Zi'da 7 Arc 717
This though? This was stress. Plain and simple.
It was quite frankly ridiculous for her to feel this way.
Yana gave a sigh, steeling herself for a moment, reminding herself she’d done things that should have chilled her bones –if she’d had any. This shouldn’t be a problem. She shouldn’t even be hesitating. The Yludih nodded to herself, breathing out slowly. Yes. This shouldn’t be a problem.
She knocked on the door, the act itself adding some more stress onto her shoulders instead of relieving it. She could feel her hands were clammy, and she wiped them on her pant legs in a futile effort.
“Come on in,” a cool voice responded.
There was no turning back now. Another sigh, a swallow to try and moisturize her mouth and throat, and then the Yludih opened the door, stepping inside. Her asterism pulsed fast, and she felt as though her insides were slowly moving from their normal location, down into her feet. She wiped her hands again.
“Saeri,” the man spoke, sounding a little surprised, despite his voice not giving a whole lot of clues as to his emotions. He looked up at her over his spectacles, adjusting them with a finger while tapping his quill on an inkpot before laying it aside.
“Father.”
“So you finally decided to come back home, child?” He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped together still on the desk. The expression on his thin face was blank, concealing whatever was going on inside his head. Was he angry? Was he pleased? Or just… disappointed?
“I thought Mother had let you know I would be coming over. I sent a letter.”
“I read it. I did not think you would actually show up.” He paused, scratching the blue hair on his chin.
“I just wanted to come visit,” Yana said, her eyes on the desk. “I wanted to see you and Mother. It has been-”
“About six arcs now,” he interrupted. “Six arcs since you--”
“I wanted to live indepe--” she began, speaking faster than usual as if she was afraid there was no time to explain herself. As expected though, she was cut off almost immediately.
“Do not interrupt me, child!” he hissed, slamming his hands loudly on the desk, and rising from his seat. Yana took an instinctual step back, one hand reaching for something at her hip out of habit. Something that wasn’t there. She dropped her hand back to her side.
He’d noticed. “You would draw a sword on me?” he spoke, his voice terrifyingly devoid of any hints to his current state of mind. Yana knew that tone of voice. He'd only ever used it when he was furious, or severely disappointed. Or both. “Violence,” he sneered, leaving his chair entirely, and walking around the desk, stopping right in front of Yana. She had to look up to see his face. “The first impulse of the feeble-minded.”
Yana flinched at his words, letting her gaze dip to the floor. He was right, of course, but she’d had to fend for her life so many times now, that reaching for a weapon had become second nature. Still, violence was not entirely correct. Sure, there could be violence, but on its own it was just a matter of being prepared.
She made an effort to provide a counter-argument. “Self-defense can hardly be ca--”
His hand struck her cheek, forcing her head to the side. It didn’t hurt her body as much as it hurt her self-image, feeling again like the little girl in need of disciplining.
“Do not talk back to me, child,” he rumbled, “violence, whatever the reason is still violence. Words are where the true power lies. Words can accomplish so much more than violence. Words are versatile. They can soothe, they can cut. They can be a gentle whisper or a thunderous rage. They can serve as a means to several ends. Violence is always the same. Its application is only one. To hurt.”
“Perhaps. I have yet to see someone defend themselves from a mugging with nothing but their tongue, and walk away with purse and body intact,” she countered, sensing her body was trembling. The act of simply opposing him was setting of the alarms.
Yana’s father eyed her from under his frown, clearly disagreeing. “The moral victory is theirs. Besides, violence is what led to the mugging turning violent in the first place. If you do not resist, you do not give them any incentive to hurt you. Being attached to your belongings only brings about self-destructive tendencies. ‘One that values not the material cannot lose anything’.”
“’It takes a wise man to recognize violence leads only to violence, but it takes a wiser man still to train himself in the art of self-defense anyway’,” she spoke quickly. It started as a mumble at first but she raised her voice after a few words, her eye now focused on his. She could see his jaw tense, but he said nothing. It was a better outcome than she had been expecting.
With a harrumph, her father walked back to his desk and sat himself down in his chair once more. “Regardless,” he said, bringing the topic back to where they left off, “Your disobedience six arcs ago made it clear I was not nearly as strict as I should have been. I have been far too lenient. But. That is now in the past, from now on I will--”
“What makes you think I will stay?” the Yludih asked, her heart beating fast, though she made an effort not to let him notice.
“You stay when I tell you to. You leave then I tell you to. You study when I tell you to. You marry when I tell you to.” He made it sound very absolute. He didn’t even miss a beat between her question and his answer. But, neither did she.
“Not happening,” Yana stated, outwardly calm.
He slammed his fist on the desk, her constant defiance getting on his nerves, it seemed.
“I am your father!” he bellowed. “You shall do what I tell you to, you insolent child!”
Yana very nearly jumped back, but a part of her had felt the outburst coming and had steeled herself for it. She shook her head, ignoring the urge to wipe her hands.
“I am a Steward of the Iron Hand of Rynmere,” she informed him, “I have a job. I swore an oath. I have a squad of Knights under my command. I am on leave, but I need to return to my duties. I will not stay because you want me to.” She balled her fists, raising her head a little more. “I have ambitions to rise high above my rank and roll into the battlefield of politics, shaping the state with words, as you so dearly want me to.” She paused to breathe. “And I will most definitely not marry when you tell me to, nor who you tell me to. My life is mine, I will lead it as I please.” She paused. “Besides, I already am in a relationship,” she added stiffly.
There was a long few moments of silence, a quiet where only their breathing could be heard, before Yana's father found his tongue.
“Eídisi?”
“Yes.”
“Ryn-born?”
“Born and bred.” She could see his mouth curl slightly downwards at the confirmation.
“How old is he?”
"My age. Maybe a little older, but not more than a few arcs."
“It will not last. Romance between two children rarely does. It is merely puppy love.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted, “but that will be my problem, and his. If I want your opinion on it, I am sure you will hear me ask for it.” They just stared for a couple moments, until Yana broke the silence. “Now, I only stopped by to come say hello since I have business in the city and its surroundings, so if there is nothing else you have to say, I will be on my way.”
He just waved his hand towards the door, as if to shoo her out. Her mouth became nothing but a thin line, but she said nothing in response, and simply strode to the door. She could hear him dip his quill back into the inkpot, tapping the tip on the rim to remove excess ink. “Goodbye, Father,” she said, looking back over her shoulder as she opened the door. He said nothing, scratching lines and numbers on the large patch of parchment in front of him. She closed the door behind her, feeling all tension leave her body.
