Chapter 7: Quiet Before... Before What Exactly?

~ Part 2: Painful Memories ~

It takes me some time to pick up the pieces of the stove and my shattered pride.

Since when do you have any pride to shatter?

Didn’t I tell you to shut up?

Did you now, Dearie?

Remind me why haven’t I shot you already?

Because I’m you, crazy. That’d be suicide.

I think I need more friends.

Yep, you do. Preferably friends that won’t try to kill me, you.

Yeah, yeah… What me said.

Having finished cleansing the kitchen with holy fire… I mean, cleaning, I go knock on Martha’s bedroom door, receiving a typically short reply of acknowledgement.

Soon, the terrifying miscooking pair and I are sitting on a spotless floor. The table is still broken. I’m a spellsword, not a miracle worker. Admittedly I could make a table with earth magic, but I highly doubt the mistress of the house would appreciate me ruining the floorboard. It’s about the only thing that survived Dorothy’s attempt at bio-weaponry.

In silence, we share a dish composed of omelette and fried rice, which has the rriple advantage of being non-poisonous, non-explosive, and even passably good – filled with magical love~

…

I’m grateful to Martha for not mentioning the previous… incident at no point during the meal. That said, for a while now the woman has been faintly trembling and regularly casting discreet glances at me before quickly looking away and coughing into her fist. Hadn’t I known better, I would have sworn the stoic Ice Queen was… laughing at me. But no. Of course not. The day this would happen, demons would start building igloos in Hell.

…Should I schedule a trip to the Infernal Realms to check?

You always know exactly what I want.

One of the perks of D.I.D. Now focus.

Dorothy for her part remains unusually quiet as we ate. Her earlier chirp is nowhere to be seen. She is now staring vacantly at her empty bowl. For an instant I fear she’s having a relapse, but the occasional sniff reassure me that she’s fortunately still as depressed as before. A… good thing?

Eventually, Martha stifles her shakings focuses on her daughter, a slight frown that could pass as uncertainty is set on her impassive face. Unsure myself on how to deal with a grieving child, but even more uncomfortable with the current heavy silence, I sigh and lean forwards for a hazarded question.

“You want seconds, Little Sis?”

“…”

“…”

Bravo.

What?! …Okay. That wasn’t the most brilliant opener. But that’s because I know my asocial self well enough to be careful. I foresee that anything more pertinent, coming out of my mouth, would have been rude and/or insensitive and likely hurtful.

I’m uneasy with this situation, okay? And when I’m uneasy, I default to sarcasm. Not everyone takes it well, even when it isn’t completely inappropriate. I have to be especially prudent when the source of my unease is someone else’s personal tragedy. Like presently. Making jokes at Uncle Steven’s cremation about finally burning his calories didn’t go over well with Aunt Christie, his wife.

But that man was morbidly obese.

Still, food is a much safer topic…

At least it is when neither Martha nor Dorothy are cooking.

“…”

I’m not really expecting an answer to my question. I only asked to break the silence. Thus I’m not surprised to see the little girl shake her head and push her empty plate away. Still, no seconds, uh? I guess my omelette doesn’t have enough arsenic for her taste.

I exchange a glance with Martha – managing to only flinch slightly – and, by some tacit agreement, we move at the same time. She claims everyone’s dishes and stands up to go wash them in a corner. I slide closer to the silent child and pull her in a brotherly one-armed hug. Or what I assume is a brotherly one-armed hug. It’s not like I have much practice with this.

“How are you feeling?” I ask in a low tone.

Rule number one with anyone wounded, physically or emotionally: don’t be a moron and ask the stupid default: “Are you alright?”

The answer will be at best “no” and at worse a glare and a kick in your balls. Except if you’re dealing with a masochist. But as a rule of thumb, if you see someone with a missing limb and to the question “are you alright?” they honestly answer “yes”, don’t call an ambulance. Finish them off. They’re clearly past the point of no return. Because that’s a FREAKING ARM!! YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE “ALRIGHT” WHEN MISSING A FREAKING ARM!!!

In any case, open questions such as “how are you feeling” or “is there anything I can do to help” work much better. Though they are not always successful, as demonstrated by this little girl here who just shrugs without looking up.

Well, I guess the fact she’s even feeling anything at all is already a success in itself. But seeing her current state doesn’t bring me much of a sense of accomplishment. I don’t feel any joy at seeing a distraught toddler. Surprising, I know.

“You can talk to me, you know?” I try again, but still I get no response.

Perhaps with a different approach…

“Dorothy, look at me,” I order quietly.

Visual contact is important to convey sincere emotions… probably. To tell the truth, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.

And that’s different from the usual in… what way?

