little chair. Eun moved further out into the hall and sang happily when she found herself beside an open window. Aodh carried the angel up the stairs and held its dainty white hand as he showed it its new space. It gestured softly to sit, and Aodh helped it sit and then lay on its new bed. The angel smiled softly, and the Scott felt very accomplished.
"I'm not certain if I'm offending you. Maybe some day you'll be able to tell me. I've never had to make a room for an angel before."
The being shook its head.
"Do you have a name you'd prefer?"
The angel let its head loll to face its impromptu father, and it shook it again. It had never had a name.
"Well, shall we think of one?"
A soft nod.
"Well, Scottish names aren't very pretty, but we can start there. I'm no good with the fancy-frilly Gaian names. Let's see. There's Niven, whi--"
The angel grabbed Aodh's thigh and nodded just a little too hard. It felt faint a moment and rested a short time.
"It means 'little holy one'. It's a pretty name. I always liked it. There was a girl I knew in elementary school named Niven. She was very beautiful."
The conversation traveled to one on Scotland itself and then drifted to story time which had, even in these few days, become routine. Aodh smoothed the angel's hair as he read the latest section of his manuscript, his voice growing softer and more gentle as he watched the beautiful creature fall into sleep. He tucked the pages back in his office and gave Eun a quick goodnight before heading to bed himself. He dreamed of the angel that night, and it had been both his charge and a child he was going to school with (such as dream logic goes). He was initially able to pass off the weight at the end of his bed as his childhood cat Rosie, but as he drew further into consciousness he realized that Rosie would not have climbed out of her grave on Earth to nap at his feet ... or at least she had better not.
Imagine his surprise, then, which what he saw sitting at the end of his bed was a smiling little boy with the angel's hair and eyes and its cute little belly. Aodh sputtered something in Gaelic even he wasn't entirely sure of and threw his arms around the boy who only giggled softly.
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Posted: Fri Dec 18, 2009 1:55 pm
a visitor
(rp iii)
...in which Aodh invites Guinevere over to breakfast to meet his new son.
here.
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Posted: Fri Dec 18, 2009 1:57 pm
a halloween bash
(event i)
...in which Aodh hosts his annual Halloween party and finds that many Heralds have come.
here.
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Posted: Fri Dec 18, 2009 4:11 pm
10.20.09
Time has passed, and your Herald is becoming fond of you and beginning to show affection. You two have grown closer, but that's not the only aspect of growing.
The Herald is maturing into a young child before your eyes. No longer dying and weak and no longer sexless, it now has beautiful angel white hair and dark blue eyes of unusual depth. You may have noticed that the Herald has been scratching and touching its back for a while, and now it's finally explained. The herald's wings have started to grow in.
Of course it was only a matter of time before Niven began to re-grow his wings. Angels had wings, and he was an angel (albeit a fallen one), so it only made sense that he grow the feathery appendages God had granted him. That did not mean, however, that Aodh was prepared. For nearly a week he'd through the boy had developed some sort of awful lumpy rash and more or less bathed the poor thing in ointments, but this morning the wings had broken the skin, both explaining what was wrong and bringing to rise all new questions.
Those were not feathers. In fact, Aodh noted, they looked like shaped slips of paper. As the day wore on, he would notice familiar words fading to nothingness beneath a smattering of blood. This was his book. He had given Niven his wings.
That would come later, though. For now Aodh was concentrating on making his poor, itchy, uncomfortable little boy as comfortable as possible. Niven sat on the couch, wrapped in a warm fleece blanket as he watched cartoons and ate soft pastry dipped in warm honey. Every so often, Daddy would rub Vick's on his back, and although that didn't really help the discomfort, it turned the itching to tingling and added a very pleasant smell to the room.
Aodh sat beside the boy, massaging the shoulder closest him and then leaning in to kiss the top of the boy's head.
"It'll only have to happen once, at least. Not like lost teeth."
"I know." That was all Niven felt he had to say before stuffing another pastry into his mouth.
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Posted: Wed Dec 30, 2009 12:49 pm
snow angels
(rp iv)
...in which Niven makes a friend his own age and talks up a storm.
here.
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Posted: Wed Dec 30, 2009 2:26 pm
two of her
(rp v)
...in which Guin provides a questionable thank-you gift.
here.
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Posted: Wed Dec 30, 2009 2:28 pm
10.20.09
Your Herald has been acting strangely all morning, sneaking around the house, and jumping at every small noise. The cause of this behavior is discovered shortly; you find that a priceless object has been broken and it would appear that it was your Herald that broke it.
What is the object and what is its importance? How do you react to this? Do you punish them or let them off with a warning? How does your Herald react? Was it your Herald that broke the object or maybe s/he was an observer to the act?
