𝖙𝖔 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖚𝖙

"You're not making it any better! You still have a whole ritual to go through."

With a nonchalant shrug, he said, "I've done that with a bad stomachache."

"I'll tell uncle Cardi," she retorted, planting hands on her hips and pouting.

Perpetua pouted right back at her. It was amazing to see his daughter easily befriend his brother through shared love for old video games, even as Copia was yet to extend that same love to his twin. But it also meant that Carmilla had a direct line to Papa's superior, who wouldn't be too happy about his careless attitude towards his body while actively performing, and he didn't want to get on his brother's bad side.

"I didn't raise a narc," Perpetua said with narrowed eyes.

"No," Carmilla confirmed, "but you did raise someone who cares about your health."

He smiled. "I'm an old man, Carm, these things are gonna keep piling up. Soon, you'll have to cover for me."

"Dad, don't say that," she said, reaching to straighten the collar of his shirt. "You have plenty of tours left in you, and no one wants to see me up there."

"I do," Perpetua murmured softly.

With a start, Carmilla met his eyes, no doubt searching for a humorous gleam that would let her know that he was joking. He wasn't; he was as serious as when she'd confided in him about her feelings towards other girls, as when he'd told her that she'd had a father, not a mother. Both those conversations had drawn tears: of fear, relief and love. Perpetua hoped this one would go the same way, his eyes already stinging. It was only logical that she would succeed him: he was slowly but surely approaching his uncles' retirement age, with Carmilla as the only other living Emeritus.

As her face took on a familiar wide-eyed expression, it was hard to tell her thoughts on his indirect declaration of the heir. Before she could utter a single word, it was Papa's cue to get back up on stage, and both of them snapped back into the present.

"We'll talk later, little bat," he said, plugging his ears, which she mirrored with a dazed nod. After a quick but tight hug — their own little ritual after every costume change — he hurried up the steps to deliver a speech that would lead into his father's hopeful song.

As he rounded the stairs to the drumset, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the vivid image of his daughter at the mic stand; bathed in sheer white under the spotlight, dressed in the most intricate robe yet, met with a collective cheer from the crowd and ready to rock their socks off. He wanted her to experience it all: the thrill of the performance, the energy of the moment, the palpable adoration of thousands. She deserved no less.

In his heart, Perpetua knew that Carmilla would make a perfect Papa. She had the pale eye of the Emeritus bloodline, with a pearlescent lustre that both Perpetua and his twin lacked. She was in her prime, younger than her father by two decades — almost a dozen albums' worth of time. She had the same charm as the previous Papas, if flocks of Sisters keeping her company were anything to go by. She had a beautiful, strong singing voice — way better than his own, in his biased parental opinion — to spread the Ministry's teachings. She'd even sketched out her papal robes alongside her father's — just for fun, she'd said.

But as Perpetua walked to the front of the stage, worry stung at him. This would be a huge change, unprecedented, unheard of: a woman as Papa. He knew the Clergy would disapprove of that, but he would fight for her, just as he'd fought to have Carmilla come with him on tour instead of being forced to stay at the Ministry. At least he wouldn't have to do it alone; Frater Imperator would vouch for his niece just as fiercely.

The problems wouldn't end once she became Papa. How would the fans respond? Would they just accept the fresh heir, or would they riot at the frontman being a woman? How would she perform songs from previous albums? Would she need to summon new vocal ghouls to accommodate her higher octaves? What would become of Perpetua after his retirement? Would he be locked up at the Ministry, or would they allow him to see his daughter live on stage?

Approaching the mic stand, he forced his mind out of the future and into the moment: the ghouls around him, the cheering crowd, the blinding spotlight, the slight stinging in his right foot, the knowledge that Carmilla was packing up the unwieldy costume and, no doubt, thinking about the same possible futures.

Perpetua's stomach dropped as he realised the mistake he'd made. They wouldn't be able to talk meaningfully for the next two hours, too busy with quick costume changes, leaving his daughter to wrestle with his unspoken question of being his successor on her own. He knew that she'd agree, not necessarily because that was what she wanted, but because the two of them had always made sacrifices for each other. When she was little, Perpetua had put her wants and needs before his own; from toys to clothes to food. When she'd grown up and got a job, he'd finally come out to her, bracing for disdain, and instead she'd helped him pay for his transition, even taking time from work to help him recover from surgeries. When he was called to the Ministry to ascend to papacy, Perpetua had bargained some of his creative freedom to let his daughter know where he'd disappeared to. Naturally, she'd found him, and naturally, he'd made sure they let her stay. It was only logical that Carmilla would accept her promotion as a way of paying her father back.

Perpetua had grown to love the stage life, after nights of nearly throwing up from the stress of going out there in front of thousands of people, after learning how to satisfy that massive crowd with sultry words and suggestive movements, after his aging body had gotten used to the crashing exhaustion of near-daily concerts. But would his daughter enjoy any of that? Had he doomed her to a life of unwanted attention, scrutiny and fatigue?

Quick exchanges of words between songs seemed far too inadequate for reassuring that she didn't have to take on the intimidating new role just for the sake of her old man. Gazing out into the audience and spotting several parents with little kids wearing face paint and costumes, he'd decided to pivot his speech. Carmilla had made fun of him messing up the lyrics before, so he knew she could hear him.

"Lots of kids here today," he started after his usual greeting, to which the crowd cheered. "Did your parents make you come here, or are you also fans?" Another round of cheering, with small hands waving at him.

"Y'know," he went on, feeling the backs of his eyes beginning to sting, "parents have this annoying habit... of deciding what their kids should do, what they should be." Everyone hollered, regardless of age. Placing a hand on his chest, he said, "I know that, too." Some people hooted as he swallowed.

"But!" Perpetua exclaimed with a finger pointing up. "You must remember that your kids are people too, with their own wants and aspirations..." He was drowned out with resonating applauds and screams, and took this moment to blink tears from his eyes before continuing. "... so let them be whoever they want! And support them!"