Precisely. Maybe I’d read it in some cheap romance novel or movie. There’s that one with glittering vampires where all they do is stare at each other for half the runtime. Well, our present situation isn’t exactly romantic, but neither were those movies. Where am I even going with that reasoning?

Vampires don’t pony.

…What?

Twilight Sparkle.

Oh. I’m more of an Applejack fan, really.

I know.

Yeah… Where was I? Right. Little crying girl.

…Crying?

O MY GOD!! She’s crying?! WHAT DO I DO??? WHAT DO I DO???

Step one: STOP SCREAMING!!

Right… Gods. I really need more first-hand human interaction.

When Dorothy finally raises her brown eyes to meet mine, they are filled with tears. The hurt I see in that lost gaze is so heart-breaking it takes all my mental strength to keep wetness from my own eyes.

Impulsively I capture her small body… within my arms! Get your mind out of the gutter you lolicon bastards!

All men shall die, who are lolicons.

I hug Dorothy to my chest, rocking her slowly and muttering banalities like “it’ll be okay” or “don’t worry I’m here”. Of course, I have no idea if anything will indeed be okay or if my presence is of any use…

You are generally useless.

Well, you certainly aren’t helping.

Yeah, I know, for a Solar Knight, I ain’t being Mister Sunshine here – O, the irony – but the funny thing about sarcasm is how easily it turns into cynicism in serious situations.

Annoyance too is nudging at my mind. I’m irritated at myself, because in a way I’m partially responsible for Dorothy’s sorry state. My logical side – poor neglected creature – tries to remind me I’m not really to blame, that this is, despite appearances, a step up from her previous emotional impairment. It tells me grieving is an essential part of the recovery process, et cetera.

But I’ve never been very good at listening to that side of me. In fact, when it comes to sadness and suffering, my brain has a tendency to shut itself into denial. And because I’m in the habit of wilfully ignoring my own negative feelings, I’m close to incapable of dealing with others’.

But I’m 20% happier!

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But not right now.

“Talk to me Dorothy.” I shove my own lack of a clue at the back of my mind and focus on the child in my arms, who probably could use any help at hand, no matter how unhelpful.

An unhelpful help. That’s an oxymoron.

You’re the moron.

You certainly are.

I distractedly note that Martha is now sitting on Dorothy’s other side, a reassuring hand squeezing her shoulder. She looks about as awkward as me. Yes, that is the face of someone more used to make people cry than comforting them. It’s nice she’s trying at least.

“Dorothy? Sweetheart?” I repeat, but Dorothy just keeps staring at me and crying without a word, without really seeing me either I believe. It’s highly creepy, but strangely that calms me down. Creepy, I’m familiar with. I can handle creepy. Give me creepy over distraught any day.

She’s creepily distraught?

Don’t you have somewhere else to be supressed or something?

Dorothy’s left hand is unconsciously clutching to the side of Martha’s dress while her right one digs into my back through my cotton shirt. Damn, that girl has sharp nails. It’s not to the point I’m taking damages, but it’s still painful. But then, complaining seems a tad inappropriate right now.

We stay like this, in an awkward three-way hug, for several minutes…

Several minutes which see my restlessness grow stronger by the second as I wonder what else– what more I could be doing. I must admit, just waiting for things to happen rubs me the wrong way. Intellectually I know there are times when doing nothing is the best answer, but that doesn’t really sit right with me. When faced with a problem I’m trying to solve, I always feel bothered if I’m not actively working at it. I never really considered “just leave it time” to be a valid solution.

I quickly fall to the bottom of my shallow reservoir of patience. I’m about to move to Dorothy’s room and grab Toto the Second, because the puppy doll seemed to have quite the effect on the girl, when suddenly her grip on my back tightened as she drew a ragged breathe. I repress a yelp. Stupid nails! Dorothy, your next present shall be a file.

“Big Brother…” The sob is a barely audible whisper, a pleading whisper which causes my heart to leap to my throat. Dammit. I’m such a softie. That’s why I don’t deal with sad stuff. “Big Brother, please–” She lets out another sob and snuggles herself deeper in my arms. “Please, Big Brother, make it stop.”

Are we playing the pronoun game? I love that game!!

Shut up.

“Stop what?” I ask back softly, trying to sound more confident than I feel. Over the girl’s head, I cast a panicked glance at Martha, but quickly understand no help would come from her. The woman looks at least a quarter as scared as me… which for her is the equivalent of running around screaming in terror.

“The p-p-pain,” Dorothy sobs. “Why does it hurt so much?”

Oh goody. That’s so not helping. Why can’t kids just be messy and annoying? At least I’d could just scream at her and be done with it. Or just ignore them. That’d work too.

This little girl is looking up at me with eyes filled with confusion, sadness and more than a bit of fear. “Please make it stop!” She sounds so desperate. She releases both Martha and I and curls up, head on my lap, clutching her own chest as if her heart was at risk of shattering. “Please, please, Big Brother.”

