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A Father's Duty - A Daughter's Dance
Thematic Music
Lord of the Keep. Protector of his Lands. Latest of the line. Scion of glory: the glory of the Crow Banner. Victor. Vanquisher. Conqueror.
The mantle hung heavy upon broad shoulders. The weight of history. Of name. Of traditions steeped in the mists of time. His father had known. His grandfather. The great forebears, the giants upon whose shoulders all stands. They knew. They, alone, understood.
Candles burned low upon either side of the simple wooden desk: workmanlike and practical. He sat tired and still. A deep grimace creased his face as he sat in thought throughout the full-dark of long night. Tired eyes studied parchment splayed across ancient wood. They trailed line by line along the words of the command once more. There was no need; he had no doubt about the master's will. The King's summons was unmistakable; as was the bloodshed that was his purpose. Â
War was his duty. Duty his purpose. Purpose his honor. Honor his very meaning. A meaning to be found in the tenets of tradition undying.Â
His gaze shifted to the unfurled map, dim in flickering candlelight. He studied it with resigned purpose. He considered the road before him. A road to hell marked by crosses of fratricidal blood. A purpose that opened fresh wounds, summoning visions of destruction from across the planes of contemplation. The King had unsheathed his sword, and planted his banner firmly upon the intersection of Duty, Faith, and Purpose. He brooked no opposition. No discontent. No hesitation. A King that would stand against Rhalgar, a King that would tear his land asunder for proof of loyalty. A King that would put each and every one's loyalty to the most heinous of tests. A test that lay as torment before the Lord of the Crow Banner, who silently studied his fate.
Fingers curled, clutching as empty balled fists, biting nails tearing palms to draw blood. He had sensed the moment would come. For months the machinations had brewed; news and rumor had spread. The designs held the taint of malice. The Fists of Rhalgar were loyal to naught but the very precepts that motivated the people of this land. The Destroyer's Faithful were Gyr Abania's finest martial talent, and its most dedicated spiritualists. As his father's before him, he had been bred to honor the god above all others. Now Duty obligated he tear him down.
The silence broke at last. A name softly escaped his lips: Adalberd; he called for his assistant.. Leaning forward the soldier-Lord, reached across the desk to coat pen-tip in ink. He looked once more upon the order, readied for the sign of his name. With a staid purpose, he drew the wetted pen-blade across the parchment. Declaring—reaffirming—his Loyalty to the King. He would commit to the order.
To safeguard my House. No Duty can come before it.
...He could not have foreseen a distant time, when under flicking dressing lights, far below the spires of the Tower City, a young daughter would draw the powdered brush along her cheeks, applying the finishing touches of a light blush. For years she had been trying to learn to dance, at last she had found a teacher willing to take her. A stroke of good fortune. And now the two of them grinned at one-another with the cherubic expression of excited school girls.Â
Her parents fought hard against the challenges and temptation of the children's life on the deep streets of the Foundation. Mother tutored her, as her own governess had once. Proper manners, proper speech and forms of address. How to dress, how to behave, how to walk and carry oneself as a lady. To read, and to write. And how to obey. Perhaps they had not all stuck, not when confronted daily with the realities of life. A refugee girl living in a public house, trying to adapt to the streets deep within the stone city. Most days she wandered for sight of shining sun, but, here she found herself with an opportunity to pursue what both mother and daughter dreamed. To dance, and what's more, to dance amongst the children of high society. As a proper young Lady ought.
Her teacher leaned closer to inspect the makeup, and with a few more touches of the brush she declared it performance-ready. The two continued the exchange of ebullient grins, and a giggle of excitement that her teacher could not help but share.
If only my parents could see me!
The Lord exchanged a grip of hands with the Royal Officer. He had accepted the order without hesitation. Reports were clear. The Protectors of the Temple would not back down, and the King had ordered an immediate assault. The morning sun had yet to rise over the camp, but the men would soon muster. He had agreed to answer the call of duty, and the moment of conviction was upon him.  An order for the indiscriminate bloodshed of Rhalgar's faithful. To put an end to this once proud, once heralded temple. He knew naught but horror that could await.
