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𝗜𝗩𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗜 𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗔𝗡
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The cozy, dimly-lit Voxthain streets are quiet by the time I grow chilled enough to pull my coat tighter around me and head home. The echo of my work boots on stone follows me like a ghost. Voxthain is full of stuck-up, too-good-for-it-all nobles, but I always feel so safe at night in Voxthain. The night still smells like cooked food and undertones of smoke from the initiation hall, and the memory of everyone clapping, shouting my name, wrapping me in their arms—it’s still sinking in. I’m officially an investigator in the militia.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Thinking the words makes me feel like I’m flying through the clouds, ascending, like everything finally makes sense. The many years of sharpshooting and hand-to hand combat training from Selene had paid off, along with Katarina’s Enchantment magic guidance. I hardly needed the observation classes the previous investigator offered me—I was twice as observant and quick-minded as he was. I release a little squeak I didn’t even know I had in me, skipping a little down the street before resuming a normal pace.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Selene stayed behind—she always does. She was still putting away the fold-out chairs and chasing the other recruits out with that reserved yet soft smile of hers when I left. She waved me off like it was nothing, but I saw the glint in her eye. She was proud. I was proud of making her proud—still am, always will be. Momma has always been my motivation and my purpose, and even meeting my own life goal would never change that. I promise myself then that I’ll find something else to strive for that will make her just as proud.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Telling Dad, though, that was at the top of my list. He had said earlier that day that he had work things to take care of and that he’d head home after, as he was sure my initiation would be over by then. As disappointed as I was, he was almost always busy anyways so it didn’t hit me as hard as it would’ve had it been Momma who couldn’t attend.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Dad was the reason I really took an interest in the militia, the reason I studied late and learned how to track people who don’t want to be found. He’s one of the best investigators the militia has as well as who I attribute my own inherent talent for investigative skills to. He said he couldn’t make it to the ceremony, which I understand from seeing how random and intensive investigative work can be.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I’m shaken from my thoughts, a grin on my face as I see the dim lighting from the window of a tall building I know to be our apartment. The door creaks when I open it, the stairs whine as I ascend. Same familiar groans and moans, like the whole building is greeting me. The lights are still on. Voxthain citizens tended to be late owls, especially the building I live in with my parents. We always joke about how it’s a building full of crazily busy fools, which is somehow not far off at all.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Dad?” I call out immediately, hardly waiting to speak before I open the door. I pause for a moment, a burst of affection welling in my chest as I take note of the door’s color. Selene and I had painted it a gentle, sage green years ago. I love it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Our place is quaint but spacious enough for privacy and comfort. One bathroom, two rooms, one shared common room, a decently-sized kitchen, everything tucked in tightly like we’re always ready to leave. Being out of the apartment most days gave none of us time to make it as homey and neat as we might have liked to otherwise.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I expect to see Dad reading the most recent Seavey newspaper post at the table, maybe half asleep on the couch, boots still on. What I see is close enough aside from a few major details I almost immediately pick out, freezing in my tracks.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He’s standing at the table. A suitcase is open beside him. Not the duffel he takes on short trips. The old one. The real one. The one he said carried most of his belongings when he came with Momma to live in Voxthain. I always wanted to use it as my investigator case when I was younger and he had told me no. Said it meant a lot to him—too much to risk me damaging it. Why is it out? And apparently packed?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hey, kiddo,” he says without turning around.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I stare at the suitcase. Folded shirts. His sidearm. Papers. A water flask. It’s neat. Too neat.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hey, Dad. I, uh . . . what’s going on?” My voice is small, uncertain. Confused. “You missed it,” I state, mostly out of lack of anything else to say.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He nods. “I know.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀A pause.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I got through it all. I took Oath and . . .” I trail off, watching as he folds another shirt from the few piled on the table, formulaically placing it into the case with no other movement aside from his arms.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’m proud of you,” he says, a simple few words that hold no meaning. No emotion. No heart. What is happening? Still not looking at me. “I knew you would make it.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Another pause. I feel my heart breaking and I don’t even know what’s happening yet, nor does my brain latch on to the possibility creeping up on me quite yet.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yeah.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀My voice is small and clearly wavering. He and I have never been too close other than a basic relationship of mindless support and respect for one another. He always told me no to most things with no reason. Always seemed bored when interacting with me. Lost. I never know how to talk to him, but for once, the achievement and excitement of my initiation ceremony made me want to tell him something. I rushed home specifically for that reason. So why is he . . .
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Ivorii, I need you to go to your room,” he stated, still folding shirts and moving like an automaton. I freeze again, coldness sweeping through my body. What? What? What?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Why,” I state, voice losing all excitement and warmth and the thrill of delivering news. I match his energy, cold and emotionless. My chest feels ready to explode, but I don’t lose my figurative footing in this stand-off, or what has become one.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Go,” he says. I don’t.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Ivorii,” he growls, not exactly hostile but clearly with patience or any form of pretense. I don’t move. That’s not my name, or at least my mind can’t remember that.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Don’t,” I say. “No.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I am. Yes. So fucking go, child,” he says, the words choppy but delivered as if rehearsed. Nothing but cold removal. Why? Why? Why? I step towards the hall leading to my room, shaking. Why am I shaking? I’m shaking. I am not scared. He didn’t yell. I am terrified of what’s happening, not of him. But he has never spoken so vulgarly at me before. Or really at me at all. It was always detached and uncaring, but to me. Respectful, at the very least.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Now it’s as if he doesn’t know me. Or care about me. Did he ever? I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to run into his arms. I want to get as far away from him as possible. I just wanted to tell my Dad about my achievement, but it appears I walked in on a departure just as I’d progressed in life.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I move. I don’t recognize that I am, but my body knows what I need even if my mind has ceased to function. Two more steps. Four. I’m almost to the hall, only three feet behind Alasdair. I stare at the back of his head, the light brown hair buzzed down. The same color as mine. And on the other side of his head, a pair of ice-blue eyes to match his attitude. A pair of eyes I also share. It’s the last thing I see of Alasdair, a red shirt in his hands preparing to be folded, shoulders tensed.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Alasdair? I don’t even recognize my own thought process. Dad to Alasdair, as if my mind had prepared for this already. He had never tried to leave before, but somehow this is not a surprise to me. The act, seeing it happen—I would never have seen this coming. Somehow, after a moment of processing, it clicks. Was he ever happy here? Was I ever enough? Was Momma ever enough, the nights of soft but charged arguing I’d heard late nights the past years. Begging him to be around more, convincing him that we mattered. Something, anything.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I pushed it all down these many years and focused on learning and training and doing things with Momma and Katarina. He offered an encouraging word here and there, but nothing more. Why had I convinced myself that he would be better one day? He was always a background piece in my life, but I somehow came to accept that too quickly.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“You dropped your dogtags,” I say sharply, my voice like a shard of ice that had fallen from Lantas. He had. I caught the glint of the militia-issued tags on the floor heading for the hallway. I turn. I open my door. I step into my room. I close the door. I pull my jacket off. I get into bed. I don’t care. I don’t. I tell myself I don’t care, just like I told myself that Alasdair would change all these years. Like I told myself to ignore it until he did. I don’t care.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I hear the familiar squeak of the apartment door closing before sleep takes me. I wait for grief or something to hit me. Anything. Just something to tell myself I was affected. But I don’t. I don’t feel anything at all. Maybe I stopped caring a long time ago.
