It was neither the first, nor the last.  Years ago in the depths of the Tower City:

The hinges squeaked as the worn door cracked open, marking the late-night end of a guilty sojourn.

Feet, bared for silence, were too quiet to announce her return.  She pressed the door gently closed—every sign pointed to the success of her deception.

She turned toward the stair, but a faint flow of lantern light from the inn's main sitting room, caught her attention.  The room now served as a tavern in the long, harsh days of Ishgard's imposed isolation, and the sign of habitation gave lie to the flickers of her hope.

Grimacing, the young girl momentarily halted in her tracks.  There was no easy route of escape.  Maybe the sentry had fallen asleep at watch?  She made a furtive break for the stair, mounting just a few steps before being brought to a sudden halt by the sound of a match strike.

She turned her eyes hesitantly toward the faint illumination. There she saw through the stair's banister, through the open door to the sitting room, and through to a familiar figure seated in shadowy illumination.

With a slow, intentional motion he brought the lit match to the pipe upon his lips.  Watching, it felt an eternity, he lit the bowl, cupping his fingers around it before the embers began to add their own amber to that of the lantern.  She was still - frozen - motionless - trapped.

He shook the match out before opening his eyes, directing the full intensity of his harsh blue gaze at his teenage daughter.

It was a practiced glare.  Formed over more than a half century of preparation.  No longer did these eyes demand loyalty of retainers, peasants and soldiers.  No more did they lord over battlefields, hunting grounds, and feast halls.  No longer did they dictate with the force of authority and blood. 

The forceful personality behind the glare had withered but never wilted.  Ruin had befallen everything he held dear.  Only the family remained, and from them he still demanded loyalty.  That was the insistence of the hardened glare: the iron will that demanded obeisance from the only ones it still governed far from the mountains and forests of Ala Mhigo.

He had said nothing, but still her body refused to move.  It was her spirit that flinched: her heart pounded in her ears—her nerves tingled with the touch of fresh panic. 

No words were necessary, but he chose to employ them regardless.

He slipped the pipe from his lips, his voice low and even, with the burr of his mother tongue. 

"We had a visitor yesterday."  She stood, motionless, as under the effect of a terrible magic.

"Do you know what he said?"  His tone was rhetorical.

"He told us, again, about these so-called 'friends' of yours."  He set the pipe down, freeing her momentarily from the harsh fixation of his gaze.

"You remember, I am sure, what I told you before?"  She did.  She needed no reminder.

He repeated the commandments for her, his voice rising with authority.  "You will not see those hooligans.  You will not spend time with them.  They will be the ruin of you.  The ruin of us.  You know that your actions reflect upon, and effect this entire family."  

He paused to tap the bowl of his pipe upon the table.  "I doubt you will deny that you were with them again tonight..."  She wanted to deny with every fiber of self-preservation, but quickly found herself shaking her head against every better judgement - such was the power of his compulsion.

With this answer the man rose like a beast from his throne, his voice roared with the fire of righteous anger, "And yet you defy me!  You defy your mother!  Do you have any regard for you family?"  The question, asked with a furious snarl, permitted no answer.

"My -daughter- will not behave like a common harlot.  My -daughter- will not deprave herself with obscenity!"  He emphasized the word as if it dripped with venom, while advancing upon the frozen girl with quick and powerful steps. Anger, frustration, worry and fear that had simmered for hours burst forth in a torrent as he gripped at the at the posts of the banister with barely contained rage.  His face, rugged and strong shook with the power of his will. 

The sudden show of emotion snapped the spell he had held over her.  She nearly fell backward away from him, flattening momentarily against the wall of the stair as she felt the fullness of dread he instilled.

"You understand, don't you?"  He asked, with a hint of pleading in his anger.

 

"You're the one who doesn't understand!" She shot back with a rising surge of resistance.  "You never have!"  The retort was that of every teenage girl angry at her father.  She nearly leaped down the stairs as she raced for the front door.

Their shouting had woken the entire family - the rooms above stirred with commotion.

Father turned, indignation burning in his eyes.  "Don't you run from me!"

She tore the door open, turning back at him one more time, "Maybe I am no daughter of yours!" she shouted in pure resentment.  That was his line.  He'd used it before, and its impact was all the greater for its return. 

He started for the door, but he no longer had the strength of his young self.  His late night vigil had exhausted him.  He grasped at the door frame, bracing.  Out he shouted into the street, watching the vision of his barefoot daughter retreating into the darkness.

Not so long ago, Ishgard

"He's been feeling stronger, but he still needs his rest."  Mother's voice could be as gentle as a spring breeze.  "He's... well, its been hard, as you know..."  Aya nodded.  She held her mother's hands.  The two of them had not always looked at things the same way: mother always seemed to take father's side.  But, they had shared so much of life together.  They had endured, they had persevered.  No one had taught Aya more, and the two women both understood what it was to be a woman in father's family.  The bad.  The good.  The hard.

Aya took a deep breath.  She nodded, and whispered, "Thank you..."

The hinges squeaked as the worn door cracked open, marking the welcome end of an arduous sojourn.  She stepped into the room.  It was kept warmer than the others with a well-attended coal fire that cast its illumination on the features of her father reclining in his bed.

She took a step toward him, her heeled boots loud against the wooden floor of the chamber.  He turned his head toward her, eyes opening slowly to reveal the blue-eyed gaze that she had not seen for so such a very long time. 

She covered the distance between with a few quick steps, kneeling at his side.  His eyes were tired, but shone with an emotion as indescribable as it was indecipherable. 

She gazed back, struggling for words.  A thousand times she had rehearsed this reunion: what a waste.  To see him so tired - so defeated.  Her lips hung open, trembling for want of the will to know what to say.  Only one soft word escaped, barely voiced, "Father..." 

A faint smile appeared on his lips.  An upward tug upon the corners that showed no sign of resistance.  "Shh..." he replied, while his hand grasped for hers.  Cold fingers wrapped around the tender, softness of his daughter's hand. 

She gasped at the touch of his hand: those strong hands... she remembered.  She remembered so very much- tears fell from her cheeks.

"I am very tired..." he said, with a weak voice before taking in a deep breath that spoke of immense relief. 

She nodded and wrapped her hands around his...

Osvald and Aya stepped out from the inn, walking the familiar streets and avenues of their youth, levels below the surface of Ishgard in the depths of the city's base. 

"Were you able to talk to him?" He asked with the sort of gentle curiosity he was so capable.

She shook her head, forcing her hands into the pockets of her coat, suddenly intimately conscious of feeling her own hands.

Her brother let out a loud sigh of thorough disappointment.  He turned his gaze toward her as they continued to walk, "Aya... I'm so sorry... I really thought that by now..."

She interrupted him with the shake of her head, "No.. no... it was good."  She didn't quite smile.  Neither did he.  Everywhere there seemed to be a little relief.

(Screen shot by @kiskiphelone, and used with grateful permission!)