He closed his eyes, and saw once more the temple in better times. In those days when the Destroyer was honored, and the glory of Ala Mhigan bravery exalted before the heavens. Rhalgar's faithful provided not only the boon of the Destroyer in times of war, but also the realm's greatest weapons: The Fists, the martial spiritualists who turned their bodies into weapons of destruction.
He grimaced. The alternatives assaulted him in battering waves of doubt. He had committed to join the bloodletting. To do this duty—could this really be his duty? Would this slaughter mean Honor? Tradition? What effect could these words have when blades and hands were stained with the blood of a sacrilegious slaughter. Some said the King was mad. Mad with power. Mad with blood. But how can one question an oath?
He tried to summon forth the presence of his father—his steady advice. Could he yet make father proud? All he could remember were these words: "It is you who wield the blade. And not the other way around." There could be no denying the implication, or his father's meaning. He would own the bloodshed. He would own every last cut and thrust. Every last life ended. Every life lost There could be no escaping this responsibility. Could it be worth it? Was it the right thing to do?
And how responsibility weighed heavy upon him. To family. To ancestors. To King and Country. To the multitude who looked to him for protection. To honor Rhalgar, was to betray the King. To betray the King was to betray those he had sworn to protect. How could he betray their loyalty? How could he abandon them to the same fate as this temple? How could he become responsible for exposing his innocent wards to the bloody servants of the King of Ruin?
He could not. No—he would do his duty. Stand firm. Protect his wards. The Crow Banner would yet fly over this field of battle. He would lend his sword arm, and do right by his King.Â
He called for Adalberd. Prepared to don his armor. The servant joined his Lord, who in that very moment prepared to approach the Gates of Hell to shield him from the King's wrath. He positioned the first piece against his Lord's outstretched arm, and pulled the straps tight.Â
Forgive me, father.
The girl let out a little yelp of objection at the tug, as her teacher pulled the straps of her costume bindings. Teacher laughed as she finished tying them off. "You wouldn't want this coming loose, trust me!" she grinned, offering words of encouragement. But the girl's excitement was rapidly fading to a sense of nervousness and impending anxiety.Â
Teacher offered a comforting grasp, fingers pressing gently upon bare shoulders. She summoned the warmest smile she could offer, and reminded her ward of how hard she had worked. Of the countless hours of rehearsal and practice. How she had joined the class years older than the other girls, but how she out-worked all of them. Of the talent she displayed. Of how beautifully she danced, and of the many crowd-stunning performances that awaited her once she learned her way around the stage. Some day, she said, the city of Ishgard would all know her name. She smiled once more, offering a final encouraging nod before turning the girl around and hurrying her out of the small dressing room.
From the edge of the stage the young girl beheld the crowd for the first time. A real crowd. A real crowd. She gasped, she couldn't help it. For a moment she held her breath, eyes wide with a heart-pounding flurry of nerves. She felt the comforting hands of her teacher once more. She felt the encouragement. Then she heard the applause erupt for the previous act. The energy, and exultant joy that filled the hall in that brief moment. It was her very first taste, and she imagined what it must be like to hear others applaud for you. A few moments later she felt a little push from behind.
She hadn't realized how she had been frozen in place, how she'd not been able to hear the instructions. It was her turn. They were waiting for her! It was not much more than a gentle nudge, but it was enough to send her slightly stumbling out upon the stage. For a moment she just stared in shocked amazement at the crowd. Her teacher held her breath, contemplating a hundred disasters, but then collected herself, and quickly encouraged the musicians to begin. As the music started with the sound of soft drums and then playful flute, the young girl moved, taking a few quick steps to her starting position. The audience murmured: the performance was begun!
There are so many people watching me!
