Even with the thought of taking each step Fiontann felt his feet ready to give in and collapse, but he pushed on, he could not let himself fall just outside the Barracks of The Black Steel. Luckily for him the yard of his house is connected to the yard of the Barracks, so it did not take him long, but he felt it long. That feeling of emptiness that filled him kept pushing him back, weighing on every step that he took. More than a few times he stumbled, especially at the spot that the ground turned down, entering his yard, the lake next to it seem inviting and he leaned towards it but something stopped him. The fact that he couldn't bring her face to his mind stopped him and he kept dragging himself to his house. He closed the door behind him, reached the chair next to the fireplace and sat there, in the cold, but he couldn't feel it. He was numb.
Numb with the feeling of emptiness, weighing his heart that was pounding as if ready to rip his chest out and fall on the floor, with the feeling of emptiness in his mind, feeling his forehead ache by it, his head heavy. Again he tried to recall her face but he couldn't. The numbness blocked everything, he sank his head in his palms and wept quietly, feeling the tears run from his eyes to his hand and then on the floor. The weeping helped a little, and through the tears he saw her face, his daughter's face. A daughter that wasn't his but was. A daughter that he found, a daughter that he trained, that loved and helped grow up, protecting her. But he could not protect her from that and that thought made him weep again, he failed to protect her and she died.
He did not know how long had passed, him sitting on the chair, head in hands, recalling. Recalling the first meeting with the orphan girl whose parents perished. The girl that he hired so as to give her shelter at the Barracks and have as a cook. The girl that he slowly trained, the girl in which he saw his younger self. The girl that he later adopted and planned to give everything to, as his successor. The girl that almost died, sending him to death with a serious injury. He wept again, remembering the pain that he felt when she was in pain, remembering that he spend nights and days by her bed, leaving only when the doctor was there. Remembering his happiness when he got to her feet. She grew up, she got married, he never accepted Orsonn officially, but he admired the man and he was happy that he made Lieta happy. And he wept again.
Numb as he was he got up and covered the four or five steps, it mattered not, that distanced himself and his desk, from the last drawer he pulled out the adoption papers from the day he adopted her officially, by the signature of the Mayor of Bree and his and her acceptance. And he wept again, sinking his head in his left hand, keeping the papers in his right hand so that he could see them.
He failed to protect her, he never told her that he loved her and that he was proud of her before she died. He didn't get to see her when she died. No parent should bury his child. But Fiontann couldn't even bury her as her bodies was miles away. He felt useless for that, he failed to keep her alive. He should have died instead, succumbing to his wounds, but he did not. She did. And not by the enemy, but by the hand of a friend. And that made it even harder for him. And he wept again.
Behind his closed eyes he could see that girl in the rags that approached him that day in the Pony. Behind closed eyes he could see the cook of the company, going everywhere with a rolling pin in hand. Behind closed yes he saw that rolling pin become a sword and axe and that girl carrying them everywhere proudly. Behind closed eyes he saw her trainig with him, he saw her explore the world. He saw her feel proud, feel that she belonged somewhere. He saw her fall in love and lead a company to battle. But he failed to see her died. And he wept once more.
He shook his hair away from his face and blink two or three times to clear the blur of the tears away. He put the pappers down and took the quill on the desk with his right hand, it was brand new. He dipped it in the ink next to it. He brought the end of the quill to his left wrist and pressed it until he bled, as the blood came out he kept the quill there, letting the ink soak and take the blood's place in his hand. He repeated it many times. In the end the ink formed April 25. The date that was on the adoption papers. He dropped the ink and wept himself to sleep.