Father and Son - a Witchblade Fan-fic - PG
Greetings!
Posting my Witchblade stories here as well as elsewhere - these are copied directly from the boards they were originally posted to, as the computer they were written on is not currently connected to the Internet and I'm feeling lazy-ish, so feel free to ignore the odd section breaks....
This story is a snippet from my AU universe and takes place in the year 2014, for those who are interested in such things. Originally written for a Father's Day contest, this is a piece about Irons and Ian preparing for a new generation.
Story copyright 2003 Katrina B.W. Diamond-Hawke
Sara Pezzini, Ian Nottingham, Kenneth Irons, the Witchblade, and related characters and storylines,
copyright Top Cow, WB, TNT, et al.
Mrs Hancock copyright Menagerie Household
Enjoy!
-Katrina
Greetings!
And finally, here is my entry into the Father's Day contest. Although this piece is a stand-alone, eventually it will be encorporated into the novel tentatively titled "Genesis", the fourth of the Irons Novels.
This story takes place in 2014, for those who are interested in such things.
Katrina
_________________________
Father and Son
Story copyright 2003 Katrina B.W. Diamond-Hawke
Sara Pezzini, Ian Nottingham, Kenneth Irons, the Witchblade, and related characters and storylines,
copyright Top Cow, WB, TNT, et al.
Mrs Hancock copyright Menagerie Household
“Oh my God, I think it’s time.”
Ian tried not to panic, remembering very clearly the discussion he and Sara had had after he had tried to move out of their bedroom back when she had first told him she was pregnant. And the one he and his father had had shortly thereafter, for that matter. He helped her to her feet and back up to their suite. He tucked her carefully into bed and then called the doctor, the midwife, and his father, in that order. The necessities taken care of, Ian fell into a chair as the reality of what was happening began to catch up with him. Of all the strange and unusual things that had happened to him in his life, he thought, this, in its own way, was the strangest. Certainly it was one of the ones he had least expected ever to occur.
His father was the first to arrive, bending over the bed to congratulate his daughter-in-law, carefully keeping the fear from his face and mind. Sara beckoned him down to her. Kenneth bent down further to catch the low whisper, pitched for his ears alone. “You know what to do, right?”
“Yes, Sara,” he said with faint amusement. “I am completely aware of what you require.”
“Thank you. Otherwise…” Irons nodded, not about to tell her that he needed this as well, that the next hours were going to be agonizing reminders of a hell he tried valiantly to forget. Just because the tests had turned out negative did not mean that he did not fear - for her, for Ian, for himself. He straightened up, squeezed her hand gently and turned from her to face his son, who was sitting there stunned, doing a good imitation of the white linen sheets that Sara lay on.
“Ian,” he said without preamble. “I require your presence in my sitting room.” When Ian looked as if he might object, Irons added, “Now.” Years of ingrained habit rose to the fore, made much easier by the look of love and release Sara gave him. Ian strode quickly to the bed, bending down and kissing his wife of many years with a passion undimmed by the passage of time. She reached up and pulled him down to her, promising with her mouth, her kiss, her unspoken thoughts of love, that she would be ok. He took her silent pledge, and the swift caress of her hand along one cheek, then he rose and was gone, following his father through the door.
Greetings!
Well, since y'all asked so nicely, (even Spin ), here is some more...
Katrina
________________
The walk through the house was silent, both men lost in their own private thoughts. They entered the sitting room, Irons gesturing Ian to a chair, while he went to the sideboard and poured two snifters of brandy. His son did as he was bid, receiving his glass in silence as his father went to the other chair in front of the fire and sat. They drank quietly for a moment, concentrating on the fine brandy, before Ian broke the silence. “Why have you asked me here?” Ian looked across at his father, half-question, half-challenge. “My place is at Sara’s side.” They both ignored the unspoken question of why here, rather than someplace more neutral, like the library. Many things had changed over the years, but some rules had remained inviolate, and Ian’s presence in his father’s suite was one of them. For him to be here, even by invitation, was unusual, and did nothing to calm Ian’s nerves.