Well, sometimes kids just had bad days, right? Niven was allowed a bad day as much as anyone else. Aodh simply went up to his office to work on his current manuscri--
"BLOODY HELL!"
The papers that had been neatly stacked on the corner of his desk were strewn about the floor, and a half-empty glass of water had been overturned and soaked through everything on the desk and what it could reach on the floor. Giving another angry cry, Aodh went down to his knees and picked up the wet papers, trying to flap them dry before placing them around him in a semicircle. Agh, and they were all out of order! Fourteen, eight-three...agh!
"Niven! Niven!" Aodh's nose had begun to bleed, spattering the papers red. He growled and tried to stem the flow with his hand, "NIVEN!"
The boy shuffled into the room, eyes downcast and hands folded behind his back.
"Niven, did you SEE anything?!" Aodh yelped, frustrated even further by the blood and water smearing his papers, "Did you see who did this?!"
"I did it," Niven answered just a little too quickly, tears welling in his eyes.
"Niven! I told you to never play in here!" Aodh scolded, "This is how I make our money, and if I can't make us money--well! I--!" How ironic. His muse destroying his work. He roared again to keep from saying anything hurtful and began to shuffle the papers he had arranged into a neater pile. One paper seemed dog-eared, as it held up the one above it. He moved to unfold the corner and found it instead was ragged and torn. He separated the pile in the center and eyed the damage before looking up at his son, who was already crying softly.
"So you're going to tell me you ate some of the paper as well?"
Niven began to sob in earnest, shoulders hunched. Aodh sighed and stood, going to the boy and kneeling before him, taking him into his arms.
"I don't appreciate lying, Niven."
"Don't send her away!" the boy sobbed.
"Niven, a cat is a cat. Cats like to tip over glasses and play with paper. I knew that when I let you keep her, now just try to keep a better eye on her, Niven. These papers are very important. Okay?" Aodh pulled back to brush some hair out of his son's red face and caressed his cheek. Niven nodded.
"Now, will you help me put everything back in order?"
Another snuffle, and a nod.
"Alright. Come on."
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Posted: Fri Apr 23, 2010 5:49 pm
jaded angels
(rp vi)
...in which Aodh makes a young friend and Niven most assuredly does not.
here.
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Posted: Mon Aug 30, 2010 1:56 pm
trauma
(solo iii)
Niven's second growth had come about as suddenly as his first. Much to his father's dismay, it had happened quietly in the middle of the night, and he was not to be a witness. The boy had sat at his window for the nearly hour-long span, barely making a peep at the new soreness in his joints and the hot leeching of new pigments into his skin. He had been growing steadily, and so there was not much to do but gain a couple of inches find new coloration. Either way, he had suffered in silence and gone to sleep, only to wake up and surprise his elated father. That day had been one for the amusement park with cotton candy and fattening fried dough, and Guinevere again would be the one to call and tell of the new changes.
It was impossible to deny the similarities between Aodh and his son. Their hair was the same messy, soft brown and their eyes nearly identical. There were Niven's wings and his skin tone to enter into the equation, but interracial couples were not at all unheard-of on Gaia. They had briefly discussed whether or not they would call themselves blood, and both decided that it would never have to matter. They were father and son, regardless of cause or mental age, or anything silly like genetics. There was congruence beyond mere appearance, though. Niven was a child who loved the outdoors and could often be found daydreaming beneath or in a tree. He picked dandelions to blow around the yard, and more than once ran off with the neighborhood kids for a game of soccer or basketball. At the same time, he was just as often inside the dimly-lit home, reading until his fingers were blackened by ink. He enjoyed sweet biscuits just as much as savory fish, and would excitedly explain Scottish culture to anyone who asked.
Although Aodh was sorry to see his little boy go, he was proud of what he had become. The child that fell from the sky was now old enough to begin building his own morals and beliefs. He was developing his own sense of style and a distinct personality, although still quiet and wise beyond his years. They could engage in philosophical conversation now, and Niven was more than willing to assist his father in the planning terms of his novels. He gave Aodh work time alone as well without offense or worry, and for this his father was able to create quicker. He had just published a short story in a horror collection, and was currently working on two new novels to be sent to press as soon as possible. His editor was happy, and he was happy. The more he was published, the more money he made. The more money he made, the more he could spoil his child rotten.
Niven had been enjoying his new body three months now, and attended a school for children with irregular growth patterns. He had his own cellphone, albeit archaic and prepaid, and so was allowed to walk or ride his bike to school in the mornings and home in the afternoon. Many of the children did not understand him, or how a young body held such an old mind. He was not so ostracized as to complain, though, and did go over friends' houses for games and sleepovers. He kept his father updated at all times and always asked permission, and home life had settled into something comfortable and wonderful for father and son alike.
