I Can't Beat This Heartache
| Paladin 'Knight' Ancora |
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He was glad Legacy had gone to get time to herself. He’d been trying his hardest to hide it, but he wasn’t as well as he’d been saying. Now, he pushed onward to the Dancefloor. He knew the Nomads had been hit with the same malady. His companions had been bringing him weekly reports of how they were faring. Legacy’s mother was uninfected, but her husband had taken ill. From the grim tone of Ime’s words, the likelihood of him living was slim.
Paladin’s own chance wasn’t much better. The wasting of his body he’d passed off as stress and old age to his daughter had been the plague itself. He’d hidden the weeping the best he could, and it had been a lot easier with all the patients to tend; he’d been sending Ime and Kayode in shifts to work with her, train her, while he tended the other patients.
He’d known he would be among those who weren’t coming out of this plague alive, even before he’d learned about Justice and Domari’s passing. He had some regrets in his life, and he knew they weren’t going to be turned around. He could only accept them. He’d always regret not seeing Sterling again, and saying how he’d felt in the end about her.
But he didn’t regret his daughter. She was a miracle he’d never expected to experience, and he only wished he’d had more time with her, to see her grow into a young woman and master healer like she’d wished. That training wouldn’t be his… not anymore.
The silhouettes of the tents and yurts came into sight and he let himself drop as several figures bolted for him. Focus. You need to focus.
The figures slowed, cautious now, and he realized he was growling, and forced himself to quiet down, ears flicking forward as he recognized one of the faces through the constant flow of glowing fluid coming from his eyes. He’d been working to staunch them and keep them out of sight, dammit why did they have to show themselves? Why was he here?
Legacy.
The voice in his mind was one he’d not heard in so long, and it was so strong and firm that he was galvanized to shaking legs, roughly shaking his head to clear the tears from his face as he croaked to the figures, mainly to the elder that stood a ways back, so much heartbreak on his features.
"Máthair Legacy's. Caithfidh mé labhairt léi...” His legs shook so hard he could feel his bones rattling. Or was it his teeth?
Slowly, he sagged back, fighting for clarity as the figures bustled around him. Was he flying? He was moving, but laying flat, legs tucked up against himself by the air… no, a hide. They were carrying him in a sling.
He couldn’t control the shaking. Stay strong. You need to do this.
"Le do thoil ... Le do thoil."
He could feel his lungs rattling. His nose was full, and he sneezed violently, nose tucking between his bent forelegs, more by healer’s instinct than by conscious choice, and then he felt the ground squash up against him from below. A voice. Who… Mother?
"Paladin? Oh Paladin, níl, ní tusa freisin. Legacy! An bhfuil sí tinn freisin?"
She sounded so sad, and then desperate… who. Legacy. Legacy’s mother. That’s it. He jacked himself to his side, teeth chattering around the glowing fluid, blinking hard in an attempt to clear his eyes. There she was, silvery and yet disheveled, sky blue eyes despairing and wild.
Is Legacy sick? He didn’t think so. Fuzzily he tried to remember if Kayode or Ime had said anything. Then shook his head, rasping out a relieved "Níl, tá go maith. Tá sí faoi strus, agus trína chéile ... níl a fhios aici go bhfuil mé tinn."
A sob of relief – and grief – and he saw her nod mutely. Her face was wet, was she crying? He wanted to comfort her—no. He didn’t dare touch anyone. He shouldn’t even be here!
Legacy.
The panic calmed, and as he relaxed, he realized he’d been scrabbling backward, and frowned. It was getting harder and harder to keep his mind on what needed to be done. Steeling himself, he fought to lock eyes on hers, gritting out through teeth clenched in concentration.
"Táim ag fáil bháis. Ní bheidh mé in ann ár n-iníon a oiliúint níos mó, agus teastaíonn duine atá i láthair ónár gcultúr chun leanúint leis. Teastaíonn sí uaitse, nó ó dhuine atá ina máistreacht. Ba mhaith liom an chuid is fearr di, agus teastaíonn duine ó Valhalla agus í ag foghlaim."
He needed her to understand him, and sagged back as she nodded, relieved and exhausted. Everything hurt, and he felt his mind wander in dizzying spirals. Something nudged his paw and he opened his eyes. Had he been asleep? How was he still alive? He studied his paw, squinting until the flow ebbed enough to make out a bowl of what smelled like rich, meaty broth.
There was light all around him, and the fear that had gnawed at the back of his mind eased its claws. Carefully, he lapped at the broth, finding bits and pieces of meat. Some of the fuzziness left his mind with the food, and he was able to think a little more clearly, and he realized that he needed, still, to find someone to teach Legacy in his absence. Who…
Not her mother, she has a husband and children now. He lapped again at the bowl, but it was empty. When had he finished it? How much time had passed?
Too much. Paws thundered, and he heard a sound he’d never wanted to hear in his life; his own daughter shrieking for him, grief tearing at her voice. It took some effort but he turned his head to look and saw her clawing the air as two larger wolves held her back. A snarl rumbled in his chest as he came to his paws. How dare they restrain his daughter like this?
Calm, son. They are no threat. Rest.
He sagged back under the firm croon. Mother. Where was she? His eyes flicked around, but everything was blurry again, and he blinked savagely, ears flat against the shrieking of a girl, crying for her father. She must have just lost him. Horrible illness, or accident? His heart went out to her; he knew how it felt to lose someone.
There was something so familiar about her voice, though.
Legacy.
That was his girl And then she was there, pressed so tightly against his side he could feel her heart hammering against his ribs. Strength, youth and vitality, and the violence of grief made her eyes, so like his mother’s, nearly insane as her face filled his vision, begging for him not to go.
Lucidity touched him, and he shook his head, sadness welling in him. “I have no choice, Mo chroí.. I am old, and this illness is not one I can win against. I’ve asked your mother to find you a teacher. Valhalla needs you. Live long, and be strong, and know that I love you very much.”
She was shaking her head. Why no? a Master of the Nomads would be a far better teacher than he ever could have been for her.
He was tired, and despite her pleas, he wasn’t able to keep his head upright. They were garbled, as though he were under a deep lake. But it wasn’t her face alone that he saw before his eyes closed. His mother was waiting, sad and loving. And then the darkness came.
Exit via death.
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