The muster had begun as groups of men became formation. The air was filled with the heady sound of looming battle. Heavy drums tolled the cadence; trumpets and pipes filled the air with martial tune. The sound of clattering equipment and moving feet surrounded them. The Lord of the Crow Banner turned back to face his men. His head was held high, chin upturned and proud. His dark beard in full glory. Blue eyes burned bright beneath long blonde hair. His armor glistened in the first glimmers of rising sun. Cloak of red velvet fell from strong shoulders; a sign of station and of wealth. His heart gave him pause—and wavered amid the moral confusion that was his irresolution. But he could give no outward sign; not before his men. They would depend upon his resolve. They were his responsibility.
He strode beside the standard bearer who held the Crow Banner high above their heads. He drew his ancestral blade: sharp, victorious, proud. With a single motion he thrust the blade skyward, eliciting a deep-throated cry from his retinue. He extolled their bravery. Their skill at arms. He reminded them in deep, powerful voice, of their shared victories upon the fields of battle. He summoned forth memories of the generations that went before. Of fathers, grand fathers, and ancestors who stood firm no matter the threat. Of those who gave it all. Of those who we remember upon the eve of each battle, and honor upon the don of every fresh living day. Of the power of the Crow Banner. Of the honor of a good death. He urged them to glory. To victory. He lifted his arm once more above his head. He turned his eyes forward, to the field of approaching battle, and to the opponents against whom they would meet.
Have strength. They rely on me.
She lifted her arms above her head as she leapt lightly across the stage, drawing her arms back down as she completed the turning movement as one graceful motion. As her hands fell smoothly back towards her sides, she looked out upon the audience, with smiling blue eyes that dared not reveal the depths of her focus. Once the music had begun her thought had mostly flitted away, replaced by an encompassing sense of life and energy. She felt the music flow through her, eliciting her body to move and obey its every whim. She felt the rhythm and the tune, and knew they would guide her through the well practiced motions of the routine.Â
She listened to and heard in its voice each turn and bend. She heard how the music, in its energetic and word-less way, called for each leg lift and every elegant kick. How it begged her to leave the very ground itself, and escape in long athletic leaps of breath-catching audacity. Each step she took and every motion of her body flowed in graceful continuity from the one before, and blended effortlessly into the next in a harmonious union with the energetic play of the musicians. She allowed nary an excess sound as soft-soled shoe graced the floor, nor an excess of motion as each movement matched precisely with what was necessary. The full expression of her form a near perfection of balance and poise.
She was just a young girl, twelve years of age, but blossoming already in her youth.  Yet, she cut a figure comfortably exquisite—sublime. An unexpected newcomer to the program. A sudden and prized pupil of a well-regarded instructor. The other children knew not of where she'd come, and their mothers whispered that she did not belong.Â
She was not lowborn, but foreign. The beautiful white dress that lent an ethereal air to her performance was borrowed. She did not belong; but in those happy, enthralling moments all that mattered was the beauty of her performance. Not the accent upon her voice. Not the means of a fallen family. Not the tavern she called a home. Just her display: delightful beyond her age.
I wish this could last forever.
As the army began its advance, all eyes came to focus upon the display of Ala Mhigo's martial monks. They had emerged in quiet, perfect discipline from the opened gates of the ancient temple. Ordered in exacting formation: row upon row of men and women who had dedicated their lives to Rhalgar and the art of personal combat. The display itself was something of a performance—there really could be no other word for it. It was performed for the effect it would have upon the enemy, as much as the impact it would have upon themselves: those rows of unarmed fighters adorned in the unforgettable, bright, ritual attire of their profession.Â
Their entire formation moved at once, with complete precision through the sequence of ritualistic motions. Each one designed to center the mind, and free the flow of the body's wellspring of aetheric energy. But, there was more yet. The silence of the display lent a pallor and chill to the air. Amidst the blast of horns and the beat of drums, the monks made no noise, and allowed no clamour beyond the nearly inaudible whoosh of fabric breaking through still, morning air.Â
What the King's men did not see was the preparation that had begun the night before. The ritual cleansing. The dawning of ancient, powerful symbols. The making of final peace between man and god; man and man. The setting of final words upon parchment, they knew would never reach their intended recipients. The recitation of final poems. The chanting of final rites. The closing motions of their ritual were not a preparation to fight: but a preparation to die.Â
Before this army of the doomed faithful, the King's marshal approached. He recited aloud the King's charges against the Temple. He repeated the King's order of destruction. These were not words that mattered to them.
