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WC: 727 OOC: :3
Demetrius was not here just for his father. He had been following his mother for many days now, though he couldnt’ get too close to her. He knew what it did to her if he did. He tended to stay at a distance that would keep her sane enough not to cry the second he came close. He knew why. They had been attached. The second he was born to the very second his body drew blood, blood that would be his last, now; however he could see inside his mothers heart, and knew she ached, that there was something needed doing and he knew she would need help. That was why he took the opertunity he did. That was why he beckoned her inside, why he had tossed the book on the floor. Then the ink bottle, it was all him. But he did not make the decision for her, he only encouraged it. He wanted her to write again. He wanted to know he did some good than what his death had caused. He was encouraging everything.
“I love you mom, you shouldn’t be ashamed of anything that happened, please, my story is short, but you must tell it”
The boy said, watching the tear fall onto the paper. He envied such things, yet they were not needed for him. He was emotionless, yet full of them. He was everything around and nothing at all, and he watched his own mother take the quill and start writing. He stood behind her, watching as she painstakingly wrote the history in which she never wanted to on paper, and as she wrote he found himself braver and braver, letting his self be known, and yet she didn’t turn around. If she had, she would have seen what her son would have been. As white as her, with a brown tuft of hair of his father on top of his head. He was nothing extraordinary, yet he knew he meant something to her, even if they had been together such a short time. He bent low and kissed her cheek when she finally succumbed to sleep and looked as the door opened. He knew who it was and was expecting him.
Shawchert had a long and tiring day, meeting with the blind woman, and his patrols had not been as easy ong him as they normally had been. He knew he was getting old, and soon he wouldn’t have the energy to do his full patrols, but he hoped that was many years down the road. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Demetrius, then Orin. He looked from one to the other then whispered.
“What have you done?”
He hurried to the sleeping woman and saw the book in her arms, looking at Demetrius with hurt eyes he shook his head. He was glad that she still breathed, but he knew Demetrius had something to do with this whole thing, with Orin being in his house holding the book in her arms, did she write in it? Did he force her to do something she didn’t want to do? That he knew would hurt her all over again?
“What did you make her do?”
He was a little angry yes, but how could he take it out on a ghost. Demetrius shook his head. He smiled a little and shrugged no emotion on his face at all, as usual.
“I only did what she’s been needing to do for a long time dad. She needed this; she needs to write, good and bad. She’ll be fine. But I didn’t make her do anything.”
Then Demetrius was gone. Shawchert looked down at Orin, thinking of taking her back to her home, but he was far to wore out for that and as gently as he could he picked her up and put her in his bed, carefully as he could taking the book and putting it aside, he tucked the woman he loved in, he could see her tear streaked face and wondered how hard it must have been for her to write it. He looked at the book and squeezed his eyes, knowing what was there. He kissed the top of Orin’s head and lay down himself.