Marvel: Familia System

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Donald trudged along a worn dirt path flanked by endless stretches of green. His boots scuffed against the uneven ground, and his coat, worn thin by years of use, hung heavy from the damp air. He had been walking for days, hitching rides when he could, avoiding the long roads where cars passed by too frequently. Something about this journey demanded solitude.

The urge to go to Norway had started as a faint pull, like a tug at the back of his mind, but it had grown stronger in recent weeks, impossible to ignore. He wasn't even sure what awaited him there, only that this compulsion felt tied to something he had carried his entire life. A shadow of memories that were never quite whole. Flashes of a past that felt like his but didn't fit into the life he remembered.

Donald passed a small farmhouse, its windows aglow against the dimming twilight. An elderly couple stood outside by a stack of firewood, their breaths visible in the cold as they chatted softly. The man's back was hunched as he reached for a large log, and the woman shivered in a thin shawl as she carried a smaller bundle toward the house.

"Hey there," Donald called out, his voice carrying over the stillness. They turned toward him, surprise flashing across their faces. He limped forward, leaning slightly on his cane but smiling warmly. "Need a hand with that?"

The old man straightened as much as he could, waving Donald off with a polite shake of his head. "Ah, no, no, lad. We've got this. You look like you've done plenty of walking today."

Donald chuckled, tapping his cane against the ground lightly. "I'm stronger than I look. Besides, it'd be a shame if you threw your back out just before dinner."

The woman smiled kindly, though her eyes lingered on his limp. "You sure about that? Don't want you hurting yourself just to help a couple of old folks."

Donald gestured toward the firewood stack. "I've handled worse than a pile of logs, I promise."

The man exchanged a glance with his wife before nodding reluctantly. "Well, if you're offering, we won't say no. I'll admit, these old bones aren't what they used to be."

Donald shrugged off his coat and slung it over the low fencepost, rolling up his sleeves as he approached the firewood pile. He grabbed the largest log, hefting it with surprising ease, and carried it toward the farmhouse.

"You two live alone?" he asked, glancing back at the couple as he stacked the log near the porch.

The man nodded, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Mostly. We've got a grandson in the house, but he's been bedridden for years. Trouble with his lungs." His voice carried a note of resignation, softened by long familiarity with the burden.

Donald paused, looking toward the house. "What about help? Anyone come by to check on him?"

The woman shook her head. "It's just us. Neighbors help when they can, but we don't have much to pay a doctor. He's stable, thank God, but every winter feels like it could be his last."

Donald gave a thoughtful nod and returned to the woodpile, picking up two more logs with one hand and gesturing toward the house with his cane. "Go on inside. I'll finish up here."

The man hesitated, then clapped Donald on the shoulder. "You've done more than enough already. You sure you're not cold out here?"

Donald smiled faintly. "I'll manage. Go keep the fire warm."

The couple exchanged a look but didn't argue. As they disappeared into the house, Donald continued stacking the wood neatly by the porch, working methodically until the pile was gone. He retrieved his coat and cane, dusted off his hands, and followed the faint glow of the farmhouse windows.

Inside, the warmth hit him immediately, along with the savory scent of stew simmering on the stove. The small kitchen was tidy but worn, its cabinets scuffed and its table repaired in places with mismatched wood. The couple stood by the stove, the woman ladling stew into bowls while her husband set out a loaf of bread.

"Sit," the man said, nodding toward the table. "Least we can do after you helped with the wood."

Donald took the offered chair, resting his cane against the edge of the table. "You didn't have to do all this," he said.

The woman waved him off as she set a bowl in front of him. "You're on the road. Long walks need good food. Eat while it's hot."

Donald picked up a spoon, blowing lightly on the steaming broth. "Thanks. Looks great." He tasted it, nodding appreciatively. "Tastes even better."

The man sat across from him, breaking off a chunk of bread and passing it over. "So, what brings you out here? You don't look like a local."

Donald chewed thoughtfully before answering. "Just traveling. Heading north."

"North? What for?" the man asked.

Donald hesitated, considering his answer. "Looking for answers. Something personal."

The couple didn't press Donald for more. A man on the road with a limp often carried his own weight in stories, and they seemed content to leave his reasons as his own. Instead, they let the quiet warmth of the kitchen settle over them. The faint crackle of the stove and the rhythmic tapping of Donald's cane against the floor as he adjusted in his seat filled the silence.