Tears welled up in my widened scared eyes. I’m both touched and horrified by the trust she places in me. The full weight of a child’s hope, looking up to you and believing there is nothing you cannot accomplish, that’s something both exhilarating and terrifying to bear. It’s like having someone asking you to defuse an A-bomb five seconds before explosion while being burring under a pile of puppies.

Especially for someone like me who – I’m not ashamed to acknowledge – flees responsibilities like plague. Moreover, I suspect there’s little I can do to ease her current pain, which is mostly psychological I’m sure. I’d cast a healing spell, but the Elder’s warning still stands. No magic. I still don’t know why and it still infuriates me.

I cling to that emotion. Being angry is far easier than being confused.

Dammit. Why couldn’t this girl ask me to defeat a dragon, or a flock of them? Something easy? I would have been up my feet and swinging my sword in a heartbeat, but what am I supposed to do to protect her from her own memories and grief? That’s not something they teach you in paladin school!

You never went to paladin school.

Well, maybe I should have!

“Shhhhh…” I can only hold the girl close and rub the small of her back. I’m at loss for what else I could do, short of knocking her out… and then be killed by the uncharacteristically nervous woman beside me. I’m afraid she’d slit my throat as a knee-jerk reaction. “Don’t cry. It’ll be alright…”

…eventually, I suppose.

“I’m s-s-scared,” she stammers between sobs. “Mommy… Daddy… they all… died. The m-monsters ate them. I-I don’t want to di-i-ie too.”

Ah. That’s easier.

“Oh, sweetheart. Shhh, it will be okay. You’re not going to die.” I keep rocking her. “I’m here, and your Mama is here too.” I cast a glance at Martha, but she’s only looking troubled. Useless woman. “We won’t let anything happen to you. Especially her. Your Mama is strong isn’t she?”

“Why does it hurt?” Dorothy pleads again, visibly deaf to my attempts at comforting her.

“It’s because you’re very sad,” I answer. I mean, I suppose that’s the reason. Heartache has always been little more than an expression for me. Even at my lowest, which as far as I can remember was last year when Jenny dumped me, I only felt hollow, lost and vaguely pointless, but never in pain. “It’s because you’re very sad,” I repeat, “and scared, and you don’t know why, so your body is scared too.”

Argh, how am I supposed to explain Takotsubo cardiomyopathy to a child?

Bless you?

Precisely! Even I only know the term from idle procrastination over the internet.

My haphazard explanation must have finally had some effect though, surprisingly, because Dorothy seems to calm down slightly. Her breathing is becoming less ragged and her pained cries lessen into quiet sobs as she creeps in my lap and leans on me.

For the second time today – from my IRL point of view at least – I find myself the human Kleenex of a bawling child. The wetness spreading through the front of my shirt is frankly uncomfortable, but pushing Dorothy away right now would make me feel like a heartless bastard, so I’ll endure.

“Dorothy?” A snivelled moan is all I get as acknowledgement. “Dorothy, look at me.” I gently but firmly put a finger under her chin and raise her head to face me. Meeting her teary brown eyes, I sigh wearily. “Please, Little Sis, talk to me.”

Her gaze tries to shy away from mine, but with a small pressure from my finger, I keep her in place. “Dorothy, talk to me Sweetheart. You’ve been remembering things haven’t you? That’s why you’re sad.”

A small nod.

That’s progress.

I push a couple of her dark curled locks softly away from her face marred with tear stains. “Want to tell Big Brother about it?”

She shivers, uncertain. Several times, her mouth opens like she’s about to say something, only to close before any word could come out. A movement to my left catches my attention. Martha is reaching out hesitantly. She lays a comforting hand atop her adoptive daughter’s curls and begins stroking her hair. That did it. Like a dam suddenly breaking, words flood out of Dorothy’s mouth. And like any crying child, she has little control over them and they come out mostly as a jumbled mess.  

In-between jerky gasps and sobs, she tells the story of a little girl, daughter to a baker, of a quiet village by a river, of evenings spend by the fire, of fresh bread in the morning, of a puppy named Toto, of an hollow oak that became a secret hiding place, of people and places that matched little with what I associated with the current despaired-filled kingdom of Erwyn.

Might be a question of perspective. And she had to be… what… four, five at the time?

I can do nothing but ponder.

Her tale is difficult to follow. Not only are her words almost incomprehensible, but the events are told out of order too. Dorothy is jumping from one slice of life to the other, and she’s becoming less coherent and paler as her narration progresses, tentatively approaching the episode of the fateful travel, the undead attack and eventually her parents’ death. I can tell from the little girl’s haunted eyes and wheezy breathing that she is reliving every grim detail of that day as she talks.

