Just the one son, I think wryly, but Ezran doesn't ask any more questions. The other Hartsons give me similar greetings, and the posturing Claymores all manage curt nods towards me. Just before I go into the study, where I know my father awaits, I turn to face them.
“Thank you for this. It's not easy, I know. It probably never will be. But we've got to start somewhere.”
No one says anything to my words as I enter, and I feel just a tiny bit foolish. They were childish. It is fanciful to want things to change. But, well, it is exhausting to have to shoulder that burden by myself. It is exhausting to be the one people stare at in burning hatred, and know that I have to carry that to my grave.
Opening the door, after the guards nod their acceptance makes me nervous as hell. My hands are slick. It's the first time I'm seeing my father in a long time, and I have no idea what kind of scene will be waiting for me behind the doors.
My eyes settle on the livid posture of my father as he faces down Rysin, who stands opposing him, hands clasped behind his back. Desmond stands next to my brother, and they both clearly have the posture of people who don't want to be there.
“I'll never forgive you for what you did to my brother,” my father's saying, before attention turns to me. “Pearl!”
I greet him, but the mood between everyone seems to be awkward, to say the least. My father's justified in his words. Of course he is. But it doesn't revert the changes forced upon us. Changes that I pushed forward with my thoughtless actions, but would have perhaps happened at some point anyway. If not me who did something incredibly stupid, then someone else, surely.
“As you can see,” Rysin says, “she is fine. Though I thought you needed longer bedrest?”
“I've had way too much,” I say. “I'm getting bored sitting around doing nothing.”
He twitches a smile, and then my father's on me, along with my brother, and I'm being squished, and they're asking if I'm okay, and it's hard to get any kind of word in edgeways. I appreciate their enthusiasm, nonetheless, and allow myself to be swamped in the familiar scent and joy of my family. My father fussing over me as if I was still his little girl is wonderful, but that can't be allowed to go on for long. Because I'm not a little girl anymore.
“Why did you invite my father and brother over?” I ask Rysin, because this is his responsibility. The older man, the person my father hates so much, sighs.
“Partly at your uncle's urging. Ronald,” he says, and I nod. That makes sense. “Also because for all intents and purposes, we should be working towards an alliance, and your family deserve to hear if something happens to you.”
“I've half a mind to call this whole arrangement off,” my father says gruffly, and I take a chance to look into Desmond's eyes. He's clearly happy to see me up and walking, but my father's words dampen that emotion. “I knew nothing good would come of my little girl being here.”
“You mean, asides from everyone living?” I reply, tarter than I intended. “Of course I'm not completely happy with the arrangements, father. But this is my choice, and you respect this to be my choice.” My palms are turned upward to my father, imploring. There's still the small hint of a bruise on my wrist. “My husband has been nothing but supportive. He and his father have tried to make me feel at home. Sure maybe we could find a house separate somewhere, but this is entirely a political marriage and we know it. The situation between our families can improve, but I'm not sure if just us two are enough for it. There needs to be more examples.”
My father listens to my speech, looking sourer and sourer by the moment. “These monsters killed my brother,” he says. “They've killed so many of my people.”
“You've killed many of ours, too,” Desmond points out. “And we both think we're defending ourselves. At this point it really doesn't matter who is right anymore,” he says, and we all stare at him for these highly unusual words. “What matters is that it stops. Neither of us want to see our people wiped out. Which means the only way forward is marriages like mine and Pearl's. The Graves had a good idea. It's a shame it had to be forced down our throats.”
There's silence between all the men, and I take the opportunity to hold my husband's hand.
“They hurt you,” my father finally says, his blue eyes in agony. “They shot you, like my brother. You're not safe here, baby girl. Not from these monsters.”
The atmosphere grows tense. I lick my lips. “Our people would have done the same to my husband, if they saw him riding alone in our territory, wearing his colors. The grudges don't go away. You're proof of that. They also punished the person responsible, I believe?”
“We did,” Rysin says. “Rest assured he will not be bothering you again. He shakes his head. “We are enemies,” he says to my father. “We have been enemies for long. But there is one thing I want to say to you. You know your brother?”
My father directs a hostile glare at Rysin. “What?”
“He raped a teenage girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That little girl was my aunt's daughter. My cousin. When I struck him down, I did it gladly, because he was ignoring her screams. He was laughing.” Rysin's face twitches. His calm resolve looks as if it's a second from collapsing.
Desmond stares at his father. “You never mentioned this.” Something akin to an epiphany is in his eyes. “You never liked rape... you'd always be strict on that. Is this why...?”
Rysin closes his eyes, looking like an old, tired grizzly bear. “My cousin is dead. So is your brother. You know how justified I feel?”
My father's mouth opens and closes wordlessly. “You've raped our women, too. You've hurt us.”
“We have,” Rysin agrees. “So I ask you this: when does it end? When does this misery stop? When all our men, women and children are dead? When there's no one left to curse our names?”
Both men are silent for a long, long time. I hold Desmond's hand as if it's a lifeline. My father looks at us, and my brother, if anything, seems sad.
It is sad. It is horrible. And the blood keeps spilling.
After what seems like an age, my father's jaw cracks open. “I don't want to see anyone else dead. No more good men, women, children.”
“That's a sentiment we share.”
Both men continue to eye each other grimly. Then my father, out of all people, reaches one hand out to shake. “This hand is stained. It's nothing something I can wash off.”
“So is mine.” Rysin clasps my father's hand, and I gape at the bizarre exchange. “You will be guests here. I can't promise that everyone will be happy, but I will make sure you are fed and watered, and rested for your journey back. And I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to make sure your daughter is safe.”
It's the most positive words I've ever heard someone say about the situation, and it seems to mollify my father enough to accept. No one can ever be truly happy about the situation, but this is far more than we could ever expect. I hug my father once again, and he holds me tight, almost as tight as Ezran's monster hug,
I still have a sneaking suspicion that both men will smile their toothy smiles at one another, then go find a quiet place and fight to the death. I know enough of my father's anger in that he's not about to let it go. But I'm permitted to leave with Desmond, and we run the gauntlet through the Hartson and Claymores, trailed by the Graves guards, all the way back to our quarters. I have to assure Danny and Morgan that I won't leave the suite, that I'll be fine for at least the night, and they should go and rest. A little more nudging from Desmond finally sends them packing.