Irons stared at the ever-present flames dancing in the fireplace for long moments before answering, sifting through his thoughts… what to tell, what to leave unspoken, buried in the rubble of a troubled past. “Several reasons,” he said finally. “Primarily this - as you are about to become a father yourself, I believe it is time that you were given some answers.”
Ian smiled to himself as his father reached out reflexively for someone who was not there. They had done so much better than they had ever imagined when they had hired a frightened middle-aged divorcée to catalog the Vorschlag collection. In Laurel Whitman-Irons, Irons had found the love of his old age, coming to depend on her as he never had thought he could again. Right now she was in England, pursuing some research, and while his father would never come between Laurel and her work, it was obvious that he missed her deeply.
Irons sighed. In its own way this task would be easier if she were here with him. Although, perhaps not. This was a time for men, coping with the stresses of imminent fatherhood as they had done for countless generations before and would no doubt continue to do for countless generations to come.
“I do not understand sir.”
Irons took another sip of his brandy and sighed again. “There is the question of why I raised you as I did, the things that have happened. There are things you need to know, to understand about your past… and mine.”
“Sir, does it really matter now? It was so long ago, and I understand why.”
“You understand nothing,” he said vehemently. His tone was harsh, demanding in Ian’s ears, much the way it had been in his youth. Now, as then, Ian subsided and paid attention. Questions could, and would, wait. “I wish to give you something I felt I never had. A choice.” The pain was almost palpable in his voice as he continued. “At the time, there was so much risk… and you were all I had left of her….”
“Sir?”
“Your mother died the day you were born.” Irons was startled at how bitterly the words came out, how much anger and pain was still buried there after all these years. “Destiny, she told me, too late. Her duty and her pleasure. But all that mattered to me was that she was dying… that once again I was losing someone that I cared about.” He drank deeply before continuing. “After Elizabeth died, she saved my life, reminded me that there was more to the world than loss. She told me then that she would never leave me. And I, like a fool, believed her.” He tossed back the last of his brandy and went to pour himself another. Returning to his seat, he continued. “She was not the great love of my life.” At his son’s look of utter confusion, he clarified. “She was something… other. Special in a way that I have no words for… a connection to my past, my hope for the future.”
Seeing his father’s pain, Ian spoke up, wanting to spare him further grief. “Sir, it is not necessary…”
Irons cut him off with a curt wave of the hand. “No. This needs to be said. And it will never be discussed again.”
Ian subsided, torn between his need to understand and the desire to spare his father. The situation in an odd way harkened back to childhood days spent before the library fire listening to his father’s tales. As much as he wanted to hear the story of his past, were the answers worth the pain they caused? But, seeing the determination in Irons’ eyes, he knew that his father would not be dissuaded. Ian sat back again in his chair and listened as his father began a tale of joy and pain, discovery and loss.
“After she died, I was determined to keep you safe. As I have told you, a rich man’s child was not a safe thing to be at the time. So I gave you the name she had chosen and went on.” He paused, lost in the memories, while Ian grew even more still, if that were possible.
“Do you regret?” he asked softly, so quietly his father almost didn’t catch the words.
Irons looked up, startled. Seeing the hurt in Ian’s eyes, he answered forcefully, holding his son’s gaze to show the truth of his words. “Your birth? Never. Losing your mother? Always.” The pain in his son’s eyes was mirrored in his own.
Ian nodded, a knot of fear that he would never have dared name easing in his chest. He returned his attention to his father, who was staring into the flames, though whether searching for inspiration or merely reliving the past, Ian could not tell.
