"Now say goodbye to Daddy. Come on now, wave goodbye."
He knew something was wrong. He couldn't understand it then, but looking back now, he could see the reasons why. Maybe it was the crack of his mother's voice as she spoke the words, or the way she was so insistent he bid his father farewell. Maybe it was the look of worry she couldn't quite hide, or the pain not quite concealed behind his father's smile. Maybe it was the past few suns of irregular activity around the house--bags being packed, soldiers stopping by frequently to pull aside his father for private conversations, hushed and tense talks between his parents when they thought he could not see or hear, or perhaps just assumed he simply couldn't understand.
And they weren't entirely incorrect in that idea--still a toddler, he could comprehend very little. In his small mind, he couldn't fathom the reasons why he knew something was wrong, only that he did, a subconscious awareness of the facts he did not know he had already pieced together. He couldn't recall if he ever did say goodbye, but he remembered crying as his father left. It was his first memory, the only thing that stuck in his mind from search an early age. He was never certain if it was because the complex bundle of emotions he felt at the time, or if it was due to the significance of the departure he would not learn for cycles afterward. Either way, he did know that his father did not come home.
From that day forward, it was just him, his mother, and the household staff. He learned the truth bit by bit as he grew older, sometimes by pieces of chatter or gossip overheard, sometimes through actual talks with his mother. His father, Stanislas, a praised general in the Imperial army, had left for Eorzea on a mission to infiltrate the Twin Adders to acquire information and potentially sabotage them. There was no estimation of when, or if, he would return to Garlemald and his family.
The boy was forced to grow up fast to become the man of the household, with all the expectations of the heir and oldest son of a prosperous family, but he could never fill his father's shoes. Stanislas was a ghost in the household, a presence that was always there, shaping his family's reality even if no one could ever see him, looming over his son. Still, with childish hope and reverence, the boy wished to be everything his father was. Like every son, he desired to be just like his dad. He could not recall much of his father, aside from those keen blue eyes and that serene smile, but those around him were willing to tell plenty. A strong man, intelligent, decisive, loyal, dedicated, hard-working, ambitious, practical, cunning. Everyone spoke highly of the man, with respect and admiration, and sometimes a little fear. Even his mother, whose heartbreak he could see even as she tried to hide it, whose pain she would deny even when he caught her weeping alone at night, had nothing but fond words of her husband and support of his mission.
Her support did not wane, even when Stanislas did not--could not--contact his family for years, even by letter. Her support did not wane even when they learned he had settled down with a pretty wife in Eorzea, a noblewoman from the Shroud. Her support did not wane even when they learned the couple had welcomed a child into the world, a healthy baby girl. But with each update and with each day that passed, he watched his mother's spirit sink. "It is for the good of all of Garlemald," she would say, "it is his duty, and it is ours to support him. Our work is easy compared to his." He tried his hardest to believe her words, but the only solace the boy thought his family had were the funds that came pouring into his family's coffers thanks to his father's work. Still, everyone around him spoke of how great his father was, recalled him as if he were a god. He was hero. They expected him to live up to his father's legacy. But how could he? How could anyone?
Garlemald before all. It was the rule his father lived his life by, and thus it became the words that governed his, if he was to ever be a suitable replacement for the man. Garlemald before one's friends, one's family, oneself. Their country is where their first and foremost loyalty must lie. He took his studies seriously, he trained hard, and he followed the wisdom of his father's friends and comrades. As soon as he was of age, he enlisted in the militia, half to follow in his father's footsteps as expected, and half out of eagerness to fight and at last have real targets upon which to unleash his aggression. Full of drive and ambition, with a quick wit and a natural talent for combat, he rose up the ranks quickly. And just as quickly, rumors began to fly.
"He's only made it this far because of who his father is."
"That boy will never live up to his father."
"He hasn't earned a damned thing he has."
"Everything he's got has been handed to him."
The words burned his ears as they reached them and made his blood boil. He couldn't deny that his father's influence and affluence, without the man even actually being present, had opened many doors for him. But he had never asked for nor expected special treatment. He had worked and fought for everything he received, even if it was being handed to him regardless. Suddenly, he'd found a new purpose. He no longer wished to be the same as father. He wanted to be different. He wanted to be better.
