The Treachery of the Father
I got the story from a man at home. As his voice rasped and his blood stained the winter snows the same crimson as the Garlean’s did. It was all the same, to me, for blood taints the snow no matter who sheds it. He wrapped his shaking hands around mine, the one whose arrow pierced his heart, and whispered to me. He told a story, breath so close to my ear that it tickled like the cloying whispers of a new lover. And then he died. He slipped into the Mist between my fingers. But I remembered the story. Ten years have passed, and I remember the story.
When I saw her, it shook me how much more he looked like her. Thick brown hair and soft green eyes. Round cheeks that tapered into a soft point of a chin… It was hard to believe that this woman had been born to a mother, as there was little trace of her in the woman’s features. But the freckles that spattered her cheeks, those were all hers. Perhaps her mother’s. I wouldn’t know.
I know that when I told her the story, she believed me. Perhaps it was naivety, perhaps it was hope. Lonely hearts make easy prey, I knew then. I know it now, too. She’s built me a life. Taught me a new language, brought me into her home. Fed me. Sheltered me. Because I am her father. Three hundred years old, I say. You look young for your age, she replies. I worry soon she’ll discover that the story isn’t mine. That the man she believes me to be was fed to the animals of the Skatay Range ten summers past. He was picked clean by wolves and vultures and the weakened scavengers amongst the straggling wanderers that our weapons had failed to pick off.
She stands in my doorway after a long night, nose reddened and eyes bleary with tears. She has suffered a loss that shook her very being, and I don’t know what to tell her. I tell her that her lover will be hers again, and she protests. I tell her all will be fine, and she cries out for comfort.
“Papa,” she whispers as I wrap my arms around her. She doesn’t mind that I’ve settled too well into the life she’s given me. She doesn’t mind that I smell now like smoke and vice. My hair is up in fixtures to curl it, a cigar hangs from my lips. “I’m hurt.”
And if she were mine, perhaps I would have comfort for her. Perhaps something that stirred within me would let me soothe my aching child with the right words, the right embraces. But mine are the comforts of an imposter. A charlatan who has pretended his way into parenthood. Because of a story I heard.
Her father’s words sometimes cross my mind.
“Fifteen years I’ve searched for her,” He whispered. “And I’ve found her upon an isle of kidnappers. Stolen by scholars to research upon. Someone must save my daughter, bring her home. To Kisne. For Kisne.”
Kisne will not take her. Not their village. Too close to the border. Too close to risk infiltration. Even if I were inclined to, I could never take her back. And why would I, with all she’s provided for me? That was why I sought her out. His daughter was on an isle of scholars, I needed somewhere to stay. I searched for her. I found her. I got what I wanted. Yet I feel no satisfaction for my treachery. I feel only the uncertain agony of endless guilt, knowing that it’ll never be a good time to tell her. It’ll never be alright. What began as a scheme to secure myself a safe future has ended in regret that turns my stomach.
Her lover patrols the deck endlessly. Skulking in the dark as we’re trained to do. Perhaps, when he was at home, he was good at what he did. Perhaps this man, unlike who he used to be, is good at resisting Mel’s warmth. But she’s like the springtime sun, melting away ice and thawing the frozen ground that the same Warders who find their way to her are taught to trod upon always. She’s stirred my heart to regret, she brought Atvir to love. We’ll see what the future holds for Sul, when he steps into her warmth.
Perhaps that’s how I’ll gauge his worth, one day. As her father, that’s my job, isn’t it? I’ll tell him, one day, of my big lie. Of the fact that Mel was born from another. Of how I betrayed her. And if he tells her the truth, and relieves me of my burden, perhaps I could find it deep in my wretched soul to give my blessing. For as much as such a thing matters.