“When your mother died, I was determined to honor her memory, and by then, I was so lost to the Witchblade…” He paused, taking a moment to refocus his thoughts. Some things he had no desire to explain to his son, even now. “Knowledge of the Witchblade ran long in her family, although she was not the Wielder. If she had been…” He lost himself again in the memories for a moment, then brought himself back to the present with a shake. “but she wasn’t. I offered her the chance to wear it, but she refused. An intelligent move, as it turned out.” He smiled again, this time with something of the coldness that was his normal state. Ian wondered at the change, but said nothing. His father would explain if it were necessary, and if it were not, no amount of words on his part would change Irons’ mind. Something else that had not changed over the years.
“So, I raised you with one thought in mind. If I could not bring the ‘blade to my will, and could not find a lady to wield it, then I would raise my son to be the Protector of the Wielder, the darkness to her light.”
“To serve you both?” The question came out without rancor, without blame.
“Yes.” Irons’ reply was unapologetic, yet somehow gentle at the same time. “I raised you to be without emotional attachments, save to myself and the Wielder-to-be, gave you the strength to endure any pain without flinching, the loyalty and the sense of duty to do what was necessary, regardless of the cost.
“I rationalized that I was doing this for you, for the next Wielder, but in reality, I… I was afraid to lose you, too.” The words came hard, but Irons forced them out. With the bloodlines involved, there was every chance that either the next Protector or the next Wielder would come from Sara’s womb, and he needed Ian to understand why he had done as he had, so that perhaps the sorrows of this generation would not have to be passed on to the next.
Greetings!
A bit more... as men bond and labor progresses.
Katrina
___________
“I was never close to my own parents, especially my father. I saw more of the servants than I did of them.” He shrugged gracefully. “It was the way it was done. I never felt the lack. Father was cold, distant and I could never quite manage to live up to his standards, no matter how hard I tried. I had wanted to study piano, but my father had other plans for me. He was determined that I should follow in the family business. And so I did. That was also the way it was done. And it turned out that it would not have mattered anyway. Even if I had been free to pursue my studies, the War put an end to any hopes I might have had in that direction.” Irons forcibly brought himself back to the present. “In any case, it scarcely matters now.” He rose and stood before the fire, letting the flames ease the chills of the past.
“I like to think of myself as a man of vision,” he spoke into the flames, “and in some ways I suppose that it is true. It is also true, however, that I have spent my life running to embrace the future in headlong flight from the past. Not an easy thing to realize, or to admit, but I have never cared for self-deception.
“I do not tell you these things out of any particular need for forgiveness. The past is the past and cannot be changed. And with the knowledge that I have now, I am not certain that I would change anything, even if I could.” He looked Ian up and down critically, then gave him just a hint of a proud smile. The boy has done well, he thought. Although whether because of his upbringing, or in spite of it, Irons was not completely sure. Perhaps a bit of both? a slightly mocking voice said in the back of his mind, which he silenced. “I give you this knowledge so that you can avoid making the errors I have made.”
“Errors, Sir?” Ian asked, confused.
“I raised you to be strong…” He turned back to look at his son, his own expression unreadable, before walking back across the plush carpet to his chair and sitting somewhat heavily. “It took me many years to realize that there was weakness in that kind of strength.” Irons paused.
“Your child will most likely not have any more choice in their vocation than I had, although for different reasons. But the strengths you can give them can be different. I raised you to have strength of the body, strength of the mind. But I listened to my father’s fears and did not raise you with the emotional strength that perhaps I should have. Your child will have the heritage of the ‘blade behind it, and will have to be raised to understand that. But there can be differences as well… and should be.”
“There will have to be,” Ian replied softly. The remembrance of the discussions that he and Sara had had at the beginning of her pregnancy were extremely painful to recall. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of how close Sara had come to leaving him.
“I am aware of that, my son. I, too, was a party to your wife’s… doubts.” His father’s characteristic dryness of speech came to the fore once more, and Ian had to smile at that, as had been intended. “Do not be afraid, Ian. Do not allow the fears of the past to overwhelm what you are required to do for the future.” Irons fell silent after that, and the brief calm eye of an emotional hurricane settled in around them.
