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It’s late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. It’s been a long night, and you’ve finally convinced your wife to go back to bed and get some shut-eye. You ease back into the sturdy comfort of a rocking chair, careful not to disturb the sleeping– finally sleeping – bundle in your arms.
Her face is relaxed, almost solemn in the flickering candlelight, resting gently against the skin of your bare arm. Her long delicate fingers are bunched into a loose fist, resting on your chest. Your exhaustion melts away as you listen to her breathe.
A fierce wave of love swells up in your chest, and you are left in aching wonder at the privilege of holding this tiny spark of life, of being one of the only people in the world she trusts and wants and relies on. You and your wife spent a long time talking, planning, getting ready to be parents, but nothing could have prepared you for this. This knowledge, this feeling, this love, this responsibility. It feels more sacred than any worship you’ve ever given at temple. What god has ever touched your life like this?
You pull her close, pressing your forehead to hers, and you make a promise. It is wordless, deep, and one you know that you’ll renew again and again.
Gently, you pull away and kiss her forehead. She doesn’t stir. She never does. Once she’s soundly asleep, she can sleep through anything–apart from being put down. How she’ll ever sleep on her own, you don’t know, but that’s a problem for another day. For now, you blow out the candle, hold her close, and wait for the dawn.
You watch, half anxious, half amused, as your daughter tears around the small clearing, squealing in breathless delight. Your big black hound is turned into a puppy again as she dodges and chases your little hellion through the tall, flower-speckled grass.
“Be nice to Pepper!” You call as your little one grabs and clings to her playmate’s tail a little too tightly. She lets go–whether from obedience or momentum, you're not sure–and tumbles forward to land on her belly.
There’s silence for a moment. You find yourself on your feet as you wait for her reaction. One… two…
And a yowling cry pierces the air.
You hurry over and scoop your child up, petting her dark hair and rubbing circles on her back. You carry her to a nearby stream, weaving through the trees, careful not to bump your daughter’s long limbs.
How did she get so tall?
She insists on washing off her scraped knees herself. You provide your handkerchief and moral support, telling her how brave she is and wiping her wet eyes and nose. In a few minutes, healing time has become playtime again, as she splashes in the shallows and brings you rocks that would be unremarkable to anyone but her. You save them all anyway.
You know someday she’ll face hurts that you can’t kiss away, that your arms won’t always be her safest refuge. It isn’t a bad thing, but it does make you appreciate these moments all the more.
Your daughter reaches for you, and you take her hand–damp, cold, and slightly gritty from the muddy stream. You guide her home, naming the flowers for her as they go by.
Things change.
The life and the future you imagined–for yourself, for your family, for her– fades. The days get harder, but you find a way to smile, for her. To sing songs, and laugh, to delight in clouds and fireflies and colorful leaves. And though the anxiety, the looming dread only grows as the years pass, her smile brightens the encroaching darknessl.
Then one day, the magic you’ve always seen in her manifests as real magic . Lights and sparks and colors pulled gleefully from thin air. It’s amazing. It’s terrifying. There’s no safe way to seek a teacher these days. There’s no one to tell who might not see it as an advantage or a threat. You have no way to deal with it, other than to reassure her, to give her space to practice and come into her own.
And so she does.
She grows and grows, and in a billowing moment she’s grown. Tall, kind, beautiful, clever, and oh, so special. Extraordinary. Guilt gnaws at you as you watch her collecting eggs, peeling potatoes, fixing the old rocking chair. She is happy, but she is meant for more than this. She has so many special gifts to share, and you want her to be able to share them with the world. But right now, the world outside your tiny corner of happiness is terrifying and dangerous. You spend long hours into the night talking with your wife about what to do, if you could ever get away, and where you might go, but it all loops back to the same thing. Leaving would mean risking both your lives and your daughter’s, and that’s just not something you can accept.
So you wait, living your lives and holding each other close.
Until.
The wind blows relentlessly, rattling the frame of your little house, clouding the windows with a torrent of snow. The winter has been harsh, but not as harsh as the coughs wracking your daughter’s thin frame now. You support her, whispering words of meaningless comfort into her sweat soaked hair as she clings to your shirt.
Your wife has gone out in this brutal storm to try to find help, but that’s more an added worry than a hope now. Those with the resources to deal with this kind of thing are cautious about sharing these days. You and your family have no power, nothing to bargain with or offer except barley and grain, and that is yours only in the loosest sense of the word.
You have nothing to give your daughter but well water and empty gestures of comfort. The screaming of your soul does nothing against the sickness, nothing to heal her or make her well. You’ve always given her all you can, all the love and tenderness and care within your power.
You’ve always known that someday it wouldn’t be enough.
You can only pray for the chance to do better for her.