At last he ordered the King's soldiers forward, to claim what the King believed was his by right. The Crow Standard flew high amongst the fore of the right flank. They would meet the enemy head-on. They advanced with steady pace; the monks stood motionless and still. As the forward ranks closed, the monks adopted their defensive stance as a unit, flowing from the front rank to the back. All as one. The horns sounded the charge. The men answered with a cry, and quickened their pace to a run. The Crow banner snapped in the wind of advance. The men beneath, threw themselves forward with a powerful surge.
I have arrived; the very Gates of Hell.
The performance approached its climax, as she threw herself across the stage in a long and high forward leap. Her left foot, pointed, lead as she seemed to hover suspended in mid-air. It was the most challenging moment of the entire routine, one she had never fully mastered it practice. She could still see teacher impressing upon her the need for consistency, for a balance of posture and momentum. Every departure must be the same, every landing precise in its execution.
Though she had lost herself in the music, she could not banish all inhibition. The thought of failure crept into her mind as she approached this penultimate moment. She imagined all of the slips, all of the falls of practice. She remembered the bruises and the wounded pride. The stern looks, the exasperation. She imagined everything riding upon this very moment: her entire future, her opportunity to dance, everything, everything, everything! Coming down to this one, terrible moment.
Her heart threatened to beat right out of her breast. She felt the burn of flush upon her cheeks. The surge of adrenaline as the full weight of pressure crashed upon her shoulders. The expectation, the exhalation. As she had taken the first step she imagined the embarrassment that could unfold, and how it would feel to be shamed before the entire crowd. The boos, and worse even, the laughter. The judgement of her teacher, the wagging of fingers and the shaking of heads. The stern words, and then the dismissal. A future in those dark, dreary tunnel-like streets. The cries of her mother, the sighs of disappointment.Â
But, when the moment came, all such thoughts were banished. It was as if her mind had shut itself, directing all attention upon well-honed routine. She propelled herself forward with a dainty surge of deceptive athleticism; and then just floated across the stage, as if suspended by the wires of heaven above. Gently, they lowered her back to the deck. Her left foot struck with poise, followed by the right as her body flowed smoothly into the next turn. She heard an exhale, teacher's relief, and suddenly her mind returned in a flood of excitement. She turned upon her toe, and squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to contain the emotion.
I did it! I did it! I did it! I did it! I did it!
He closed his eyes. He screwed them shut. But he could not unsee what he had seen. He could not undo what he had wrought. The terrible scene could only be obscured momentarily. This terrible scene of what some would call Victory: as if it deserved a name at all. Not only did brother slaughter brother, but faithful slaughtered the revered. A fratricidal bloodbath - in the name of what? Upon the King's word they slaughtered their own.
A heavy rain began to fall across the field. Some would believe it the tears of the God: but Rhalgar does not cry. He mocks. And he avenges.Â
Had not the monks had been uselessly outnumbered? Their skill in combat, that prowess so often exalted by their brothers, amounted to naught but greater casualties inflicted upon their foe. They fought with the tenacity of Gyr Abanian pride, and with skill centuries in the making. And though these would bring immortal shame upon the victors, neither could turn the tide.Â
He tilted his head heavenward. He could feel it in the heaviness of the drops, and in the murmur of approaching thunder: the Destroyer's mocking.