Greetings!
And how can I resist when asked so very nicely?
Katrina
____________________________________________
Before either could say anything further, there was a soft knock at the door. “Enter,” Irons commanded, once more slipping the public mask over his face.
Mrs. Hancock entered the room with a lightness of step that belied her years, saying shyly, “Sirs… I was asked to inform you that Ms. Pezzini has given birth to a daughter… and a son. All are safe and well.”
Twins! In his wildest dreams, Ian had not envisioned a multiple birth. He looked to his father, who merely looked back at him blandly, not quite managing, however, to hide the smile that came to his face at the news.
“Well, Ian, are you not going to go to her?”
“Uh… yes. Yes, sir,” he stumbled over the words as he rose from the chair, his mind still not quite grasping the fact that he was now a father himself, and of twins, at that. Ian managed to maintain his accustomed decorum, rising with an outward calm, nodding respectfully to his father, leaving the room with a carefully measured tread, a crackle of barely-restrained nervous energy the only mark of his passing.
As Irons sat, trying to regain his composure, he listened for the sound, not long in coming. As soon as the door closed, he heard it… the slightly muffled sound of running feet. He smiled, oddly comforted, his thoughts trying to come back to order from the painful chaos of self-inspection. Some things never changed. He tried to rise, to follow in his son’s footsteps, only to realize that his body had not yet completely recovered from the shock. He could not recall feeling this weak, this overwhelmed, since the day that Ian was born. But, unlike that wonderful/terrible day, this day was free from the taint of tragedy. As the realization that everything was, in fact, all right now sank deep into his heart, he could feel the cold, seldom-acknowledged hand of fear loosen its grip on his heart. He took a deep breath and slowly rose. Still spry, in spite of living several lifetimes worth of years, he thought with satisfaction. As a grandfather of twins, I will need to be. He looked forward to the prospect with a certain amount of relish.
Greetings!
And the last bit... Enjoy!
Katrina
_______________________
Kenneth Irons entered the room silently and stood for a moment to observe his family. Ian sat perched on the edge of the bed next to Sara, two small wrapped bundles held so close that from this angle, Irons could not clearly see the faces of the next generation. Sara looked tired, but still radiated a contented glow… so soft, so beautiful, that for a moment, he forgot when he was, and experienced a sudden feeling of loss for what had never been. He felt a catch, a brief stab of regret, before his vision cleared and the scene returned to what it was. Kenneth felt the love between them and realized that, without the past, this future would not have happened.
As he stood in the doorway musing, Ian looked up at his father, pride and love cutting through all else. “Father, would you like to hold your granddaughter?”
For a moment time stopped, the mask of cold neutrality slipping away like frost on a summer’s day. Ian and Sara gazed in surprise at the face of a man who had suddenly become a grandfather, any lingering reservations melting away at the sight.
Irons nodded and came forward to accept a small bundle from his daughter-in-law. He held the child carefully as he permitted himself to be lost in the magic of the moment, a gentle smile playing about his lips.
“Her name is Elizabeth Laurel.”
He stood there, holding her gently until the soft knock at the door interrupted his reverie. “Sirs, ma’am,” Mrs. Hancock interrupted gently. “The babies, and Ms Pezzini, should both get their rest.” As she deftly scooped up both babies and herded him to the door, Irons thought wryly that he was very glad that he would not have to be the one to explain to her that she could not be the nanny for this new generation. He glanced back for a last look… husband and wife, Knight and Wielder, sharing the tenderness of lovers long acquainted, then the door closed behind him. Before him, he saw the future held securely in the housekeeper’s arms. And for this time, Kenneth Irons was content.
The next Protector? The next Wielder? Or perhaps… both? He could not say and right now it did not matter. Time enough for the future when it came, time enough for the games of fathers and sons. He walked back to his rooms and poured another glass, raising it in honor of the parents and the children, the past and the future, then sat again, meditating in the fire’s glow as the hours of the night turned into the rose-colored dawn of a new day.
