In Which Severin Ponders the Harsh Possiblity

June 8, 1169

Severin's eyelids might as well have been leaden slates. He struggled to open his eyes for a good few minutes, only to have them fall shut once more. Frustrated, he tried again, determined to keep them wide; it was far more difficult than he remembered. His head was pounding, aching as if being repeatedly stricken. He wondered if this was how a piece of molten metal might have felt atop an anvil.

It took a minute or so for him to recognize the old bedroom. His essentials had all gradually been moved to the guest room he frequented, and there hadn't been any need for him to set foot in here for months now. He still wasn't sure he was quite at ease here; he felt rather unworthy of this place.

"You're awake?"

Severin eased himself upwards, catching sight of his father, who was seated on the couch facing the empty hearth. He wasn't sure why Lonriad was here, but he could vaguely recall seeing him the previous night. "Seems like a reasonable guess. What time is it?"

"Getting close to the dinner hour now. Your mother is here, sitting up with your children; she and I have been trading off between them and you."

His own footsteps caused too much of an echo for Severin's taste; he winced as he rose from the bed, then took a long drink from the pitcher of water on the end-table. "She didn't need to come; I know she's busy."

Lonriad sniffed. "She worries about you--and it isn't as if you don't give her just cause to do so."

The pitcher was still about half-full. Severin indulged himself with another sip, then took a few labored steps toward the couch and sat down beside his father.

"Do my children hate me?" It was a harsh thought, but it the possibility seemed increasingly likely. He supposed he couldn't blame them if they did.

His father's posture straightened. "No. They might be a little... exasperated, perhaps, but they've all been waiting around since I brought you back last night; if they didn't care, they wouldn't be here."

"Even Jadin?" It had been three months since their argument; in all that time, his oldest son had yet to acknowledge him with anything more accommodating than an impatient grunt.

Lonriad nodded. "He's a very emotional boy, you know. Thought you might be dying--both your mother and I insisted that you weren't, but he wouldn't hear of it. Went into a crying fit and told me the last thing he ever said to you was how he wished you were dead instead of Alina."

Severin sank back against the couch's wooden frame and closed his eyes. "I hope he knows that I don't blame him."

"Likewise, if I should presume to speak on the boy's behalf, he hopes you know that he didn't mean it."

"Does it matter, though?" Severin pondered aloud, perhaps more to himself than to Lonriad. "Even if he didn't mean that, everything else he said that day was true. I've hardly been there for any of them since their mother died. They've all been hurting, but..." A sudden pain shot through the center of his brain; groaning, Severin rubbed his forehead, then glanced down at his wedding band. "I... I don't really know what happened. I haven't been sure about anything for a long time."

"It's because you're hurt," his father stated. "You're hurt, and your kids are hurt, and you might never stop hurting. You could fall in love with some pretty young thing and start adding to your family again, but every once in a while, you'll come across Alina's scent on an old pillow or something and it's going to hurt--and that's normal, I would imagine. Some heartaches just don't heal, but there might be a few tricks to managing the pain."

Some heartaches just don't heal... what did Lonriad, of all people, know about heartache? Nevertheless, it made enough sense that it seemed a mere formality to question the source. "What sort of tricks?"

His father shrugged. "Different for everyone, I suppose. Maybe try spending more time with your kids; there's no need for any of you to hurt alone."

Severin looked to his ring again. It was as gold and shiny and perfect as the day Alina slipped it onto his finger. "Can I see them?"

Lonriad nodded, then pulled himself to his feet. "They'll all be very happy to see you. They've already lost their mother; they shouldn't have to worry about losing you as well."

He stepped toward Severin's side of the couch and held out his hand; Severin took it and allowed himself to be pulled upward into a standing position. "Thank you."

A small smile on his lips, Lonriad pulled him into a tight hug and gently massaged the gap between Severin's shoulder-blades. "Just... try not to let things get to this point again, all right? You know what it's like to grow up with a father who spends more time chasing skirts than paying much attention to your emotional needs; don't make the same mistakes with your children that I did with you and your brother."

His apprehensions suddenly trivial, Severin sank downward and rested his chin on his father's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Father--about everything."

"I'm sorry too, son," Lonriad replied, his embrace strengthening. "Now, I think you need to march over to the dining hall and say that same thing to your kids."

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