All Roads lead to Eoropaidh

A week passes before I’m allowed to see Peter again. I keep my mouth shut out of fear of provoking my father. My body aches, and sitting down is torture. Michael and Peter have agreed that it be best if Peter dine in the kitchen, alone. Peter keeps his distance. His dislike of me is very obvious, and it cuts my heart to watch him display such emotions - fear, terror and dislike. My grief and regret are by now of such proportions that I wish I never was born, or that I had a big black hole to disappear into. There is no deed in eternity which can undo what I have done to the father of my baby. There is no explanation – no apology which will ever take away the horrors festering in his mind. They will haunt him to his death. And it’s my entire fault. I have failed Jack Sparrow, The Origin. I have failed my father, the Demon Lord. I have failed all of them. And worst of all, I have failed Peter and my unborn son. Should there ever be a future for me and Peter, then the children to come will know of my actions against him. All will hate me. As all else fades into darkness and death – the Sparrow kin into walking skeletons. The only light in this realm is Peter and his baby. Like a glowing, golden beacon in the darkness that is hopelessness and terror. I tell them I am not hungry, though hunger ravages my stomach. How can I eat, knowing how Peter suffers himself through every meal thinking he’s not worth wasting food on? I glance over to the doorway into the kitchen. After a while, I hear him clear his plate. He emerges after a few seconds, no glancing up once, but makes his way upstairs with haste. I recognize the way he walks. HE doesn’t want to be seen or heard.
I must have been struck with insanity, for I follow the impulse to chase after Peter. As bewitched, I get out of the chair and move with hasty steps towards the stairs. I leap over several in one move, my body aching each time, but I make it upstairs. I stop there, to watch Peter look up from a basket of clean clothes he’s just retrieved. I look down as I hear swift footsteps come to an arrest. My father’s piercing eyes hold my gaze for the longest time, as he stands at the foot of the stairs. I hurry towards Peter, I reach him, and I shove him gently inwards into his room, and I close the door behind us. I cup his face with my hands, drawing him close, as close as it is possible with the belly in the way – and I kiss him on the lips. It’s a passionate kiss, with desperation and carefulness battling each other, for I do not want him hurt. He’s as rigid as a wooden pole, because every inch of him resists me. The belly burns against my own flat one, as I drink in the taste of his lips, his breath and the scent of soap on his skin. I kiss him as I would kiss a lover. His letter told me he wanted a kiss. I break the kiss, knowing I have finally given him something back for all his efforts and agonies.
“I love you” I tell him, looking into his wide-open, gazing eyes. He’s taken aback, shocked by this sudden intrusion, and it takes him a second before he remember who he is, and looks down. The moment’s gone, and the door bursts open behind me. I am seized violently by the neck, as my father grabs me and hauls me out. I meet Peter’s gaze one last time, drinking in his beautiful chocolate eyes before I am more or less carried down the stairs. Then everything starts to swirl, and I know I’m being taken back to the Crimson Lotus where punishment awaits me.
They kept inquiring as to whether he was all right, if any harm had come to him, but Peter only wanted them to go away. He folded his laundry diligently, and went to the bathroom afterwards. When he came out, Jacob, Israel and Michael was still waiting for him at the door. He couldn’t tell whether their faces displayed anger or concern, for he did not dare look up. All he could feel, was that he was to blame for something, but he had no idea what he’d done wrong. The kiss still burned, still lingered on his lips, and it had started a fire in him which he needed to be alone to examine. He recognized it – it was something he’d felt for Malachi a long time ago, but he wasn’t sure of its nature. He was almost sure it was wrong of him to be feeling so.
“Please Peter, I think you should talk to us about what happened. He was too fast, you know, for John to catch him, and no one, well, John’s in charge...Did he scare you? Did he touch you? Just say something, Peter. Anything—“Michael began.
“—you’re supposed to feel safe in this house, Peter. I intend to talk to John about this ‘arrangement’. I don’t see anything good coming out of it” Israel said.
“I agree” Jacob shot in, “feeling unsafe here is the last thing you need right now”.
They all watched as Peter, who still avoided eye contact, frowned in response to their statements, then shut the door quietly without a single syllable. Jacob sighed and shook his head in frustration.
“Whatever we do and say, there’s no getting through to him” Israel said in response to Jacob’s sigh.
“He has shown improvement, I’d say” Michael replied while starting down the stairs.
“Really?”
“He’s by far healthier, though not healthy enough. He doesn’t sit in his room all day any longer, and he doesn’t flinch every time any of us move a finger” Michael said half ironically.