Posting my Witchblade stories here as well as elsewhere - these are copied directly from the boards they were originally posted to, as the computer they were written on is not currently connected to the Internet and I'm feeling lazy-ish, so feel free to ignore the odd section breaks....
This story is a snippet from my AU universe and takes place in the year 2014, for those who are interested in such things. Originally written for a Father's Day contest, this is a piece about Irons and Ian preparing for a new generation.
Story copyright 2003 Katrina B.W. Diamond-Hawke
Sara Pezzini, Ian Nottingham, Kenneth Irons, the Witchblade, and related characters and storylines,
copyright Top Cow, WB, TNT, et al.
Mrs Hancock copyright Menagerie Household
Enjoy!
-Katrina
Greetings!
And finally, here is my entry into the Father's Day contest. Although this piece is a stand-alone, eventually it will be encorporated into the novel tentatively titled "Genesis", the fourth of the Irons Novels.
This story takes place in 2014, for those who are interested in such things.
Katrina
_________________________
Father and Son
Story copyright 2003 Katrina B.W. Diamond-Hawke
Sara Pezzini, Ian Nottingham, Kenneth Irons, the Witchblade, and related characters and storylines,
copyright Top Cow, WB, TNT, et al.
Mrs Hancock copyright Menagerie Household
“Oh my God, I think it’s time.”
Ian tried not to panic, remembering very clearly the discussion he and Sara had had after he had tried to move out of their bedroom back when she had first told him she was pregnant. And the one he and his father had had shortly thereafter, for that matter. He helped her to her feet and back up to their suite. He tucked her carefully into bed and then called the doctor, the midwife, and his father, in that order. The necessities taken care of, Ian fell into a chair as the reality of what was happening began to catch up with him. Of all the strange and unusual things that had happened to him in his life, he thought, this, in its own way, was the strangest. Certainly it was one of the ones he had least expected ever to occur.
His father was the first to arrive, bending over the bed to congratulate his daughter-in-law, carefully keeping the fear from his face and mind. Sara beckoned him down to her. Kenneth bent down further to catch the low whisper, pitched for his ears alone. “You know what to do, right?”
“Yes, Sara,” he said with faint amusement. “I am completely aware of what you require.”
“Thank you. Otherwise…” Irons nodded, not about to tell her that he needed this as well, that the next hours were going to be agonizing reminders of a hell he tried valiantly to forget. Just because the tests had turned out negative did not mean that he did not fear - for her, for Ian, for himself. He straightened up, squeezed her hand gently and turned from her to face his son, who was sitting there stunned, doing a good imitation of the white linen sheets that Sara lay on.
“Ian,” he said without preamble. “I require your presence in my sitting room.” When Ian looked as if he might object, Irons added, “Now.” Years of ingrained habit rose to the fore, made much easier by the look of love and release Sara gave him. Ian strode quickly to the bed, bending down and kissing his wife of many years with a passion undimmed by the passage of time. She reached up and pulled him down to her, promising with her mouth, her kiss, her unspoken thoughts of love, that she would be ok. He took her silent pledge, and the swift caress of her hand along one cheek, then he rose and was gone, following his father through the door.
Greetings!
Well, since y'all asked so nicely, (even Spin ), here is some more...
Katrina
________________
The walk through the house was silent, both men lost in their own private thoughts. They entered the sitting room, Irons gesturing Ian to a chair, while he went to the sideboard and poured two snifters of brandy. His son did as he was bid, receiving his glass in silence as his father went to the other chair in front of the fire and sat. They drank quietly for a moment, concentrating on the fine brandy, before Ian broke the silence. “Why have you asked me here?” Ian looked across at his father, half-question, half-challenge. “My place is at Sara’s side.” They both ignored the unspoken question of why here, rather than someplace more neutral, like the library. Many things had changed over the years, but some rules had remained inviolate, and Ian’s presence in his father’s suite was one of them. For him to be here, even by invitation, was unusual, and did nothing to calm Ian’s nerves.
