A Father’s Strength

Her father’s illness came with the first frost. A wasting sickness that hollowed his cheeks and dimmed the fire in his eyes. As he lay in his bed, breath growing shallow, I found her sitting beside him in the firelight, the hearth crackling quietly.

“I could heal him,” I whispered, “bring him back from the brink.”

She shook her head without looking away from his sleeping form. “His body fails, and could be healed. But his mind fails too, I’ve seen it in him for years.” Her voice was steady but strained. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. “He is ready to go. We should not remove that choice from him, no matter the pain it brings me.”

As his health continued to wane, she refused to leave his bedside. When I entered the home each morning I would find her there slowly feeding him porridge—spoon in one hand, a cloth to catch drops in the other. During the midday meal we would sit together and she recited poems or stories from her childhood; though he slept, his mouth always curled into a smile. As the day waned she would sit with him, hand in hand, simply in each other’s presence. No words passed between them then, for none were needed.

One night I bade her farewell, but she did not turn to wave. It was if she had not heard me. Slowly, I settled into the other chair across from her. She had a far-off look in her eyes, deep bags lined her face, her head swayed unsteadily. I realized that I did not know the last time she had slept. Slowly, though she fought it meagerly, her head dipped until it was pressed against the straw mattress, cheek brushing against her father’s hand. She began to quietly snore.

With care I circled around the bed and placed a hand on her shoulder, but she did not stir. After a few moments I gingerly lifted her from her chair. She felt light in my arms and I realized I did not know the last time she had eaten. I felt a pang in my chest as I walked through the room with her. She had given herself so completely in the care of her father and in doing so had forgotten herself. I should have been watching, should have kept her safe. She needed it. She deserved it.

Despite my failure, I was here now. Slowly, I lowered her into her own bed, careful not to wake her. I stood there for a moment, watching her chest slowly rise and fall. My eyes traced the way the firelight illuminated her features, highlighting her face. Never before in all my many years, nor in all mine since, had I seen something so beautiful.

I lowered a hand and brushed hair from her face, then slowly caressed her warm cheek. “I love you.” I whispered, admitting it to myself for the first time. “And I will be here for you, always. In whatever way I can.”

She rolled over and I quickly pulled my hand away, worried that I had woken her. But she muttered something in her sleep before her quiet snoring continued. Quietly I backed towards the door and opened it, letting in the freezing night. I took one glance back and smiled. She would likely be furious in the morning that I had moved her from her father’s side. But she deserved care, and I was determined to see she received it. With that I turned and left, shutting the heavy wooden door behind me as quietly as possible.

He died that very night.

She wept for days, inconsolable. I felt helpless watching her grief, this woman who had taught me so much about accepting what could not be changed.

Then I remembered something I could give her.

Alone in the darkness of the garden, I reached trembling fingers toward the star-blotted sky. For a few breathless moments there was nothing; my arm simply a black void against the glimmering night. Throat dry, my heart quickening, I wondered if something had changed. Then, blessedly, golden leaves of light began to coil around my outstretched hand, bathing my skin in their soft glow.

Do we return? Finally do we return to our place? Not words spoken, but thoughts pressed into my mind. My own thoughts, yet foreign, as if recalling something half-remembered.

“No,” I whispered. “Not yet. There is still more I must do, more I must learn.”

Disappointment blossomed within my chest, a dull aching pain that drove to my very core. I felt its draw, knew it was my own desire, but resisted its pull. It grew stronger, almost irresistible, like the gravity of a dead star. But I stood my ground. I now knew the folly of yielding to divine impulse, and would not bend to its will. Slowly, terribly slowly, the pull softened.

“I require something,” I continued. “Memories, to ease an aching heart.”

The golden essence within me stirred at my words, ancient and vast, flowing through my veins. A warmth I had nearly forgotten. I felt my mind expand, touching moments scattered across time. They flowed past me like the roaring of a mighty river.

There: a flash of courage, a young man’s determined stride. I beckoned to the memory and it drifted to me, bobbing in the great current. I grasped it gently and held it to my chest, feeling its cold-heat in my hands.

When I found her the next morning, she sat hollow-eyed beside his now-empty bed. The fire had not been lit, so I took a moment to coax life into the dead hearth. Warmth and light washed over the cold room, bathing the walls in yellow light and uncertain shadows. I knelt before her, taking her cold hands in mine.

“I have something for you,” I said softly. “Stories your father never had the chance to tell.”

Her eyes lifted to mine, questioning. Her cheeks were streaked with the tell-tale signs of tears, though none leaked from her eyes now. Perhaps she had none left to give.

“Let me share what I have seen of him, what the years have shown me of his heart.” I took a deep, nervous breath, then began to speak.

“Once in his youth, a beast from the deep mountains, perhaps driven from its native lands by something even more terrible, terrorized the village. Within the darkest months of the year three trappers went missing. Their mutilated corpses were found days later, frozen in the ice and snow. The townsfolk knew that this beast must be dealt with, but did not know how. Those who had glimpsed it spoke in hushed tones of a beast which stood taller than the trees, with seven piercing red eyes and just as many limbs. Your father was not a warrior, nor a hunter. In his eyes, the responsibility for their safety must fall to another.”

I paused for a moment, the story grim. But one I felt she deserved to hear. I continued on.

“But then it took a child.

“They found the poor boy’s corpse slung around a low branch of a tree, face frozen in terror. His mother’s wails could be heard in every corner of the small valley, carried by the cold wind. That very day your father took one of the few spears they bothered to maintain and set off into the woods alone. For days he tracked the creature though it did not attempt to hide itself. The air stunk with its scent, its prey littered the forest paths. The corpses of animals sickened him for it showed him it did not want for food. The death of the trappers, the death of the child, they had not been an act of desperation.