Whether by the favor of the gods or your daughter's own stubborn strength of will, she pulls through. She’s weak, thin and gaunt.
But she’s alive.
And as you build her strength up through the winter and into spring, you plan.
The name Briarwoods has been whispered, cursed, carried throughout the surrounding region since the swift and bloody end of the last royal line. But is there truly anything to fear? Are they really worse than any other ruler, who puts themselves over the lives of others, holding onto power however they can? Just because they’re unfeeling and untrustworthy doesn’t mean they won't see the remarkable when it stares them in the face. Surely with your daughter's gifts, they can offer her a better life than an extra hand on a dying farmstead?
This is what you tell yourself over and over again as you drive your simple wagon into town, wife and daughter behind you. You decided to all come together. You and your wife discussed it. If things go wrong, at least she can grab your daughter and run. It isn’t the best plan, but it’s the only one you’ve got. You can’t wipe that terrible night from your mind, the night you almost lost her because you’ve hoarded her, instead of sharing her with the world. You made vows that night, promises to find her a place where she would be appreciated and cared for. Where things like sickness, hunger, and poverty would never touch her. This is the only means you have of fulfilling those vows.
The castle is as imposing as ever, but you approach with your family, state your business. You are ushered inside, to a waiting room packed with people. There are families as well as individuals, locals and travelers, and they all seem to be here for different reasons. You smell fear in the air. There’s very little chatter, though occasionally one woman lets out a somewhat hysterical giggle.
Everything about this seems wrong to you. Keeping your face blank, you approach one of the guards at the door and offer to come back another day, when things aren’t as busy. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at you. Sweat trickles down your back.
You make your way back to your family, making eye contact with your wife. She reads you as clearly as ever and gives a small nod. If she sees a chance to run, she’ll get your daughter out.
That chance never comes. There are guards everywhere, and they move with an unquestionable efficiency. Your stomach knots as they guide everyone out of the room and through the labyrinth of the castle. Down, always down, through strange twisting passageways until finally you come to a large open cavern with shapes of a large structure your panicked brain can’t make sense of. Then the guards are forcing everyone into a strange circle under the direction of a beautiful and cold noblewoman. You see runes and lines, alien and confusing. Then you look up and see the bodies.
Countless bodies. In heaps, everywhere, like some sort of horrific collection.
Around you people are beginning to weep, to scream and plead and beg. The hysterical giggle rings out again. A baby is crying, and your daughter is beside you, and you’ve never known true terror until this moment.
Your daughter grabs your arm, eyes wide with fear. You push her into your wife’s arms with a whispered “I love you,” and shove your way to the front of the group, to the noble in charge.
“Please!” you cry. “Please, whatever you're doing, leave my daughter out of it! She has gifts, magic. She could help you, she’s special. Please. ”
The woman pauses and your stomach drops as you meet her black eyes. She glances back and seems to spot your wife and daughter.
“Does she? I’m so glad you told me,” she says lightly, and your heart stutters. “This project requires all of my attention for now, but who knows? I may have use for her later. Begin.”
This last word is directed at the guards, and they obey, drawing swords and wading into the crowd of unarmed commoners.
You lurch back toward your family with no sane plan except to get to them. Your daughter begins to close the distance, reaching a hand toward you…
Something strikes her from behind. Time seems to slow. Your vision sharpens, and you see a glint of metal peak through her sternum. She still looks at you, eyes wide with surprise more than fear. The glint disappears from her chest, leaving a dark, wet spot. Time resumes its normal pace as she begins to fall.
You lunge forward and catch her. As you do, you see your wife on the ground, eyes staring sightlessly, but it doesn’t really register because you can only process so much horror at once. You kneel, holding your daughter close as the screams begin to fade. You press your forehead to hers, tears falling onto her wide, staring eyes.
Your mind flashes back to the countless times you’ve held her like this. As a soft, sleeping babe. When your wife would chase her into your arms for you to catch and cuddle. When she came home crying because the town children called her strange. When she pulled you in close to study your face with serious eyes. When Pepper died. When the world became too much, and even as she grew tall, she sought comfort in your arms.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
Your thoughts travel briefly back to your little home, where this morning you left soup simmering over the coals for tonight's supper. Where you would all be now, if it wasn't for your own foolish mistake. You wonder who will go there, and when. Will they find the drawings you saved from her childhood? The flowers you taught her to press? The box of rocks and leaves and pinecones and sticks you never had the heart to get rid of? Will they save the rocking chair she mended and the dresses she made? What will become of the little life the three of you had together? Can all that love and care and joy truly vanish so quickly and completely?
When the end comes, you don’t feel it. After all, your world already ended.
All you can hope, as the black claims you, is that death will be kind to your precious girl.