Irons stared at the ever-present flames dancing in the fireplace for long moments before answering, sifting through his thoughts… what to tell, what to leave unspoken, buried in the rubble of a troubled past. “Several reasons,” he said finally. “Primarily this - as you are about to become a father yourself, I believe it is time that you were given some answers.”
Ian smiled to himself as his father reached out reflexively for someone who was not there. They had done so much better than they had ever imagined when they had hired a frightened middle-aged divorcée to catalog the Vorschlag collection. In Laurel Whitman-Irons, Irons had found the love of his old age, coming to depend on her as he never had thought he could again. Right now she was in England, pursuing some research, and while his father would never come between Laurel and her work, it was obvious that he missed her deeply.
Irons sighed. In its own way this task would be easier if she were here with him. Although, perhaps not. This was a time for men, coping with the stresses of imminent fatherhood as they had done for countless generations before and would no doubt continue to do for countless generations to come.
“I do not understand sir.”
Irons took another sip of his brandy and sighed again. “There is the question of why I raised you as I did, the things that have happened. There are things you need to know, to understand about your past… and mine.”
“Sir, does it really matter now? It was so long ago, and I understand why.”
“You understand nothing,” he said vehemently. His tone was harsh, demanding in Ian’s ears, much the way it had been in his youth. Now, as then, Ian subsided and paid attention. Questions could, and would, wait. “I wish to give you something I felt I never had. A choice.” The pain was almost palpable in his voice as he continued. “At the time, there was so much risk… and you were all I had left of her….”
“Sir?”
“Your mother died the day you were born.” Irons was startled at how bitterly the words came out, how much anger and pain was still buried there after all these years. “Destiny, she told me, too late. Her duty and her pleasure. But all that mattered to me was that she was dying… that once again I was losing someone that I cared about.” He drank deeply before continuing. “After Elizabeth died, she saved my life, reminded me that there was more to the world than loss. She told me then that she would never leave me. And I, like a fool, believed her.” He tossed back the last of his brandy and went to pour himself another. Returning to his seat, he continued. “She was not the great love of my life.” At his son’s look of utter confusion, he clarified. “She was something… other. Special in a way that I have no words for… a connection to my past, my hope for the future.”
Seeing his father’s pain, Ian spoke up, wanting to spare him further grief. “Sir, it is not necessary…”
Irons cut him off with a curt wave of the hand. “No. This needs to be said. And it will never be discussed again.”
Ian subsided, torn between his need to understand and the desire to spare his father. The situation in an odd way harkened back to childhood days spent before the library fire listening to his father’s tales. As much as he wanted to hear the story of his past, were the answers worth the pain they caused? But, seeing the determination in Irons’ eyes, he knew that his father would not be dissuaded. Ian sat back again in his chair and listened as his father began a tale of joy and pain, discovery and loss.
“After she died, I was determined to keep you safe. As I have told you, a rich man’s child was not a safe thing to be at the time. So I gave you the name she had chosen and went on.” He paused, lost in the memories, while Ian grew even more still, if that were possible.
“Do you regret?” he asked softly, so quietly his father almost didn’t catch the words.
Irons looked up, startled. Seeing the hurt in Ian’s eyes, he answered forcefully, holding his son’s gaze to show the truth of his words. “Your birth? Never. Losing your mother? Always.” The pain in his son’s eyes was mirrored in his own.
Ian nodded, a knot of fear that he would never have dared name easing in his chest. He returned his attention to his father, who was staring into the flames, though whether searching for inspiration or merely reliving the past, Ian could not tell.