Peter went to bed. It was only eight p.m., though he preferred it that way. He was used to it, used to having to preserve his strength and to rest whenever possible. Two weeks had passed since Jacob forbid him to have a makeshift bed on the floor in one of the corners farthest away from the bed, hidden from the door. Peter was not happy about cleaning out the corner, but obeyed silently. The bed had been made out of rags he’d found about the sheds which he’d smuggled with him into his room. It he did it because he waited in anticipation for everything to turn from calm to chaos, for all of the demons to turn on him and show him their true faces. He waited for the horrors to begin. The bed wasn’t a place for sleep – he had been taught it was a place of torture and rape. No matter what they said, Peter always went back to the corner. He could spend whole nights in the bed – sleepless and delirious with hallucinations terrorizing him because of what had been done to his mind. They were in his mind only, but to his eyes, they were as real as any living, breathing human would, had it been present in his room. It was always the same, and the child would be frightened, thinking that what Peter was going through in his mind, was real. John had appeared many a time, wondering what was going on. He decided it would be best if Peter was allowed to sleep in the corner. He sent Christopher and Ivory out shopping for the thickest mattress to be found, plus lots of blankets and pillows. Peter was then allowed to build himself a nest where he settled in without problems. Lying there, he’d often daydream of falling asleep with the baby in his arms, or feeding it there. It was his own spot. For he couldn’t bring himself to lay claim to the entire bedroom, to that, it was way too big.
Peter lay down on his back and stared up into the roof. He touched his own lips with the kiss still fresh in mind. He would cherish the memory. His master had seemed sincere. All though it had nearly petrified him, Peter couldn’t help but to appreciate the touch, the scent and the body heat. It had been perfect – just the way Peter had imagined it would be, or dreamt of, so many times. It was a wish he’d had for so long, but never dared to utter. And here it had been given to him – right out of the blue! There would most likely be reactions. Peter was sure of it, but for the moment, he revered in the joy the memory brought him. Perhaps he could repay his master the favour, next time they met? Return the kiss? No, way too bold. Thank him? With words? He’d sure have his tongue cut out. A letter? A thank you note? Maybe. Perhaps a gift? A small token of his gratitude? Like what? There was nothing Peter had to offer which would be worth accepting. Mustn’t get carried away now, slave, Peter reminded himself. You know nothing – and you have no skills – you are no one. Not even the offspring is appreciated. Remember that. You’ll be dead in two months time now, anyway. Don’t make a fuss. Stay unnoticed, and go to Hell without a sound. He wouldn’t like it if you complained. So a letter, then.
Peter fished out his journal from underneath his mattress. He’d bought it with the last of his money. It was filled with letters to his unborn son. In the letters, Peter praised the child, and wrote to it about his love for it, and his hopes and dreams. He wrote about his master, attempting to explain away the demon’s behaviour because of Peter’s inabilities as a criminal human being. He was a bad slave, and therefore he was punished. Peter would write again and again about how much he loved his baby, telling it how sorry he was for being ‘incapable’, and that he was sorry he had to die when his son would be born, how he wished he could have lived to see it grow up. And no matter what he would look like, Peter would love it, knowing it had accepted his love whilst being in his womb. For no one else accepted him, and it was good to feel needed. Just by being a surrogate to whatever his master’s offspring would be, was enough for Peter, for it showed him there was at least one thing he could do without messing it up.
Peter flipped through the pages which were full of scribbles and blotches – stain marks after his tears – and they were to be found on every page. It was Peter’s slim hope that the child would find the grace and patience to sit down and read his journal, so that at least a one-way communication could happen. It was a slim hope he lived with – that his son would find him worthy to take the time to read it, to know the slave that was his father, from the thoughts written down in the journal. It would be Peter’s testament. Two things would he leave behind in the world – or purgatory – or wherever the present was, for he didn’t really care – and that was a son and a book. Now, Peter decided he’d tear out half a page, which he would present to his master. He guessed that the outcome would probably be that his master would throw the note away and get upset. But maybe Peter was lucky enough as to have the master read said note before he actually threw it away and got upset. One could always hope. Peter rehearsed the letter on the remaining half of the page in the journal, writing it:
Dear Master.
There are no words to express my gratitude for the kiss you gave to me. I will cherish it always – for I know now that I still love you. You have shown me heaven. Thank you.
Your slave.

No way. He couldn’t write anything as sappy as that. Peter tried again, shaking his head. Keep it simple:
Dear Master.
I think I still love you.
No, no, no, no! Completely wrong! Peter crossed out the letters in frustration, cross-hatching hard on the paper. He tried again.
Dear Master
Thank you for the kiss.
Your humble slave

There, that ought to do it, Peter thought to himself, and wrote it as nicely as he could on the other half of the journal page. He then proceeded to write on a new page about his experience with the kiss, hoping the child would appreciate his words.
We return already the following evening. My father hasn’t spoken one word about the kiss which took place last night between me and Peter. We spend the first half of the evening circling each other like cat and mouse. He stands by the kitchen sink, his hands immersed in soapy water. He takes care to clean everything he’s touched and used – the bread knife, his plate and the faded ugly plastic glass. He doesn’t dare to use a proper glass. Don’t have to be a mindreader to figure that one out. He is so beautiful, his rounded belly jutting out like a giant water melon beneath his shirt. He cleans, and then dries it and puts it away. He fails to do as the rest, who put their dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Peter doesn’t want to be a bother. He doesn’t want to take up space – to put himself in a position, any position, which might lead to a conflict. And he sees sources of conflict in everything. It could be his plate, or his fork which would make it so that it wouldn’t be room for the dishes from any of the demons. It’s the fear of being punished. I see all the signs, yet he speaks without words. It’s all in the body language. I’ve finally learned to read it.
He glances in my direction when he’s put the towel away. Is he actually coming in my direction? I hold my breath as he in fact approaches me. My father falls silent, obviously observing. I watch as Peter fish out a piece of paper from his pocket. It’s a letter! We all stop to stare as he stands before me, and with great effort, he kneels. He places the letter in front of my feet. I notice how his hand is shaking just as he let’s go off the paper, and begin to rise. He has to hold on to the shelves. The baby is heavy to bear now, and he slowly gets to his feet. I watch him leave without a word, making his retreat up stairs. When he’s gone, I pick up the note, and unfold it.
Five words. Five words. One small sentence which tells me that the kiss has been acknowledged. My gift to him was appreciated. I actually did something right! Just the fact that he has given me a reply at all, is devastating, but this – this is too much, and I begin to feel dizzy with joy. I am filled from head to toe with love – a burning love, a tenderness I’ve just begun to taste. For a long time I stand there, just staring at the note. And I sense a faint hope for me, Peter and the baby.