To every side of him, his own men lay dead, maimed and wounded. Cries and gasps of suffering filled the air. Young men hundreds of miles from home called pitifully for mothers they would never see again. They gave their lives for the slaughter of those whom they had once been taught to revere. These were the wages of this Crusade; a Crusade aimed directly at the heart of its own nation. His own blade had cut from side-to-side, true to its reputation and its hone. Cloth and fabric were no protection from its bite, it tore flesh and cleaved bone. He had spilt blood, much blood—it would forever stain.
He opened his eyes. Before him he stood the last remnants of the temple's defenders. Their desperate final stand surrounded by the King's soldiers. His eyes focused upon one young man, brown-haired and dark of complexion. A handsome young highlander, one who could have been the pride of the Nation, and more than that: one he knew. One who had lived under his own protection. One whom he was sworn to defend. One of his own, born and raised upon his land. One who still returned home whenever possible.Â
He felt a desperate urge swell deep within his breast: urging hope itself to come and sweep the man away. Away from this place, away from here, away from this slaughter. He had a lover, one who was with child. Let him see her again. Let him come home. By the gods, do not let him die here!
The young monk would be swept away, but not by hope. The Lord of the Crow Banner watched with a dulled sense of horror, as the young monk's chest was pierced full by spear. The mortally wounded fighter fell to his knees, the felling shaft struck sure between his ribs. He coughed blood. As his life drained away, his eyes caught sight of his own Lord in the near distance. There they stayed, focused, for those long final moments—casting that deathly stare, unflinching, begging the unanswerable accusations of the slain.Â
What... have I done...
The audiences eyes were all upon the young dancer as she offered another curtsey. She finally knew just what it was like! She felt the heart-warming adoration of the crowd, albeit small, of well-to-do denizens. She cast her excited, bright smile from side-to-side, eyes scanning the room one final, hopeful time. How she had prayed her mother could watch the performance, but she had been told it just wasn't possible. And, there was no sign of her.Â
Still, it was alright to be excited wasn't it? She nearly skipped off the stage, brimming with an ecstatic energy. Teacher quickly embraced her, grinning broadly, as the two celebrated the sweetness of shared victory. Teacher was taking such a chance to bring a lowborn girl into her class. The parents of her other students would never permit it, but she just knew she'd seen a talent in the girl that couldn't be squandered. At last, at last, she felt, her persistence had paid off!Â
Mother hadn't been there to see, but she could never have been so proud. That night she would ask her daughter to tell her about the performance again, and again. To spare no detail, to tell her of the auditorium, of the crowd, and how prosperous they all looked. To tell her how they applauded her, and how beautiful she had been.Â
Mother too had so badly wished to watch the performance, but never once did she share her disappointment, instead she reveled in the excitement and joy of the moment. Her daughter danced, and danced so wonderfully. Not only that, but among high born students who one day might accept her as one of their own. What more could she ask for? She was so proud!
It was so wonderful, mother, you'll have to come next time!
What more could the King ask for? The Lord and his men had dutifully pursued battle, and the slaughter it entailed. But now the King wanted more. He wanted them to enter the monastery: pillage, ransack, and destroy.Â
The Lord of the Crow Banner gathered his men, and rallied them to the banner. He offered the comfort he could to his wounded, and they sent up prays for the deceased, beneath the mocking gaze of the Destroyer they had once all professed to. The Lord cleaned his sword, but he knew the blood on his conscience would not be so easy to wash away.
He turned to look toward the Temple, and then away. He lead his men the other direction, away from the field of battle, away from the monastery. Away from the coming slaughter. The Marshal would be on his own. Had he not done enough? Had he not done his Duty?
What would father think? Wasn't that all he had ever wanted? To make his father proud? To stand tall with his ancestors, and make right by them? What would they have done? What could they have done?Â
Those who opposed the King would pay for their insubordination in blood. And what worse punishment could await oath-breakers? Had he not stood firm and loyal to rightful liege? Had he not done right by what he properly owed? Why then, couldn't he banish this guilt? Why couldn't be forget the vanquished and slain?
Father! Are you not proud?