“When your mother died, I was determined to honor her memory, and by then, I was so lost to the Witchblade…” He paused, taking a moment to refocus his thoughts. Some things he had no desire to explain to his son, even now. “Knowledge of the Witchblade ran long in her family, although she was not the Wielder. If she had been…” He lost himself again in the memories for a moment, then brought himself back to the present with a shake. “but she wasn’t. I offered her the chance to wear it, but she refused. An intelligent move, as it turned out.” He smiled again, this time with something of the coldness that was his normal state. Ian wondered at the change, but said nothing. His father would explain if it were necessary, and if it were not, no amount of words on his part would change Irons’ mind. Something else that had not changed over the years.
“So, I raised you with one thought in mind. If I could not bring the ‘blade to my will, and could not find a lady to wield it, then I would raise my son to be the Protector of the Wielder, the darkness to her light.”
“To serve you both?” The question came out without rancor, without blame.
“Yes.” Irons’ reply was unapologetic, yet somehow gentle at the same time. “I raised you to be without emotional attachments, save to myself and the Wielder-to-be, gave you the strength to endure any pain without flinching, the loyalty and the sense of duty to do what was necessary, regardless of the cost.
“I rationalized that I was doing this for you, for the next Wielder, but in reality, I… I was afraid to lose you, too.” The words came hard, but Irons forced them out. With the bloodlines involved, there was every chance that either the next Protector or the next Wielder would come from Sara’s womb, and he needed Ian to understand why he had done as he had, so that perhaps the sorrows of this generation would not have to be passed on to the next.
Greetings!
A bit more... as men bond and labor progresses.
Katrina
___________
“I was never close to my own parents, especially my father. I saw more of the servants than I did of them.” He shrugged gracefully. “It was the way it was done. I never felt the lack. Father was cold, distant and I could never quite manage to live up to his standards, no matter how hard I tried. I had wanted to study piano, but my father had other plans for me. He was determined that I should follow in the family business. And so I did. That was also the way it was done. And it turned out that it would not have mattered anyway. Even if I had been free to pursue my studies, the War put an end to any hopes I might have had in that direction.” Irons forcibly brought himself back to the present. “In any case, it scarcely matters now.” He rose and stood before the fire, letting the flames ease the chills of the past.
“I like to think of myself as a man of vision,” he spoke into the flames, “and in some ways I suppose that it is true. It is also true, however, that I have spent my life running to embrace the future in headlong flight from the past. Not an easy thing to realize, or to admit, but I have never cared for self-deception.
“I do not tell you these things out of any particular need for forgiveness. The past is the past and cannot be changed. And with the knowledge that I have now, I am not certain that I would change anything, even if I could.” He looked Ian up and down critically, then gave him just a hint of a proud smile. The boy has done well, he thought. Although whether because of his upbringing, or in spite of it, Irons was not completely sure. Perhaps a bit of both? a slightly mocking voice said in the back of his mind, which he silenced. “I give you this knowledge so that you can avoid making the errors I have made.”
“Errors, Sir?” Ian asked, confused.
“I raised you to be strong…” He turned back to look at his son, his own expression unreadable, before walking back across the plush carpet to his chair and sitting somewhat heavily. “It took me many years to realize that there was weakness in that kind of strength.” Irons paused.
“Your child will most likely not have any more choice in their vocation than I had, although for different reasons. But the strengths you can give them can be different. I raised you to have strength of the body, strength of the mind. But I listened to my father’s fears and did not raise you with the emotional strength that perhaps I should have. Your child will have the heritage of the ‘blade behind it, and will have to be raised to understand that. But there can be differences as well… and should be.”
“There will have to be,” Ian replied softly. The remembrance of the discussions that he and Sara had had at the beginning of her pregnancy were extremely painful to recall. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of how close Sara had come to leaving him.
“I am aware of that, my son. I, too, was a party to your wife’s… doubts.” His father’s characteristic dryness of speech came to the fore once more, and Ian had to smile at that, as had been intended. “Do not be afraid, Ian. Do not allow the fears of the past to overwhelm what you are required to do for the future.” Irons fell silent after that, and the brief calm eye of an emotional hurricane settled in around them.
Greetings!
And how can I resist when asked so very nicely?
