Gerald Avery (tenebrisme) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-04-07 22:42:00 |
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Keats entered the hospital room nervously, unsure of what to expect. “Father? We came as soon as we heard,” he said quietly, unsure if he was asleep or dead or whether he knew anyone was there at all. He tip-toed into the room and pushed past a privacy curtain, eyes wide and worried. Val had been hiding behind Keats, feeling a bit nauseous. She had been expecting the worst, short of death, but Clement's urgency made it seem very concerning. She had an emotionless expression on her face, and held onto Freja's hand, feeling shy all of a sudden. "Daddy?" she called after Keats did, her heart sinking when she saw her father laying on the hospital bed. Blessed unconsciousness had fled Gerald only once since the altercation in the Ministry, long enough to remind him yes, someone had done this to him. But as the pain potion and healing had begun to take hold, his body began to remind him that he was tasked with survival. His eyes fluttered and focused, shifting to ensure the blanket was pulled up to his shoulder as his children began to materialize before him. “It’s all right,” came out in a disused croak. Keats immediately moved closer, bending down to kneel at his bedside and get a little bit closer. “How are you feeling? What can I do? Who do I need to kill?” he fretted. “Keats.” A gnarled hand found Keats’ fingertips and drew them in with a weakened grip. How did he feel? “Angry,” he muttered, then cut his eyes to his son. “No. No, you will not.” He drew a shallow breath. “Tell me about what you are painting.” Valkyrie remained quiet, though, unable to stomach seeing her father like this. Her eyes fell to his side, where his arm would have been, and nervously tried to gulp away the lump in her throat. "I'll help him kill, too," Val muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Freja to hear her daughter. She gave Val a stern look, before coming to her husband's side, tenderly caressing his cheek. "My love," Freja spoke, her eyes pooling with tears. As their mother settled in beside their father, Dante stepped fully into the room and came to place behind his siblings. He’d lingered in the hallway, unable to bring himself to face what had happened. He steeled himself and asked a passing healer for information on his father’s injuries -- on what to expect, on the likelihood of survival -- while he gave them some privacy. He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He’d heard the tail-end of their father’s question and answered for Keats. “He’s painting a mural for the baby.” Dante really wanted to ask their father what they could do to get back at who had hurt him, but their father needed to heal, first and foremost. Gerald wished, more than anything, to have done with their tears and their pity. He wanted to be strong and whole. So, when Dante spoke, he fixed every one of them in turn with a beatific smile. “ … with a Blakean aesthetic, I do so hope! The baby ought to know the primacy of its fearful symmetry.” Ironic, that. His arm itched, and he would have turned to scratch, but … well. “Though your penchant for family murder gives me ideas!” Val responded with a very un-ladylike snort, and couldn't stop herself from following it up with an amused laugh. "Please, dad, it's not like we are going mud-blood hunting." Although, now that she thought about it, wasn't such a terrible idea. She smiled, and sat herself down on the foot of his bed, letting one hand rest on his leg. "Maybe you should rest at home. What do you think? Hospitals are so dreary and disgusting and I'm sure we can have Healers at your beck and call." Keats nodded in agreement. “Hospitals are terrible. The aesthetic alone makes me feel ill. You should come home.” Though he wanted to agree that their father would be more comfortable at home, Dante worried. He’d spoken to the Healer about his father’s condition, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to push the issue too quickly. The woods weren’t clear quite yet. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint his siblings, either. “He’ll be home soon,” he reassured them, offering his best attempt at a warm smile. “Until then, we can make this,” Dante gestured towards the rest of the room, “more suitable. We could bring one of Keats’ paintings to put on the wall instead?” Gerald nodded his assent. Though he felt uncommonly old and brittle and knew that he would want to go home, the truth was it was not time. “You children are so kind to your old father,” he said, infusing his voice with a weak, if rich, smile. “A painting and perhaps a blanket? Some clothes beyond a hospital gown?” He took a shallow breath. “Clement will ensure the very best care. And we will use the time to experiment with the right prosthesis. But I will be home shortly.” A beat. “Dante, go back over the grounds and ensure the wards are secure. And get me a sketchbook, please.” Val nodded and smiled at Gerald, even though she would have much rather that he had agreed with him. But she relented. With Clem around, her father would be fine. "As you wish, dad." Letting go, just a little, and allowing someone else to take care of their father wasn’t something so easily accepted, even for Dante. He worried, just as he knew his siblings did. This had been a close call, and he was sure that none of them were ready to say good bye just yet. He knew he wasn’t. He was terrified. Their father was right, though. Clement would take care of him. Dante nodded and gestured towards the door for Keats and Valkyrie to follow him out. If their mother wanted to stay… well, that was all right. Perhaps they deserved some privacy. “We’ll be back soon. Get some rest.” He paused and cleared his throat, though it did little to erase the gruff emotion from his voice. “We still need you.” |