She couldn't forget. She just couldn't forget. How proud mother had been. How happy she had seemed. How wonderful it had all been, for once.
Now she stood before the door of the tavern they called home. Uncle's establishment. The note was rolled in her hand. Wrapped with a pretty ribbon. It was so much nicer than everything else she had, so proper and fancy looking. But it was a deceptive little thing, bearing the worst possible news she could imagine.
Now she had to deliver the message to mother. At least she didn't have to pretend. She didn't have to hide tear-stained cheeks. To pretend everything would be okay. She knew better. She only hoped mother would forgive her.
Teacher had always known it was a risk. She tried everything. She wanted, so badly, to have the young girl as a student. She had provided so many lessons, and included her in so many recitals and performances, never once asking for the compensation offered by the other students. But, teacher couldn't help it. No matter how firm she had stood: no matter how she had insisted it was a matter of principle, a matter of art, and of grooming talent. It simply hadn't mattered. It couldn't matter.Â
Teacher had heinously foisted a forgery about the other children. Exposing the scions of high society to a girl that wasn't even lowborn, but not even of Ishgardian birth! It simply would not do. A reserve of charity amongst the well-to-do mothers had preserved teacher's position, but the Ala Mhigan trollop would have to go.
The girl rolled the note around in her fingers, glancing down once more at the pretty ribbon. She wondered how long she should wait before letting the rest of the world crash down around her. At last she opened the door. She climbed the stairs, slowly, one by one. She greeted her smiling mother, who all-too-soon realized something was amiss. She showed mother the note. There was no need for her to read it.
Mother cast the unopened note into the crackling fire pit, pretty ribbon and all. She embraced her daughter and held her tight; she cried a mother's tears.Â
Mother... I am so sorry...
The young maid fell upon her knees before the Lord of the Keep, weeping a mother's tears. She had served the House since her childhood. She was helping raise his children. She served them still. She begged; she pleaded; she reminded him of her loyal service. She found herself begging for her life, and for that of her newborn child. The King of Ruin reigned. His Crusade knew no limit, no border, no inhibition. It was not enough to destroy Rhalgar's Temples, and slaughter his faithful, but their families too were made to pay. Her lover, the father of her child, was a Fist of Rhalgar. His Temple had been destroyed. She knew naught where he was, though her heart suspected. She knew there was no sanctuary to be found.
A guilt welled deep within his heart. It haunted the darkness of long nights. She was a mother, and a widow too—this he knew, though he could not answer her. He wanted to embrace her. Console her, and tell her that her lover were safe. That they would be together again. That all would soon be well. But he knew better. He knew.
In the swiftness of an instant every facet of her once comfortable life had come crashing down. She knew her Lord was loyal to the King. She knew he could turn her in, he could take her life and no objection would be raised. She begged as a last, final desperation. For her life. For her child. There was no hope.
He felt the pang of naked unworthiness.  She was a wretched sight, he knew, but not compared to the wretchedness of the lordly man who stood before her. She begged his forgiveness. For his pity. But he knew it was he who could never be worthy of her forgiveness.
At last, he managed, a weak, broken voice. He asked the child's name. The weeping maid looked up, tears flowing upon reddened cheeks. "Enna." she answered in a voice filled with trepidation. He summoned a deep breath, and steadied his voice, "You need not fear, my dear." His tone was comforting, and earnest. "And Enna." he nodded slowly, "She shall be as one of mine..."
It is not enough. Not nearly enough.
The well being of his family, and his wards, were his guiding star. He never lost sight, not unto the end of travails. The King would fall. The Kingdom would crumble. Ruin would befall all. They would flee, enduring the long road of refugees. But, one day, she would smile. She would smile.
Had it not been worth it? Wasn't every sacrifice, every last measure worth it when his precious tow-headed daughter would sit upon his knee and just smile? When he held her close, and they could just stare at the stars together? He would see his sons grow up strong and tall. His daughter grow lovely and graceful. What more could a father ask for?Â
So much would happen... so much would happen...