Heaven can only last so long, though, before something happens to disrupt the dream. A call came around seven in the morning, and not from a number that Aodh recognized. He was certain that he would not forget the words spoken for the rest of his life.
"Sir, there's been an accident. Your son is being transferred to the Hospital of Saint Raphael."
Aodh didn't know what speed he had been going to arrive there, only that he had passed all of the other cars with ease. His heart pounded in his chest and in his ears, and he worried so desperately for the boy he had raised as his own. Immediately upon entering the hospital lobby, there were policemen to stop him. In the moment before the officer spoke, Aodh was terrified that the worst had happened. His baby had died on the hot streets, or within the sterile white walls of the hospital. He would never get to say goodbye. Instead, the officer took him to a chair and sat him down. It all went by in a blur. Niven was in critical condition, but alive. He had been struck by a car on his way to school, and the driver had hit and run. No, Aodh did not know anybody with a black Ford Escort and no, he did not recognize the young woman behind the wheel. Please, officer, was his son going to be okay? The lieutenant realized that nothing could be accomplished with a terrified father and kindly wandered off to try and find a nurse. When none could be found, he sent his partner away so he might stay with Aodh and keep him company in this trying time. It was five hours later when Aodh was finally allowed in to see his son, although the doctor had stopped him before he entered the room.
"Sir, the trauma was extensive. We did what we could, but we couldn't save his entire arm. The elbow and forearm were crushed. We had to make a difficult decision."
The boy laying on the medical cot was bruised and scratched near beyond recognition. Stitches dotted his once perfect flesh, and Aodh couldn't help but cry as he threw himself at the boy's bedside. He reached for the child's hand, but found it gone. In fact, the arm did not continue beyond the elbow. Any serenity Aodh had been able to force was gone, and he bawled openly as he took the other hand. The boy cried with him, and in this tragic moment there was a closeness nobody else could imagine.
Over the next few days, Aodh could not help but compulsively apologize. He was sorry for the accident, sorry for the bike, sorry for not being a better father. Niven tutted him every time, willing every ounce of strength in his tiny broken body to heal. His scabs were black and unhealthy-looking, but the doctor had explained something strange. Rather than the blood one might expect, Niven seemed to contain a sort of ink imbued with platelets and healing factors.
A month later, Niven had already returned to school. He found his new life difficult, having been right-handed previously and at becoming something of a spectacle to the other children, some of which had more than enough arms to spare. He went in for a check-up a month later, and to have his stitches removed and a new cast put on. His blood, thick and black, had violently opposed being drawn and continually attempted to retreat back through the syringe. Niven watched in awe; Aodh in something like horror. The child's grades fell over the next few months, and he cried more over this than over the loss of his arm, although Aodh imagined he was just displacing grief. More than once the boy spent the night in his father's bed, drawing warmth and comfort. Niven acclimated quickly to his amputation, though, and even the doctors were impressed with his progress.
It was on the tenth week when Niven was to have his cast removed that things started to get strange. In the absence of the hard shell, his stump had turned a deep blackish color. The doctor, horrified that he may have made a mistake, immediately ran for the blood kit to try and draw a sample. He wanted desperately to avoid lawsuit, it was clear, if Niven had contracted gangrene. The moment the needle broke flesh, though, the blackness retreated up Niven's arm in a horrifying wave. The doctor sat back, stunned. Aodh couldn't help but lean in and prod the "bruise", which then dispersed. Niven could only laugh.
Fear struck two days later, when Aodh was awakened by his son's terrified shrieks. He rushed up the stairs to find Niven hemorrhaging from the arm, his blood saturating his bed and coating his skin and pajamas. His immediate reaction was to rush Niven to the hospital, made easier by his new car. They were perhaps three minutes into the trip when Niven decided that it was useless.
"I don't feel sick, Daddy. Shouldn't I feel sick?"
That actually gave Aodh pause. He was used to humans with their frail biology. People fainted after a pint of blood donation, and here his son was, still dripping but upright and healthy-looking with perhaps another two pints at home in his bed. The bleeding had turned to a sort of lethargic drip, and Aodh crawled into the back seat to inspect the stump. The scar had not opened. The blood was coming from nowhere and everywhere. Aodh itched the back of his neck and tilted his head.
"Well, they can teach us how to bandage it at the very least."
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Posted: Sat Sep 11, 2010 11:33 am
the wounded
(rp vii)
...in which Guin learns of Niven's accident.
here.
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