Donald finished the bread and stew quickly, hunger from days of walking evident in the way he savored each bite. As the woman refilled his bowl without waiting for him to ask, he looked up at her. "You mentioned your grandson. I'm a doctor—used to practicing on the road more than in an office—but if you'd like, I could check on him."

The couple exchanged a look. The old man hesitated, but his wife nodded before he could speak. "If you don't mind," she said softly. "He's had trouble for so long, and the last doctor who came through couldn't do much."

Donald set the spoon down and pushed his chair back. "I don't mind. Lead the way."

The old man stood, motioning toward a narrow hallway. "He's in the back room. Been there most of the day."

Donald followed him, the cane tapping lightly with each step. The house smelled of wood smoke and the faint tang of herbs, likely their best effort at easing the boy's struggles. When they reached the room, the man pushed open the door, revealing a small, dimly lit space. A boy, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, lay in a bed tucked under a heavy quilt. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his face pale, beads of sweat dotting his brow.

The boy's eyes flicked toward them at the sound of the door. His gaze landed on Donald, curiosity flickering through his otherwise weary expression. "Who's this?" he asked, voice strained.

The old man stepped aside. "A traveler who's kind enough to check on you. He's a doctor."

Donald pulled a chair closer to the bed, setting his cane aside. "Name's Donald," he said simply, rolling up his sleeves as he examined the boy. He noted the slight bluish tint around his lips and the way his fingers curled weakly over the edge of the quilt. His breaths were shallow, his chest tight with each inhale. "How long's it been like this?" he asked, looking back at the parents.

"Since he was little," the woman said, wringing her hands nervously. "He catches colds too easily, and winters are always the worst."

Donald nodded, glancing at the boy. "Your chest feels tight? Painful to breathe?"

The boy nodded. "Like there's a weight on it."

Donald frowned as he listened to the boy's breathing, slow and uneven, each wheeze like a rattle caught in his chest. The symptoms weren't new to him; he'd seen this kind of condition before. Still, he pressed his fingers gently along the boy's ribcage, feeling the slight rigidity, the unnatural tightness that came with years of untreated illness.

He leaned back, pulling the quilt higher over the boy's shoulders. "It's not just a cold," Donald said, looking at the couple. "His lungs are working too hard, and it's wearing down the rest of him. You're right to be worried about winter."

The woman's hands twisted the hem of her apron. "We've done all we can, but—" she hesitated, glancing toward her husband. "Is there anything you can do?"

Donald's jaw tightened. There was no medicine here that could cure this, no technique he could offer that would undo the years of strain on the boy's fragile system. But he wasn't just a doctor anymore.

"I'll do what I can," Donald said, keeping his voice level. "But it might take some time, and I'll need you to trust me."

The old man nodded. "If you can help him, we'll trust you with anything."

Donald nodded toward the door. "Then I need you both to step out. I'll call you in when I'm finished."

They hesitated, exchanging glances, but eventually, the woman took her husband's arm and led him back toward the kitchen. The boy's gaze followed them until the door clicked shut, leaving him alone with Donald.

Donald set his cane aside and leaned closer. "I'm going to help you breathe easier, but it might feel strange at first. Don't be scared—just try to sleep."

"What's your name?" Donald asked as he adjusted the chair closer to the boy's bedside.

"Erik," the boy replied softly, his voice almost a whisper, his breaths shallow and uneven.

Donald nodded. "Alright, Erik. I'm going to help you rest a little easier. I'll need you to trust me, alright?"

The boy's eyelids fluttered, exhaustion etched in every fragile movement, but he gave a faint nod. Donald rested a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. He placed a hand lightly on Erik's chest, feeling the faint, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat. The boy's breaths hitched slightly, and Donald leaned closer. "It's going to feel strange, but it won't hurt. Try to relax."

Erik blinked, his lashes heavy, and then his eyes closed. Donald waited until the boy's body sagged deeper into the mattress, his shallow breaths growing more even as sleep took hold.

Donald's other hand hovered just above the boy's chest. The Lightning Ring's glow intensified as sparks of green energy began to arc between his fingers. He directed the flames with precision, channeling their strength into the boy's lungs. The energy didn't burn; it fortified, binding itself to the weak, overworked tissues and reinforcing what had long been strained past endurance.

