In Which Haldred Counts His Failures

February 16, 1166

Haldred had known Searle for almost nineteen years now, since he'd been a squalling, tiny creature fresh from Cladelia's womb. It had been a difficult birth, as was often the case with twins, but while his sister had fought a quick, decisive battle with any resulting illness, Searle had labored long and hard for weeks; he'd scarcely had the strength to take to his mother's breast, and several nurses had needed to take shifts at his crib-side in order to make sure he didn't stop breathing. He was three months old before he was strong enough to be held.

He might have made a point to forget that day, but for whatever reason, he now remembered it clear as yesterday. He had been with a tenant when the steward had burst in, telling him that the wise woman had declared that his little baby son was going to be all right--and he had nodded and told him to thank her, then continued on with his business as usual.

He'd been young then--not a whole lot younger than other men of similar rank and family status, but he hadn't been ready to be a father. Both Tarien and Lileina had been healthy, active, independent children, and he had made the mistake of assuming that his third-born would be the same. Neither of the older two could ever sit still long enough for a cuddle or a quick conversation, and in all honesty, that had always suited both Haldred and Cladelia just fine.

In fact, they'd been so preoccupied with defense and diplomacy their own petty day-to-day arguments that neither of them had noticed that Searle was a little different. Quieter, more delicate, and in need of more direct nurturing. Tarien and Lileina and Riona had all needed the freedom to run around as they pleased, which was what Haldred had been good about giving; he'd never been one for hugs and bedtime stories, which he realized now had been the requirements of young Searle.

"...son?"

Searle didn't react. Maybe Haldred deserved it; after all, he hadn't been too responsive himself all those times that little boy had crawled onto his lap and wrapped his tiny little arms around his neck. If he'd been in a good mood, he might have given his son an awkward pat on the head--at a bad time, the child might have even gotten a scolding for bothering him.

Perhaps he was being too hard on himself, Haldred considered as he made his way to his son's side and nudged his arm. How should he have known what would happen a decade later? Was there any way he could have found out that the sensitive child he and Cladelia been unwittingly pushing away would instead latch onto his sister to the point of perversion? Was it possible that this would have happened even if he had known how to be a parent?

No. He couldn't look at that hopeless, disheveled form and deny that he'd played his part in this tragedy. If he hadn't been so neglectful, then his son wouldn't have fallen into his disturbed misery. If he had only been more loving, then his daughter would still be alive.

And it had taken his depression, her death, his brother-in-law's crazed liberal ravings, and his wife's utter collapse to get him to see that. "Searle... baby, please look at me."

He placed his hand on the kid's shoulder and began to gently rub, only to be shoved aside as Searle sprang to his feet. "I have nothing to say to you!"

Haldred took his son by the elbow and turned him so that they were face to face; Searle struggled, but he seemed to lack the strength to break free. "You look so ill. Just... just get some sleep, and we'll head home tomorrow. If you don't think you can ride, then I'm sure we can find a wagon for sale somewhere. If we have all three of our horses pulling it, then you and your mother can just relax while I drive."

Searle coughed, keeling forward; Haldred had to prop him up by the shoulder in order to keep him upright. "Don't you trust me? I was going to go home when I started feeling better; I've already inconvenienced Aunt Alina and Uncle Severin enough."

Frowning, he tilted his head and studied his son's face. Whatever Searle said, the bags under his eyes couldn't lie. "Son, I honestly don't think you'll be well enough to make your own way home any time soon. Danthia and Tivalia need you, and I've made enough mistakes as a father to warn you not to do the same."

"But maybe they're better off without me," Searle muttered, his eyes falling to the floorboards. "All I ever do is make a mess of things--you said so yourself, remember?"

Dear God, he had. He'd said that when he'd caught them. He'd been angry--he was still somewhat angry, even if it was no longer his prevailing emotion--but he hadn't meant it... had he? Had he meant any of the things he'd said? Had he meant it when he'd pried Searle off of Riona and shoved him to the wall? "Searle..."

How had he gone so wrong? He thought of all of Searle's younger sisters, the baby Cladelia was carrying, all his grandchildren--he couldn't let anything like this happen to any of them. He'd already failed two of his children.

Two too many.

Shaking his head, he flung his arms around the boy and embraced him tightly. How long had it been since he'd done so? Just before he'd left the boy to live with Cambrin and Lileina. Searle had been seven--seven! That was twelve years ago now. What if all that time, a single hug could have prevented all of this?

"We all miss your sister, baby," he tried to soothe him, only to realize he didn't know how to soothe. "You're ill. You need to sleep."

He felt his son's tears soak through his sleeve. He and Cladelia had always been stern in regards to crying--Lord knew his own father would box his ears if he ever caught him crying--but perhaps tears could only be contained for so long before the dam burst and the flood began. "I... I can't sleep. I always... see her..."

What could he say to that? He'd probably see her in his dreams tonight too. "Just... try to think good thoughts. Think of your wife, your baby... whatever makes you happy. Do you think you can do that?"

Searle gave a muffled sob that Haldred took as a 'no'. Well, Searle... that makes two of us.

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