Mine. Chapter 1 Part 1
Twisting, crying soundlessly, Onieda Firth awoke. Her dreams details and memories slipped quickly away, leaving only the sense of terror and dread. Her ragged breathing punctuated the otherwise silent room. The cool morning air slipped into her lungs, cool and comforting. Onieda’s eyes flitted around the room, taking in everything and nothing in the dim grayness of the predawn hour.
On the far wall, the hearth sat empty, the interior stone work swept clean. Winter had not yet gripped the land. To the left sat a leather chair, the seat piled with half finished knitting. To the right, a clear glass window looked out on the gray landscape. In the dim light, Onieda could not yet make out the forms of the workers in the fields, nor could she make out the fields themselves clearly, yet she knew they were already toiling.
Her eyes moved on to the closed door. The stout oaken door was carved from a single piece. The side in Onieda’s view, carved with hundreds of small figures locked forever in merry celebration was comforting, a reminder that she was safe in her room. Her gasps for air slowed. Her fingers unclenched from the blankets they had been gripping tightly.
“What was I dreaming” she thought. She was unable to remember even the theme of the dream, only the terror it had caused. The latch to her door clicked, and Onieda instantly felt the claws of fear clenching her spine. She opened her mouth to scream, when she saw the familiar face of father peek around the slightly opened door.
Norwin Firth watched the stark fear drain from his youngest child’s face, giving way to a look that spoke to him of relief, love, and the need for comfort. He had merely been checking on Onieda’s sleep, as he had every day since her birth 17 years earlier. Pushing the door open further, and moving with a lithe step, Norwin quickly came to his progeny’s side, and held her head gently to his slim chest.
Even a year ago, he would have expected Onieda’s tears. 6 months ago, she would have pushed him away, brusquely informing him that she was ok. A month ago, her mother, his wife of 60 years, took a fall from her horse and died. The barriers of teenage rebellion had been ripped asunder, and Onieda and Norwin were again as close as they had been when Onieda was 6.
“The dreams again?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes, poppa. It woke me, and I still can’t remember what they are.”
He rubbed the top of her head, smoothing her slept-tossed hair. When he had first moved to her, Onieda had been shaking violently. Now, feeling safe and protected in his arms, the shaking ceased. He looked down at his child as she looked up. Their eyes met. Hers spoke of the gratitude and love that she felt. His were filled with the concern over her night terrors, the loss of the soul mate he saw reflected in the lines of his daughters face and the pride he felt for her.