Hatred

I.

She hates him.

She complains to the Storyteller, but the old man pays her no mind. It's folly to think he would—when has he ever taken her opinion into account? She is little better than a lackey, driven by a guilt she doesn't understand. A guilt that wakes her up in the middle of the night with a scream, cold sweat clinging to her shaking form. A guilt that keeps her complacent enough to say 'just once more' to herself every time there is a new, ridiculous task to complete.

With no other outlet, she is left venting her frustrations to her father. He listens patiently enough, but he does not hear. He sips the tea she offers on these secret visits, staring blankly over the rim of his teacup. His drawn visage grows paler by the day; it's as though he's wasting away, leaving behind a pale shadow that creeps about the lonely old manor long after he's returned to his alchemist's cottage. It hurts to see him so distant. Unlike Espella, her memories were not suppressed; they glow from within, cozy with the warmth of her parents' love.

Before, she would proudly declare to anyone that she was her father's daughter. Now, those words seem little better than hollow lies. She is not her father's daughter, not anymore. It's as if he is a stranger: she no longer recognizes the man she once knew. The gulf only expands each time he insists that nothing is wrong, the smile no longer reaching his gentle eyes.

Whether anyone hears her or not, the fact remains the same: she hates him. She hates his hair, a seemingly visible metaphor of his flaming temper. He's the first to dare raise his voice back to her, the first knight to toe out of line and meet her on her own terms, forcing her to look up whenever he draws himself to full height. Why the Teller thought he could be of use is beyond her—she has tried being gentle, tried saying that she needs no help in the office, but the man was shouldered in without a thought given to her feelings. And now they won't agree to throw him back out again, nor will they give any clear reason as to why he needs to stay.

She hates him because he's good at what he does. He's not stupid—he finds out what's expected of him, forms his own boundaries, and then throws himself headfirst into the fray with a zealous passion she's never seen before on anyone, much less some nobody from the garrison. It's almost a disappointment when she discovers he's as mindless as any other Labyrinthian, accepting the lies fed to him without a blink.

After three weeks on the job, she knows that this new Inquisitor is more than capable of turning the entire project on its head. He's too intelligent to be kept in the dark. But he keeps himself in the dark, and willingly at that. If something doesn't add him, no matter how substantial the evidence, he thinks in corners instead of looking back to see the bigger picture.

It makes her hate him even more, because for a single moment she almost believed that he could help.