Katrina
____________________________________________
Before either could say anything further, there was a soft knock at the door. “Enter,” Irons commanded, once more slipping the public mask over his face.
Mrs. Hancock entered the room with a lightness of step that belied her years, saying shyly, “Sirs… I was asked to inform you that Ms. Pezzini has given birth to a daughter… and a son. All are safe and well.”
Twins! In his wildest dreams, Ian had not envisioned a multiple birth. He looked to his father, who merely looked back at him blandly, not quite managing, however, to hide the smile that came to his face at the news.
“Well, Ian, are you not going to go to her?”
“Uh… yes. Yes, sir,” he stumbled over the words as he rose from the chair, his mind still not quite grasping the fact that he was now a father himself, and of twins, at that. Ian managed to maintain his accustomed decorum, rising with an outward calm, nodding respectfully to his father, leaving the room with a carefully measured tread, a crackle of barely-restrained nervous energy the only mark of his passing.
As Irons sat, trying to regain his composure, he listened for the sound, not long in coming. As soon as the door closed, he heard it… the slightly muffled sound of running feet. He smiled, oddly comforted, his thoughts trying to come back to order from the painful chaos of self-inspection. Some things never changed. He tried to rise, to follow in his son’s footsteps, only to realize that his body had not yet completely recovered from the shock. He could not recall feeling this weak, this overwhelmed, since the day that Ian was born. But, unlike that wonderful/terrible day, this day was free from the taint of tragedy. As the realization that everything was, in fact, all right now sank deep into his heart, he could feel the cold, seldom-acknowledged hand of fear loosen its grip on his heart. He took a deep breath and slowly rose. Still spry, in spite of living several lifetimes worth of years, he thought with satisfaction. As a grandfather of twins, I will need to be. He looked forward to the prospect with a certain amount of relish.
Greetings!
And the last bit... Enjoy!
Katrina
_______________________
Kenneth Irons entered the room silently and stood for a moment to observe his family. Ian sat perched on the edge of the bed next to Sara, two small wrapped bundles held so close that from this angle, Irons could not clearly see the faces of the next generation. Sara looked tired, but still radiated a contented glow… so soft, so beautiful, that for a moment, he forgot when he was, and experienced a sudden feeling of loss for what had never been. He felt a catch, a brief stab of regret, before his vision cleared and the scene returned to what it was. Kenneth felt the love between them and realized that, without the past, this future would not have happened.
As he stood in the doorway musing, Ian looked up at his father, pride and love cutting through all else. “Father, would you like to hold your granddaughter?”
For a moment time stopped, the mask of cold neutrality slipping away like frost on a summer’s day. Ian and Sara gazed in surprise at the face of a man who had suddenly become a grandfather, any lingering reservations melting away at the sight.
Irons nodded and came forward to accept a small bundle from his daughter-in-law. He held the child carefully as he permitted himself to be lost in the magic of the moment, a gentle smile playing about his lips.
“Her name is Elizabeth Laurel.”
He stood there, holding her gently until the soft knock at the door interrupted his reverie. “Sirs, ma’am,” Mrs. Hancock interrupted gently. “The babies, and Ms Pezzini, should both get their rest.” As she deftly scooped up both babies and herded him to the door, Irons thought wryly that he was very glad that he would not have to be the one to explain to her that she could not be the nanny for this new generation. He glanced back for a last look… husband and wife, Knight and Wielder, sharing the tenderness of lovers long acquainted, then the door closed behind him. Before him, he saw the future held securely in the housekeeper’s arms. And for this time, Kenneth Irons was content.
The next Protector? The next Wielder? Or perhaps… both? He could not say and right now it did not matter. Time enough for the future when it came, time enough for the games of fathers and sons. He walked back to his rooms and poured another glass, raising it in honor of the parents and the children, the past and the future, then sat again, meditating in the fire’s glow as the hours of the night turned into the rose-colored dawn of a new day.