Every day, he was the first soldier and the last to leave it. He pushed his body to the point it could go no further. When his comrades went out for drinks and merriment, he would decline to train more and get some quality rest afterward. When a pretty girl would bat her eyelashes at him, he would look away. When a critic would provoke him with jeers and insults, he would stay his fist and walk away. He had no time for distractions. His life was work and duty. Garlemald was his priority, and he fought desperately to prove himself capable by his own merit. Despite his hard work, every success was still credited to his father.
Over the years, he began to feel some growing frustration he could not quite place. And he hated that other family, too--that fake family who kept his father away from him and his mother, that other woman and their spoiled daughter. He wondered if they knew how fortunate they were, to have his attention and his presence. He would have their fortune eventually, though. About two decades after his father had left, he returned. His Eorzean family had not been so fortunate after all--cut down by Imperial soldiers, their home burned to the ground in a staged attack to hide any evidence and ensure Stanislas's disappearance in Eorzea so that he may return to Garlemald.
His reunion with his father had not exactly been heart-warming. Almost immediately, before the two could even catch up or converse, his father had challenged him to a duel, to test his son's merit and all that he had learned in his absence. And almost immediately, his son had lost the duel. The boy was rash and hotheaded--at least compared to his father's tempered wisdom--and he was no match for the man. He remembered the blade cleaving through his face, tearing through skin and muscle, colliding with bone with a sickening thud and the overwhelming pain it brought, enough to send him toppling to the ground and unconscious.
His father had gone easy on him. Such a blow could have killed him had it held much of any force behind it. And yet, he had not been merciful enough to let the incident pass without a lesson. Even after the talented medics had done their best to tend to him and a few cycles had passed to allow the wound to mend, a long and prominent scar stretched across the right side of his face, running diagonally from his jaw to his cheek just ilms below his eye. Every day he looked into the mirror and saw it, it was a reminder of his failing, a permanent testament to his weakness. He resented it, and yet, he knew he was expected to wear it proudly as a badge of honor.
Despite knowing little but his absence, his father's presence in the house was somehow normal, a void filled. His mother was happy again, and it would not take long before a second child was expected, another son, Valerius. The young man adored his baby brother, he almost more of a second father to the child, given the gap in their age. His father was commended greatly for his work in Eorzea, rising quickly up the ranks until, before long, he would carry the title of Legatus, a whole new level of prestige and wealth for their family. And somehow, the boy's hatred waned as he came to understand the reverence and respect the others held for his father.
But something was still amiss, and he would soon discover why--the daughter his father had left in Eorzea had been left alive. Somewhere in the world, he had a sister, some woman not much younger than him with no idea how lucky she was. How lucky to have had a father for most of her youth. How lucky to have been left alive. He was so curious of this woman, also wishing to meet her but never expecting he'd actually have the chance. She became the new target of his resentment.
But that was then. This was now. Now, he pitied her. They were very much alike, despite that barbaric husband of hers, or her fondness of Eorzeans and their backwards ways. She was lost in the dark and refused his help, but he had faith she would come around. He hoped so, at least--the only other option for her was bleak, and he knew it would pain his father. It would be a shame for such a bright light to be snuffed out. She had so much potential. Why was she so insistent on hating him and their father, their entire people? If she could just understand, if they could just show her the glory of Garlemald, she would know... Why couldn't she just understand?
When he lay down in his simple cot at night and closed his eyes, he did not think of Garlemald. He thought of his stubborn sister, and that stupid man she was so quick to call her brother yet deny him that same title when their father's blood ran through both their veins. He thought of his mother, her secret tears and her faked smiles as she assured him everything would be all right. He thought of Lucretia and her fiery hair, almost as red as the blood that ran down her face by his own hand, accidental as it may have been. He thought of Valerius, as old now as he had been when their father had left, all his smiles and giggles. And he thought of his dad, that ever patient and always knowing smile he held and the strange mix of stern and kind in his expression and all he did. Could he really put Garlemald before it all?
Every now and then, these doubts would creep up on him, and those moments were the ones in which he knew that he could never be Stanislas. He could not live up to his father's legacy. His life would always be lived in his father's shadow.
