Where's He At?

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***Renier's POV***

"Owwww!" I cried as Paris gently dabbed some cleaning alcohol soaked cotton swab on a scrape stretching across my cheek.

"Hold on, Ren, I'm almost done," the warrior comforted.

I can't understand why everyone is so calm, relaxed as if my daddy wasn't chained in the basement. Why would the do that to him? They acted like they couldn't hear his screams from the basement bellow the fortress. They acted as if he didn't try to hurt me.

They acted as if it were normal. Like it was normal for my father to be chained down in a basement, covered in his own blood, and ready to attack anyone that dared go near him. Even his own son.

I felt the liquid building up in the corner of my eye. I wanted to while it away, and act like it was never there. But I can't. That would show weakness and I'm a warrior.

I'm a warrior, now.

I am a warrior.

And warriors don't cry.

Except I did. Warriors don't cry. They're tough and are able to handle anything and everything thrown their way, but I can't. I'm supposed to be a warrior. To be strong like my father. But I am not. I'm too weak and frail, easily broken down, to be the warrior my father is.

Paris, who was finishing cleaning my cheek with the liquid that stung the scrape across my face, was able to clearly see my change in emotion. He noticed my darkening mood, and instead of shying away from me- not that I am much to fear in the first place- he confronted me. Not in a mean, or condescending manner. He truly cared about me, and what I was feeling. The emotions I was harboring inside, trying to hide from the rest of the world. or at least my family. No one needed to know the confusion, the hurt, and the utter shock I felt.

No one needed to know the Pain I felt. The Pain I felt coursing through me.

In a way, it was kind of my fault. I shouldn't have went snooping through the house anyway. Something deep down told me to mind my own business, but I ignored it, and listened to the dark voice that urged me seek out the source of those blood-curdling cries.

Paris continued to watch, as a tear made a break for it and slipped down my face, into the wound that he had recently cleaned, in hopes to prevent infection. He had a look of compassion and genuine concern. "What's wrong?" he asked.

I shrugged, and tried to look away. It was too embarrassing. The Pain too fresh. still alive inside of me. But Paris wasn't going to tolerate my silence. "What's wrong?" he asked again, his voice silky smooth.

I looked in his eyes and could not suppress the onslaught of emotion that raked through my body. I broke down, liquid pain seeping through my tear ducts, creating salty rivers that flowed down my face. "I miss him," I sobbed.

My uncle wrapped his big muscular arm around my frail child body and brought me in for a warm comforting hug. At least, it was meant to be comforting, all it did for me was remind me of my weakness.

"I know you do, Ren," Paris murmred. "He will be back soon though. He just needs some time alone, to think, and to come back to himself. Don't worry. And he misses you too. He loves you."

"Where's he at?"

Paris's expression went from caring to conflicted instantly. He knew. His face revealed that much. But, whether or not he would tell, is the real question.

"Paris, where is my father?"

The debate raged in his mind. I could see it in his eyes. Should he tell? Or should he keep this secret to himself?

Finally, he stood, and placed his large hand on my shoulder and said:

"Somewhere."

Then left the room.

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