The room filled with the faint hum of electricity, the green flames casting shifting shadows on the walls. Donald's hand trembled slightly as he worked, the effort of control demanding his full focus. The Lightning Flames didn't heal—they hardened, strengthened, and struck where they were needed most.

The minutes stretched on but slowly, painstakingly, the faint rattle in the boy's chest began to ease. The blue tint around his lips faded, replaced by a pale but healthier flush. His breathing deepened, smoothing into a rhythm that no longer seemed like a fight.

Donald finally pulled his hand back, the Lightning Flames dissipating as he leaned heavily against the chair. His shoulders sagged, and he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. The green glow of the ring dimmed, but the faint crackle of static lingered in the air.

Erik stirred slightly, a faint sigh escaping him as his chest rose and fell with newfound ease. Donald watched for a moment longer, ensuring the boy's breathing remained steady. He adjusted the quilt over Erik's shoulders, then reached for his cane and pushed himself to his feet.

Donald grabbed his coat and cane, moving sliently. He didn't head for the hallway but toward the window. He unlatched it silently, sliding it open just enough to step through. The cool night air met him as he slipped out into the darkness, pulling the window shut behind him.

He walked away from the farmhouse without looking back. There was no need for gratitude, no need for explanations. To the couple, this would be a miracle, something beyond words. That was enough.

Donald's journey north continued with the same quiet resolve. He avoided highways, sticking to trails and forgotten paths. Hitchhiking when necessary, he spoke little to the drivers who picked him up, though many seemed to find comfort in his presence. He moved through small towns, lingering just long enough to restock supplies or help those who needed it.

In one town, a worn-down church stood near a patch of dense woods. A preacher stood outside, holding a battered sign that read, "Free Meals for the Hungry." Donald approached, nodding as he handed over a small bundle of cash.

"Keep it," Donald said simply when the preacher tried to return it. "Just here to pass through."

The preacher hesitated but offered a solemn nod. "Bless you, traveler."

The path became rougher as he crossed into Canada. The weather shifted; biting winds replaced the damp air of the south. Donald wrapped his coat tighter, leaning more heavily on his cane as he trudged through frost-covered trails. He stopped at an old diner off the beaten path, the warm glow of its neon sign cutting through the grey landscape.

Inside, the place was almost empty, save for a waitress behind the counter and a trucker nursing a coffee. Donald slid into a booth near the window, tapping his cane lightly against the floor.

The waitress approached, a pad of paper in hand. "What'll it be?"

"Just coffee. Black," Donald replied, his voice low.

As she poured the coffee, her eyes lingered on his cane. "Long road?"

"Long enough," he said, taking the cup and nodding his thanks.

"You don't look like a trucker," she added, leaning on the counter. "Not many people walk around these parts."

Donald smirked faintly, shaking his head. "Not a trucker. Just… looking for something."

The waitress raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Well, if you're heading north, roads are rough this time of year. Watch yourself."

On the outskirts of another town, Donald passed a group of kids playing near a crumbling basketball hoop. One of the younger ones tripped, scraping his knee on the pavement. The others crowded around, unsure of what to do.

Donald crouched beside the boy, inspecting the wound. "Not too bad," he said, smiling at the boy. He pulled a small bottle of antiseptic and a cloth from his bag. "This'll sting, but you'll be fine."

The boy winced as Donald cleaned the scrape, but he didn't cry. "Thanks, mister," he mumbled, watching as Donald bandaged the wound with practiced ease.

"Stay off that knee for a bit," Donald said, rising to his feet and tipping his head toward the boy's friends. "Make sure he listens, alright?"

The kids nodded, their wide eyes following Donald as he walked away, his cane tapping against the cracked pavement.

The pull toward Norway grew stronger the closer Donald got to the coast. Each step felt heavier, not from fatigue but from the weight of what he might find. Memories flickered at the edges of his mind—flashes of a grand hall filled with light, the distant echo of laughter, and the clang of steel. None of it made sense, yet it felt undeniable.

At a small fishing port, Donald arranged passage on a weathered ship heading across the Atlantic. The captain, a gruff man with a thick beard, eyed Donald's cane skeptically.

"You're sure about this?" the captain asked. "It's not a comfortable ride."

Donald nodded. "Comfort's not what I'm after."

The captain shrugged. "Suit yourself. We leave at dawn."

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