My arm awoke me with a low, throbbing pain that sent a shudder down my spine as I blinked off the last of my heavily drugged sleep. Morning light was streaming in through the windows and as my eyes focused I caught sight of dust motes that seemed to dance through it. Such a strange juxtaposition after the nightmares of last night. I was in my bed at the little house Alec and I shared in the village.
I couldnât help that groan that tore its way out of my throat when I sat up, carefully taking stock of myself. Everything hurt. My bad shoulder had the dull ache that warned of rain and my left knee twinged when I bent it, but it was the right arm that hurt the worst. It felt like fire danced through the limb, though it wasnât as blinding as last nightâs pain.
I sat there for a long while, eyes un-focusing as I stared at my wrapped arm, as I tried to shove back the memories of a familiar face twisted up all wrong, of strangers attacking my friends, of dark, spindly spider-like limbs, of the whispers of the void and what they meant.
What fucking use was being a âprophetâ if I couldnât see danger coming for my family?
A lump caught in my throat as my breath seized. Of all the things to fixate on, thatâs what caught my mind? Disgust and shame flooded me and heat rose in my face.
The door swung open and I snapped my head up in alarm. I smelled him before I saw him, leather and oil and the bowl of porridge he was carrying. My fatherâs face was full of concern and for once I was too tired and exhausted to send him away.
He sat down in the seat beside mine and held the bowl of porridge out to me without a word. I took it in my good hand, set it in my lap and stared down. It was sprinkled with a little cinnamon and sugar. There was something about that, and it tickled at my mind in a way I couldnât place. Something familiar.
I wasnât much for porridge, but I couldnât recall when Iâd eaten last. My father seemed content to sit beside me, his gaze turned pensive as he peered out the window at something.
I stirred the food, watched the flecks of sugar dissolve into the milky oatmeal. I spooned some up and took a bite and for a moment, the world stopped. Cinnamon and the faint hint of peach melted onto my tongue and for a moment I lost my hold on the present.
The kitchen had looked so big to me, but everything did back then. My legs dangled over the edge of the chair and the spoon was almost too big in my hand. I remembered a snatch of song, but the words were lost to time. There was a breeze and it played through the dangling chimes in the window by the sink. I remembered red hair that caught the light in it and seemed to make a halo around her. I remembered blue eyes and a gentle smile.
His voice caught me and pulled me back. I put the spoon down and blinked. There was my wrapped arm, resting on the blanket over my lap, beside the warm bowl. There were flecks of wet on the covers and on my arm. When my vision blurred, I blinked.
âAl,â he said again, and I felt him moving closer, his knee against the edge of the bed as he reached out and put a steadying hand on my shoulder - my good shoulder, the one that didnât ache, âare you okay, son?â
With a crack in my voice, I asked, âJust like momma used to make?â The porridge. The damned porridge. The crack wasnât just in my voice, it was in my composure and my control, it was a hairline fracture running through my ability to push last night away and shove it into the deepest corners of my mind. Â
His hand rose, touched my cheek, and he brushed a tear away with one thumb, âOf course. Who do you think taught me to cook right?â He asked, and his hand moved to ruffle my hair.
I sniffled once, and then again, and suddenly it was as if some sort of dam broke inside and the tears came in earnest. His arm was around me, and I pressed my face to his shoulder.
âThere was blood everywhere,â I was saying, and the words ran way with me, they came unbidden as I pressed my face into my fatherâs shoulder and clutched my spoon so tight my fingers ached. âAnd she was there, and she had Mio, and I couldnât help Mio, and so many people got hurt, why didnât I see that? Why couldnât I stop it?â
The words kept coming and I felt his hand on my back, patting me as he held me through it, just like when I was little and woke up from some nightmare.
I didnât remember that, not until now.
When Iâd finally worn myself out and weâd leaned back into our own seats I found myself staring at the porridge again, hot faced with shame at my outburst. He put his hand on my head and I glanced up.
âEverything will be alright,â he told me, and it felt like he was making a promise, âwounds will heal. Even Mioâs, I bet.â He held my gaze as he spoke, âEveryoneâll heal up and weâll find the bastards that did this, and when we do?â He didnât need to finish that. My hand tightened on the spoon.
âThere will be no mercy,â my voice felt hoarse.
I turned back to the porridge then and took another bite. I savored the taste that made me think of wind chimes and spring mornings and I let my heart ache for my family and my friends.