“After seven days, he found the creature. Or more precisely it found him. It came at him from out of the brush and he beheld the creature for the first time. It was worse than the whispered descriptions. Tall as three men, its form seemed wrong: too many joints in limbs that ended in claws like rusted iron. Seven eyes, each the size of a man’s fist, burned red in a skull that belonged to no natural beast. Its hide was mottled black and gray, scarred from countless battles, and when it opened its maw, rows of yellowed teeth glistened with the blood of recent kills.

“With a thunderous roar, the creature launched itself forward, its massive bulk crushing him into the frozen earth. They grappled in desperate fury. Claws raked across his chest, warm blood seeping through torn fabric. Through sheer determination, he managed to drive his spear into the beast’s thick hide. The creature shrieked but did not retreat, instead clamping powerful jaws around his shoulder. Agony shot through him, and the spear tumbled from nerveless fingers, clattering beyond reach. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he wrapped both hands around one of the beast’s many limbs and squeezed with every ounce of strength he possessed. The creature’s bite deepened, yet still he compressed the limb in his grip. Then came the sharp crack of breaking bone. The beast released him with a howl of pain and leaped back, favoring its shattered leg.

“He struggled to his feet, legs unsteady, shoulder throbbing with each heartbeat. When their eyes met across the small clearing, he saw pure malice burning in those seven red orbs. The creature began to retreat, its gait uneven as it dragged its wounded limb through the snow. His hands shook as he retrieved the fallen spear, fingers barely able to maintain their grip on the wooden shaft.

“He raised the spear over his head, his grip tightening. Slowly the trembling in his body faded, and he saw the scene with a new sense of clarity. He sucked in a breath and roared a mighty challenge to the retreating form of the creature. It paused then turned towards him again, eyes watching him in cautious assessment. He pulled his arm back, every muscle in his body tensing, then launched the spear. It sliced through the air in a path that could not have been more precise had it been guided by the gods of the wind themselves. As it arced through the air he saw the beast’s eyes widen, hatred replaced by fear, but it realized too late. The point met skull with a sickening crack, driving it into the ground. For a few brief moments the beast’s mighty limbs kicked about, then it stilled and slumped to the cold earth.”

I quieted, taking a breath. Leaning back, I attempted to stretch a cramp from my leg. Her head was turned away from me, hands still held in mine.

“Your father was a great man,” I said, slowly caressing the back of her closed hands. “Strong, and brave beyond measure. I have no doubt that if he had been born in a different place, a different time… his name would be sung in ballads of heroes and heroines.”

Slowly her hands uncurled and her fingers interwove with mine. “But that was not all he was. There are many layers to see, many different sides. Do you wish to hear more?” I asked her. She did not turn to look at me, but she slowly nodded. And so I began again.

“In the months following your mother’s death, the village struggled without their local healer. In those times the Bloodmeisters had not spread to this remote place. The herb garden she left behind could grow the medicines, but someone needed to know when and how to use them. Your mother had taught you well, but you were still a child. Your father found purpose in continuing your mother’s rounds. Though he lacked her gift with herbs, he shared her heart for the suffering.

“He could not recognize the signs of one sickness from another the way she had, nor mix remedies by instinct alone. But he could carry water for fevered children, could help reset a father’s broken leg, could sit with the dying—ensuring that no one faced their darkest hour alone.

“Most in the village welcomed his presence, grateful for any comfort in your mother’s absence. But there was one dwelling he visited that others whispered he should avoid. They spoke of the old widow in hushed tones. They called her a broodmother—a mother of the unclean— or perhaps she was a falsekin, wearing another’s face as a disguise.

“When the wasting sickness finally claimed her, the village collectively turned away. ‘Let her die as she lived,’ they muttered, ‘apart from decent folk.’ But your father remembered something others had forgotten.

“Years before, when you were barely walking, your mother had mentioned the woman by the eastern path. ‘She knows things I’ve long forgotten,’ your mother had said. ‘The village fears her wisdom because they cannot tell it from witchcraft.’

“So when the widow’s final nights came, your father walked the muddy path to her cottage. He found her delirious with fever, mistaking him for your mother in the lamplight. She whispered gratitude for ‘always seeing clearly,’ and he did not correct her mistake. Instead, he listened as she spoke of remedies and warnings, of which roots heal and which harm. Knowledge she had carried alone, with no one to pass it to.

“For three nights he sat beside her bed, learning what he could, offering what comfort a rough farmer’s hands could give. When she passed at dawn on the third day, he closed her eyes and whispered a prayer before quietly digging her grave himself. The village never knew that their children’s fevers broke more easily afterward because he now tended a small patch of her healing herbs, keeping alive what might have died with her.”

When I finished speaking, I turned to find her weeping silently, tears flowing like rain after a drought. My heart clenched. I had made another mistake. The last in a line of many.

“Forgive me,” I stammered, “I thought—”

She reached for me then, pulling me into an embrace that stilled my words. Against my shoulder, her voice came muffled but clear: “Please, Sel, do not apologize. I cannot tell you my gratitude at this gift you have given me. To know him as he truly was, to see his courage, his gentleness, through your eyes…” Her voice broke. “Yet it still hurts. It will always hurt.” she coughed, and took several ragged breaths. She held to me tightly, and I to her. “The pain will soften, with time. But his kindness, his courage, the moments we shared? That which really matters? That will remain.”

In that moment, holding her as she grieved and celebrated at once, I understood something profound about mortal love. It was not the absence of pain, but the willingness to bear it for something greater.