Helplessness [Flashback]

[Kit Rowan]

509 AV, Season of Summer, Day 21 They heard the crash from the dining room. Kit’s aunt and uncle traded glances. “Stay—” But Kit was had already moving. She did not have time to look at her aunt or her uncle, and they did not try to stop her. She rushed through their little home on bare feet and found her father on the floor. His hair was white and thin, and his joints were swelled up, red and far too large. He was struggling on the floor, trying to push himself up, making small tortured sounds. Her father looked like one of her aunt’s dolls once they lost their stuffing—limp, broken. “I’m here,” she said, kneeling beside him. Kit touched a hand to his shoulder. And he threw up his own hand, pushed hers away. “No,” he rasped, “I can stand.” He struggled, tried to push himself up again. His strength held, and he made up inch by inch. To his knees, a little further, and Kit positioned herself beside him. When his legs gave way she wrapped her arms around him—he was gangly, thin, near skeletal, but he was still almost too heavy for her to handle. Her father gasped, wrapped an arm around her, the fear of falling overwhelming his dignity. She looked up at his face and saw tears flowing down his face. Her father’s expression was tortured, and not by pain. Her aunt and uncle were standing by the door, staring in. Her aunt looked away, and her uncle looked through them. “See,” she said, not acknowledging the tears. “You were right. You can stand.” Kit made herself smile, afraid maybe he would lose the footing he had, and carry them both to the ground. She held out a hand, and he grabbed hold. In his, hers seemed so very small; very much a child. “It’s okay,” she told him, voice trembling. “I’m here.” Help me, she thought, not sure who she was praying to. Kit's eyes shimmered, holding back her tears. Please . . .

[Kit Rowan]

508 AV, Season of Fall, Day 9 Kit had never been so sorry to open her eyes in her entire life. She made a soft, high sound in the back of her throat. Kit stayed very still, afraid to move for fear of causing more pain. Her bed, her sheets were all familiar, but coarse cloth was drawn over her both her hands and every movement hurt—every breath she took. She felt a hand resting on her forehead—cool and damp. She opened her eyes and saw her father. He was like a stork—too tall and too thin. His hair was stark white, and thinning, but there was something of her in his face. Her father had thirty and seven years, but his face was young. It was the only the rest of him that had wasted away until only sinew and bone hold him together. “You’re awake,” he said. Kit ignored him. Wincing, she drew her hands out from beneath the blankets. They were wrapped in bandages, too tight for her to move her fingers. She tried to clench it and felt her palms flare in pain along her cuts. There were bruises—Kit felt them, everywhere. But, the worst was, when Kit tried to move, her legs wouldn’t let her. Not thinking, she threw the sheets from her bed and to hell with the pain . . . and her legs were fine. Kit saw some darkness where muscles had torn, yes, but she had seen torn muscles, and they should not have crippled her. She tried to move them, and they did—barely. Kit drew them close, hugged them near her body. Her hands shook, and she did not know whether it was fear or something else that did it. “Oh Gods,” she said, her voice weak. “Oh, Gods.” Her father put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said, very solemn, very sincere. Kit looked at him with unfocused eyes. “Why?” She asked, lost. He shook his head. “Maybe thirteen is too young,” he said. “Or maybe it’s because I’m not as skilled as I used to be.” Why was he so calm now? How could he be so even? Kit had always thought that ‘ground their teeth’ was just a figure of speech, not something anyone actually did, but she was doing it now. “It took too long, and the stress on your spirit was too much. Usually it’s not a problem, but—” Kit tried to hit him with her elbow, but he leaned back and all she managed to do was fall out of bed and to the floor. She squealed in pain. Kit tried to struggle up, but her body wouldn’t let her. She glowered at her father. “Why?” She spat, holding up a bandaged hand. “Why do this?” His eyes were wide, and for the first time since Kit had seen him come to her home, he had no words. “Why would you do this?” Her vision was blurred, her cheeks were wet. “Am I ever going to walk again?” “Yes,” he said, and Kit sobbed, her shoulders shaking. I will run, she thought, one day. The relief overwhelmed her. But she wanted the wind in her hair, she wanted the ground beneath her feet, and she wanted it now. “I didn’t want this to happen,” her father whispered, shaking his head. “You’re my blood, Kit. You’re my daughter.” “I said ‘stop,’” Kit said. He had told her he wanted to teach her sorcery, and she had said yes. But she hadn’t known how painful it would be. She had fainted before the end, but not before the pain and seizures had started. And not before she’d wanted it all over. “You could have stopped.” Her voice was almost too soft to be heard, but Kit knew he had. Her face must have been anguish to look on. “Just . . . look at you,” he said. “Your mother’s child to the bone. You’re a performer, you pray to her God, you live in her city. But you’re not just hers,” he knelt in front of her and let a hand rest on her cheek. “You’re my daughter,” he said again, and she heard real love in his voice. “My beautiful daughter.” It took a moment for her to understand. “You’re jealous,” she said. “You did this to me . . . because you’re jealous.” Kit shook her head. He can’t be father, it’s a mistake, it’s all wrong. He loved her. Gods, he loved her. And for the first time, she didn’t want it. “Leave me alone.” “No.” He said, lifting her up, while she didn’t have strength enough to protest. “Never again.” He let her down on her bed and sat in a chair by the door. She tried to stay angry, but soon she was only tired.

[Kit Rowan]

"I want Auntie," she said, when she woke up, but her father smiled and did nothing. "I want uncle," she'd said, and he'd smiled and done nothing. "Leave me alone," she'd said at last, for the second time, and he left her alone in the room. Kit stretched her arms and tried to move her legs. She called for her aunt and uncle at the top of her lungs, for her cousins, but they didn't come. She stared at her hands. Stared at the window, tried to guess the position of the sun from the shadows. Her stomach growled. She called again. Time passed. She held a hand over her stomach, grimaced at the want. Kit bit down on her bottom lip until it hurt, then sighed. "Dad?" The door swung open, very gentle, and he peered in with neutral eyes. "I'm hungry," he smiled, nodded and shut the door. One forever later, it opened again, and he came in with a wooden board with fruits and nuts and soup. He set it by her bed, and she took one at a time. He sat beside her, handed her each of them in turn. "It's the nature of people to hate anyone who hurts them." He stroked her hair, and she watched with wary eyes. "But they love anyone who takes care of them," he said, as Kit drawn her first sip of the soup. It tasted very sweet. "because they need them, and we always love what we need." Kit set down the bowl and pushed him away. And now I need you. "You're my daughter," he told her. "The only thing I have left. I need you."