How many fathers died young beneath my blade?
The heavy beams of the Ishgardian inn shuddered with a powerful groan. He remembered his promise, from long ago. Those words he'd uttered in a moment of such bare nakedness. He rose to his feet with considerable effort, his hand clutching his trusted walking stick: one remaining faithful companion. The tower foundation of the city shook all around the building. Coal rattled against the stone hearth, furniture creaked and groaned.Â
He left his room, and started the difficult descent of the main stair toward the ground floor. He could hear the commotion in the common area of the Public House. At least a dozen voices were raised to a near panic. Everyone seemed to worried about those they couldn't find. No one knew where the others were. But the din of voices hid he sound of his stick upon the wood of each slow, steady step. He reached the edge of the common area and heard the distinct voice of his wife, worried but never panicked. She was asking after her sons: no one seemed to know where either Osvald or Kael were.
He knew. She always worried too much. Osvald would attend to his filthy shop. Kael had his own children to look after. Regardless, his own heart was set on another child, the last of the three still living in the city whom he could be responsible for. He pushed his way through the front door, barely escaping notice of the others as he slipped out onto the cobblestone pathway that counted for an avenue in this part of the Foundation. He turned on his way, making slow but steady progress; each step preceded by the sound of his wooden stick upon stone.
The entire structure of the city seemed to shake with the energy of the assault above. Militiamen rushed by the old man, trying to reach their rally points and silently praying that the Dravanians wouldn't made it that far. He had a rally point of his own in mind. He knew she'd just been off to the market, a small make-shift affair that opened in a square several blocks away.
A father must do, what a father must do.
Far away, in the desert city of Ul'dah, the dancing girl, once a tow-headed little cherub, had begun a new life of her own. She laughed amid the bustling din of the busy tavern, moving from table-to-table greeting each patron with that same brilliant, flashing grin that had once charmed Elezen ladies of Ishgard. A light giggle spread the good cheer, and encouraged every celebration she met. For others, she offered the comfort of a warm smile to help drown sorrows and lift weary spirits. She was no longer within Father's grasp. In that, he had failed. But she lived, she lived; she smiled, and for that he would have given anything.Â
He could protect her no more, but he had once done everything within his power.
And, perhaps it wasn't what he had once envisioned, but as she hurried to-and-fro under the attention of the Lalafel proprietress, she carried the same joy, the same beauty and bountiful energy that had cheered a father's tired heart. As she carried drink, after overflowing drink to customer after customer they could never know, never have suspected by how narrow a thread the young woman's life had once hung. What end she may have met at the end of Ruin's blade; or of the price of her father's loyalty.
Now she laughed. She chatted. She flirted, and grinned her way to one tip after another. She had become part of the very life of the place, Ul'dah just wouldn't be the same without her.Â
I only do what I must. The children are our only future.
The old man reached the little square without hurrying. A crowd had gathered there, huddled together for protection; screaming and crying amidst the shudders of the foundation and the sounds of battle in the levels above. He looked through the group, eyes still good enough to pick out just what he was looking for. The brown haired Ala Mhigan woman who refused to ever leave his side. With a startled gasp she caught sight of him, and the soft smile hiding behind his unruly gray beard. She ran toward him with a look of panic. He smiled a little more; she looked at him just like a daughter should.
"Enna, my dear," he gently patted her worried hand, "Lets say we go back home now hmm?" He turned with her, back up the avenue to begin the walk back to the inn. She stammered. Unsure. She turned to look back toward the relative safety of the square. Still, she knew well enough that argument would be of no avail. She put a steadying arm around him as they walked, and tried to hurry him back along the avenue as fast as his feet and walking stick would carry him.
His sons would see after themselves. His daughter had long ago fled. But this one; this one he would watch over still.
She shall be as one of my own. To the very ends of Hydaelyn. To the very end.
![[Image: 21282370099_a814a08664_o.png]](https://farm1.staticflickr.com/590/21282370099_a814a08664_o.png)
