"I always thought that the first time I'd be on my knees I'd be praying..." I held my breath lowering myself to my knees in front of him,
"Then worship," he smirked, "what do you desire?"
Being loved by the king of Socrates Academy is haunting, espe...
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For the first time since I was fifteen years old, my father looks proud of me.
The first time my father even remotely looked like he was doing slightly more than ignoring my 'unfortunate female existence' as he called it was when I was fifteen years old and he was teaching me how to hunt the fall birds. I had a bow and arrow, my signature weapon of choice because of its silent but deadly shot.
I remember the way the bird looked at me that day, it was a Western Capercaillie and had oak brown feathered wings but an emerald breast that made it appear brave almost. The bird didn't look at me like it was silently pleading for its life, the bird didn't run or even attempt to flee. It had lost a wing and was already in its last days.
The capercaillie looked at me like it welcomed me, it saw my arrow as euthanasia- a mercy killing of sorts. The bird and I had a mutual understanding of sorts, I didn't feel pity for it and it sure as hell didn't feel pity for me. So that day we saw each other, two flightless creatures who weren't afraid to look death in the eye.
And I shot it down without even the slightest hesitation. Rest In Peace brave Capercaillie, you'll make a lovely dinner.
My father then patted me on the back and a hint of amusement gleamed in his eyes, "ask the maidservants to prepare it for me for dinner."
That was the closest thing to an I love you, I've ever gotten. It was his way of saying, I'm proud and I'll prove it to you by eating it at my table with my finest silver cutlery. I'll maybe even boast to my friends about it during a meeting just to let them know that you did that and that I'm proud.
Maybe that seems a little sad, but it was my greatest happiness once.
Dimitriyi taught me how to use a bow and arrow, he's a lot like my father in the sense that he doesn't talk much and he isn't even remotely sentimental. I've never seen him cry before, not even when he was younger. I feel like he feels like he has to be this stone-cold wall, the foundation that holds all of us up.
Sometimes I just want to tell him he doesn't have to do any of that, sometimes I just want him to know that he can just be. But that is not my place, I have no idea what it means to be a man in this world and the eldest son of the most powerful man in eastern Europe. So I'll never let those fleeting words fall past my lips.