He knew something was wrong. He couldn't understand it then, but looking back now, he could see the reasons why. Maybe it was the crack of his mother's voice as she spoke the words, or the way she was so insistent he bid his father farewell. Maybe it was the look of worry she couldn't quite hide, or the pain not quite concealed behind his father's smile. Maybe it was the past few suns of irregular activity around the house--bags being packed, soldiers stopping by frequently to pull aside his father for private conversations, hushed and tense talks between his parents when they thought he could not see or hear, or perhaps just assumed he simply couldn't understand.
And they weren't entirely incorrect in that idea--still a toddler, he could comprehend very little. In his small mind, he couldn't fathom the reasons why he knew something was wrong, only that he did, a subconscious awareness of the facts he did not know he had already pieced together. He couldn't recall if he ever did say goodbye, but he remembered crying as his father left. It was his first memory, the only thing that stuck in his mind from search an early age. He was never certain if it was because the complex bundle of emotions he felt at the time, or if it was due to the significance of the departure he would not learn for cycles afterward. Either way, he did know that his father did not come home.
From that day forward, it was just him, his mother, and the household staff. He learned the truth bit by bit as he grew older, sometimes by pieces of chatter or gossip overheard, sometimes through actual talks with his mother. His father, Stanislas, a praised general in the Imperial army, had left for Eorzea on a mission to infiltrate the Twin Adders to acquire information and potentially sabotage them. There was no estimation of when, or if, he would return to Garlemald and his family.
The boy was forced to grow up fast to become the man of the household, with all the expectations of the heir and oldest son of a prosperous family, but he could never fill his father's shoes. Stanislas was a ghost in the household, a presence that was always there, shaping his family's reality even if no one could ever see him, looming over his son. Still, with childish hope and reverence, the boy wished to be everything his father was. Like every son, he desired to be just like his dad. He could not recall much of his father, aside from those keen blue eyes and that serene smile, but those around him were willing to tell plenty. A strong man, intelligent, decisive, loyal, dedicated, hard-working, ambitious, practical, cunning. Everyone spoke highly of the man, with respect and admiration, and sometimes a little fear. Even his mother, whose heartbreak he could see even as she tried to hide it, whose pain she would deny even when he caught her weeping alone at night, had nothing but fond words of her husband and support of his mission.
Her support did not wane, even when Stanislas did not--could not--contact his family for years, even by letter. Her support did not wane even when they learned he had settled down with a pretty wife in Eorzea, a noblewoman from the Shroud. Her support did not wane even when they learned the couple had welcomed a child into the world, a healthy baby girl. But with each update and with each day that passed, he watched his mother's spirit sink. "It is for the good of all of Garlemald," she would say, "it is his duty, and it is ours to support him. Our work is easy compared to his." He tried his hardest to believe her words, but the only solace the boy thought his family had were the funds that came pouring into his family's coffers thanks to his father's work. Still, everyone around him spoke of how great his father was, recalled him as if he were a god. He was hero. They expected him to live up to his father's legacy. But how could he? How could anyone?
Garlemald before all. It was the rule his father lived his life by, and thus it became the words that governed his, if he was to ever be a suitable replacement for the man. Garlemald before one's friends, one's family, oneself. Their country is where their first and foremost loyalty must lie. He took his studies seriously, he trained hard, and he followed the wisdom of his father's friends and comrades. As soon as he was of age, he enlisted in the militia, half to follow in his father's footsteps as expected, and half out of eagerness to fight and at last have real targets upon which to unleash his aggression. Full of drive and ambition, with a quick wit and a natural talent for combat, he rose up the ranks quickly. And just as quickly, rumors began to fly.
"He's only made it this far because of who his father is."
"That boy will never live up to his father."
"He hasn't earned a damned thing he has."
"Everything he's got has been handed to him."
The words burned his ears as they reached them and made his blood boil. He couldn't deny that his father's influence and affluence, without the man even actually being present, had opened many doors for him. But he had never asked for nor expected special treatment. He had worked and fought for everything he received, even if it was being handed to him regardless. Suddenly, he'd found a new purpose. He no longer wished to be the same as father. He wanted to be different. He wanted to be better.
