119. Violette #3
My father’s features soften, lips tilting with a smile I wouldn’t have thought him capable of.
“Then we had you, and all was right in the world..." His Adam's apple dips, and again that fleeting tenderness evaporates. “Until it wasn’t.”
He pauses for a moment, eyes raking over the remnants of his—our past. With his gaze looking everywhere but me, I take the brief window of opportunity to study him.
And he suddenly looks so much older and world weary than his otherwise begrudgingly handsome and formidable exterior would have me believe.
The fine lines between his brows, and at sides of his mouth that suggest he frowns and scowls more than he smiles. Scars of every size decorate every limb, crisscross his chest, a few even pepper his face.
There’s even a thick one along the side of his skull that can only be partially hidden by his thick mane of black hair.
Each one tells a story that I know nothing of—and despite his madness, all the suffering he has inflicted, and my zealous hatred for him—the sadness that pierces through me at the realization is enough to steal my breath.
Eventually, my eyes wander down to the clenching and unclenching fist at his side. It’s only then that I notice the gold prosthetic sealed to the stump of his ring finger.
“What happened to your finger?”
His eyes drag down to the prosthetic as he lifts his hand to examine it. A soft smile alights his lips once more as though recalling some precious memory as he chuckles. “Your mother.”
My mouth pops open. “She cut it off?”
His eyes lift to mine without a hint of regret or resentment–if anything they’re filled with adoration. “Aye. She had a wicked temper.”
My mind recalls the wedding ring Lucen gave me. I don’t even want to imagine what kind of magic he’d imbued their wedding rings with.
“I imagine she had her reasons.”
Her voice whispers to me again.
“Your father is... unwell.”
The smile on my father’s face turns forlorn as he gradually nods in assent.
“Indeed, she did.”
He straightens as if shirking an old coat as he extends his hand.
“Come. I have something to give you.”
My father folds us once more. This time we’re standing in a closet that’s the length of my house.
Over a dozen sets of fighting leathers and various suits of battle armor line the left wall.
One of which appears to have been partially melted–likely by drakonati fire–and my mind briefly wanders to the drakonati that flew past us on our way here.
How the fuck did he survive drakonati fire?
When my gaze drifts, I find the answer. A variety of enchanted talismans and weapons lines the opposite wall. The magic pouring off of them feels like the buzzing of a bee against my skin.
The remaining walls, racks, and shelves are filled with a variety of clothing ranging from finely tailored clothing to pajamas.
He walks to a set of floor to ceiling shelves and reaches for one that’s waist-high.
I can’t help but notice the polish of the wood on it is more worn than the rest. Gold filigree adorns its edges, and in place of a keyhole is a petite effigy of a winged eye, and where the pupil would be, is a lancet.
My father presses his pinky finger to it.
When he withdraws it, the droplet of blood left on its tip disappears somewhere within.
The tinkering, clicking rhythm of many metallic shifting, whirling, and rotating gears within are a strange song in the otherwise silent room before there’s a soft hiss that escapes the winged-eye-lock-thing and the drawer begins to slide open on an unseen hand.
Except, it doesn’t stop sliding open. The front of the drawer unfolds itself into a staircase.
Azrael, Levi, and Lazarus pull me against them on a growl when the first step grows paws and claws that clack against the marble floor to crawl towards me as the steps elongate to an entrance yawning open before us.
The doorway itself is dark, as if the room just beyond is some hidden, ancient space, but there’s a bright strip of light perhaps several feet up the staircase.
My nostrils flare at the initial smell of dirt and ancient decay.
What the fuck? What is this place?
In the next moment, a cool breeze whistles through the space that sends a few dead leaves dancing into his closet, along with the crisp, clean, evergreen scent of mountain air.
Something about it calls to me.
Seems so very... familiar.
My eyes narrow as I inch forward, trying to see beyond into that impossibly bright doorway. Azrael’s hands tighten on me, but I shake him off.
My father tips his head in the direction of the doorway before he makes his way up the steps.
“There is nothing here that will bring you harm.”
Why do those words sound so familiar?
My father makes his way up the stairs, and the bright archway of light beyond finally dims enough for me to see what lies beyond it.
My jaw slackens as my eyes take in the towering aersyans and mountains beyond.
Just as the cervahnith steps forward and its silver, pupil-less gaze meets mine.