My curiosity battles for a moment with my desire to keep her from more pain. But when my curiosity eventually lost and I try to tell her it’s okay to stop if it hurts too much, Dorothy doesn’t seem to hear me. She is like possessed by the power of her newly recovered memories. I briefly think of shaking her out of it, but ultimately capitulate and decide that it’s probably for the best that she lets it all out.

So I listen silently, my heartrate rising with growing horror as the events the little girl is stammering are painting themselves with bloody clarity on the canvas of my overactive imagination.

The day it happened, Dorothy’s and her parents had been camping in the woods. Not the leisurely kind of camping for what I gather. For some unclear reasons, Dorothy’s parents had decided to travel North with their young daughter and pet dog Toto. Why anyone would do such a thing without at least a small squadron of guards in a cursed country like Erwyn is beyond me, but Dorothy is in no state to answer my questions.

Again, I can only keep quiet, ponder, and listen.

One evening, the family made camp. Her father left to gather firewood, promising his daughter to come back fast. That promise – ultimately broken – apparently left a deep impression in the girl, because Dorothy keeps repeating numbly “he promised” for a while after telling us about it.

Of course, her father never came back. Her mother began to worry, her concern in turn agitating her daughter. The woman said she would go search for her husband, but then innumerable stumbling corpses suddenly invaded their campsite. From Dorothy’s words, the end of her mother’s life was as quick as it was brutal and gory.

“Blood… So much blood,” she murmurs with glazed eyes.

Toto the dog courageously stood up to the decaying menace, striving with all his puny strength to defend his last remaining owner. I understand better now how my coincidental naming of the hellhound toy could bring out suck a reaction from the little girl. I feel stupid for not figuring it out earlier. Of course Dorothy from Kansas would have a dog named Toto. But then, hindsight is a cruel and beautiful thing isn’t it?

As expected, the canine didn’t last long. And Dorothy fainted soon after her dog’s death. I listen with morbid fascination as the little girl describes her last conscious recollection, filled with the images and sensations of being showered in the blood raining down on her from the butcher corpse of her pet, ripped apart before her eyes, torn between the jaws of two human-shaped monsters. Then the abominations swooped down on her. She can’t remember what happened next.

When she woke up, the Elder was holding her in his arms, carrying her across the mist, her body numb and her mind empty.

Her tale concluded, Dorothy slumps down against me like a puppet whose string were cut. I’m alarmed for an instant, but soon quiet breathing alleviate my fears. Poor thing. That couldn’t have been easy. Emotional exhaustion isn’t to be made light of. It can be as draining as physical one, if not more.

Distractedly stroking the little girl’s head, I ponder on what I just heard. The few incoherencies in Dorothy’s story are making me feel uneasy.

A small movement at the upper edge of my vision causes me to look up. I discover Martha has regained her composure while I was lost in thoughts and stood up. Her emotionless mask is back in place, though I believe I can see a new softness in her glacial features, as if a sharp edge was removed.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still terrified. But now I’ll probably be able to sleep at night without her stare haunting my dreams… Well, not scary kind of dreams at least.

…

……

………

…bad Elric.

Please keep your sexual fantasies for when there isn’t a child sleeping on your crotch.

She is on my lap.

Keep telling yourself that.

What’s that even supposed to mean?

You tell me.

The Slightly Molten Ice Queen beckons me and I chastise my impure thoughts, obligingly and delicately handing the sleeping child over. I then rise up from the ground and– OW! For the love of smock!

And clench my teeth to supress the loud groan of pain that threatens to burst out of my lips when blood begins to abruptly flow once again in my numb legs. Oh, gods, it hurts. There should be a law against this. Dammit. Owowow…

Eventually my lower limbs stop feeling like a whole colony of fire ants is crawling inside them. I am left standing awkwardly beside the mother-daughter pair, the former gently cradling the later. Now that the whole emotional whatchamacallit is over, I am – again – without a clue what to do next.

This is becoming a trend.

It’s not like I enjoy this.

With nothing better to do, I decide to make ice-cream.

That’s rarely a bad choice.

Like I always say: “In doubt, choose food”. Rule 47. Kirito-kun knew it too, that’s why he picked Sandwich-chan in the end.

My attention drifts back to the soft glow that now shines in Martha’s murderous eyes, and I feel my body heat up somewhat.

…Alright. Definitely ice-cream. Very, very cold ice cream.

Watermelon ice-cream.

*shivers*

Why would you say that? You know how I feel about… watermelons.

*shivers*

But still love… watermelons.

*shivers*

I do… But they scare me… watermelons.

*shivers*

Okay. But where am I going to find some… watermelons?

…

……

………

*shivers*

* * * * *