#goodby e

The rebel army is nearing.

You should not be surprised. He is angry, he is furious and it has made his voice sharp and cruel where it commands you. He wants your protection-- needs it-- and you feel your heartbeat heavy in your throat. He has not called upon his daughter.

He has called upon a soldier.

( Were you ever anything else to him? )

"Father..." He is looking at you. He is looking through you. You remind yourself not to be sad, not to be angry. You are better than girls who cry when they are struck, you do not hurt when the knife's edge twists. You are stronger. "What match are rebels to you? House Friege does not fear any petty army, this is not-"

But you see it in his face before he can open his mouth to say it. They took from him something, and you know what by the fact that it is you standing here and not him.

They've killed your brother.

Your brow pinches, the floor seems to blur and distort as those words wash over you. Ishtore, a stranger to you at the end of his life, never to be anything else. All of the things you never got to know of him, all of the years you lived so close to him and yet still so far.

And this is how you learn of his end.

You're all I have left.

You lift your chin, because you are used to having no time for grief. It will come for you later if death does not first, it will haunt you when sleep cannot, and follow you when it can. You look at him, the man you call Father, and remind yourself that there has never been a choice.

That you love him.

That you will die for him, and you always would have.

"I understand."

And he does not look proud or grateful, he does not look fond of his only true daughter. He looks expectant, as any commander would in the face of a soldier they intend to sacrifice. You remind yourself once more that Father is kind, that Father loves you. That Father is only grieving, that when this is all over you may mourn together and be a family again.

( Were you ever one before? )

"I will handle them, Father. I make only one request."

You wait for him to acknowledge you, to gesture for you to continue, but he does not. You swallow.

"I should wish to wield our Mjölnir, so that I may best protect you. With it, I will have no issue taking care of this threat."

The words sound confident, well rehearsed, but you do not believe in them. They are what you know you should ask, another step towards a cause you will die for only because you know no other. Father seems to see you then, finally, for the first time since you came before him.

Fine.

Just don't slip up.

And that is it. That is all he has to say to you. No wish for your safety, no thanks for your bravery. It would hurt more, perhaps, if you did not know better than to expect anything else.

You dip into another curtsey. This has been a dismissal, it will not be some noble change of hands that delivers you your blood's proudest possession. It will not be yours, just as the power you wield never has been.

You have always been someone else's to command.

"I will not."

But Father does not hear you. He does not care.