Every day, he was the first soldier and the last to leave it. He pushed his body to the point it could go no further. When his comrades went out for drinks and merriment, he would decline to train more and get some quality rest afterward. When a pretty girl would bat her eyelashes at him, he would look away. When a critic would provoke him with jeers and insults, he would stay his fist and walk away. He had no time for distractions. His life was work and duty. Garlemald was his priority, and he fought desperately to prove himself capable by his own merit. Despite his hard work, every success was still credited to his father.
Over the years, he began to feel some growing frustration he could not quite place. And he hated that other family, too--that fake family who kept his father away from him and his mother, that other woman and their spoiled daughter. He wondered if they knew how fortunate they were, to have his attention and his presence. He would have their fortune eventually, though. About two decades after his father had left, he returned. His Eorzean family had not been so fortunate after all--cut down by Imperial soldiers, their home burned to the ground in a staged attack to hide any evidence and ensure Stanislas's disappearance in Eorzea so that he may return to Garlemald.
His reunion with his father had not exactly been heart-warming. Almost immediately, before the two could even catch up or converse, his father had challenged him to a duel, to test his son's merit and all that he had learned in his absence. And almost immediately, his son had lost the duel. The boy was rash and hotheaded--at least compared to his father's tempered wisdom--and he was no match for the man. He remembered the blade cleaving through his face, tearing through skin and muscle, colliding with bone with a sickening thud and the overwhelming pain it brought, enough to send him toppling to the ground and unconscious.
His father had gone easy on him. Such a blow could have killed him had it held much of any force behind it. And yet, he had not been merciful enough to let the incident pass without a lesson. Even after the talented medics had done their best to tend to him and a few cycles had passed to allow the wound to mend, a long and prominent scar stretched across the right side of his face, running diagonally from his jaw to his cheek just ilms below his eye. Every day he looked into the mirror and saw it, it was a reminder of his failing, a permanent testament to his weakness. He resented it, and yet, he knew he was expected to wear it proudly as a badge of honor.
Despite knowing little but his absence, his father's presence in the house was somehow normal, a void filled. His mother was happy again, and it would not take long before a second child was expected, another son, Valerius. The young man adored his baby brother, he almost more of a second father to the child, given the gap in their age. His father was commended greatly for his work in Eorzea, rising quickly up the ranks until, before long, he would carry the title of Legatus, a whole new level of prestige and wealth for their family. And somehow, the boy's hatred waned as he came to understand the reverence and respect the others held for his father.
But something was still amiss, and he would soon discover why--the daughter his father had left in Eorzea had been left alive. Somewhere in the world, he had a sister, some woman not much younger than him with no idea how lucky she was. How lucky to have had a father for most of her youth. How lucky to have been left alive. He was so curious of this woman, also wishing to meet her but never expecting he'd actually have the chance. She became the new target of his resentment.
But that was then. This was now. Now, he pitied her. They were very much alike, despite that barbaric husband of hers, or her fondness of Eorzeans and their backwards ways. She was lost in the dark and refused his help, but he had faith she would come around. He hoped so, at least--the only other option for her was bleak, and he knew it would pain his father. It would be a shame for such a bright light to be snuffed out. She had so much potential. Why was she so insistent on hating him and their father, their entire people? If she could just understand, if they could just show her the glory of Garlemald, she would know... Why couldn't she just understand?
When he lay down in his simple cot at night and closed his eyes, he did not think of Garlemald. He thought of his stubborn sister, and that stupid man she was so quick to call her brother yet deny him that same title when their father's blood ran through both their veins. He thought of his mother, her secret tears and her faked smiles as she assured him everything would be all right. He thought of Lucretia and her fiery hair, almost as red as the blood that ran down her face by his own hand, accidental as it may have been. He thought of Valerius, as old now as he had been when their father had left, all his smiles and giggles. And he thought of his dad, that ever patient and always knowing smile he held and the strange mix of stern and kind in his expression and all he did. Could he really put Garlemald before it all?
Every now and then, these doubts would creep up on him, and those moments were the ones in which he knew that he could never be Stanislas. He could not live up to his father's legacy. His life would always be lived in his father's shadow.
![[Image: NCtCate.png]](http://i.imgur.com/NCtCate.png)
