hine e hine (little girl, darling girl)

God was an awkward, ordinary, plain-faced man, of middling height and an academic build. He had earthy-brown skin, very much like yours, and a tangle of rich, dark, curls atop his head, immortalized in a permanent state of graying faintly at the temples. He wore no House emblems, his plain clothes betrayed no allegiances or status. If you had seen him, in any other context, and not previously known his face, you would not have been able to identify him as God. You likely would not have been able to pick him out from the crowd in the first place. But, he was God. That was undeniable. Perhaps it was the eyes that identified him so- voidlike and stark and cold, so extremely inhuman they could be naught but divine. You told yourself you might get used to their gaze. It hadn't happened yet.

Your Father had not left you alone for long, before he returned again. He never left you alone for long. At first, this was because of medical necessity- your new (old?) body was weak, and you could not do much before it began to tear at the seams, sometimes quite literally. He liked to be around, to aide you in these embarrassing accidents, to put you back together when you had all but torn yourself apart. He liked, you suspected, your company, as well. He was lonely. And maybe, though you would not admit it easily, you were too.

He meandered into the room easily, knowing instinctively where everything was, as it was his sitting room. He carried a cup of steaming tea- for himself, he had not yet figured (or was not willing to figure) a way to allow you to eat- and his tablet, held awkwardly under his arm. He sat down, and took a long sip of tea, and angled the cup politely towards you in some kind of salute.

"G'morning, kiddo," He greeted, "How are you feeling? Any better today?"

You shrugged. It was often like this. In the state you were in now, in the condition of your body and the environment you found yourself in, very little changed from day-to-day.

"It's alright." You said. Your voice was hoarse from disuse.

Though you were not looking at him, you could tell your Father was frowning. "Has Ianthe been getting to you again? I'll tell her to ease up on the teasing-"
"It's fine." You did not need your Father, or God, or whichever he chose to be at that moment, to involve himself on your behalf with the Saint of Awe. She was difficult enough already, when she wasn't accusing you of nepotism and, childishly, being a tattle-tale running to her Papa.
"Alright," he said, and silence fell upon you both.

It was difficult. It was very, very difficult, for you to settle into this strange new normal. Though you were back, you were not whole anymore, and you were, of course, hardly living. Would it have been selfish to ask God to once again commit that unholy, original sin of a complete resurrection, for the sole, humble soul of his only daughter? You did not know, but you weren't about to test your luck.

Luck that had already been used up quite a lot. You were the only daughter of God. The Ninth would weep if it knew. All those years of mistreatment, of abuse, only for it to be you. It might've been cathartic if it didn't hurt so much.

And yet, despite the constant, burning hollowness at the center of you, things carried on. And you found yourself, again, falling into some kind of routine, some measure of stability to bring even a little peace to your mind. You slept, you woke, you walked when you could. And you spoke with your father, often.
What was it, to now have a father? Some previous 'you' asked. You had so often thought of your absent mother, as a child. And while thoughts of your other parent had not escaped you, they had never been so forefront. Now, it was unavoidable. As present in your world as the light of Domenicus- a rather fitting analogy, you thought.

He was sad. At this moment, too obtuse of an observation to be worth anything. To say that he, as your Father, was sad, was to say that he, as God, was powerful. Perhaps that made it more worth noting. Your Father did not show his weaker emotion easily- especially with you. He would display anger, or joy, or righteous, justice-calling fury- but his grief was never so apparent, except in the puffiness below his eyes from too much crying, and the frailty in his voice from too much pain. You did not know the full extent of his woes- he, of course, never spoke of them- and perhaps you never would, but it was clear that, God or not, he did not go very long without dissolving into another fit of weeping.

He was caring. This, perhaps, was a surprise. Admittedly, your first impression of your Father had not been the greatest- but time and circumstance could heal all wounds, and proximity to your Father allowed your opinion of him to grow better. No matter his feelings on anyone else, he always treated you kindly. Took care of you, like you were his child. No. Because you were his child. There was a certain comfort in that, one you knew the absence of all too well. He was kind, and he so clearly cared for you. It was more than you could've ever asked for, but of course,

He was God. Who could imagine?! A lowly thrall of the Ninth, orphaned and alone since the first day of her life, secretly the daughter of the Emperor Undying. You, certainly, had never considered it. Of any possibility, that was the furthest from anything you could conceptualize. You would have sooner believed yourself the spawn of Mattias Nonius reborn than the Kindly Prince. But it was true- it was undeniably true in circumstance, it was undeniably true in genetics. You did not bear so much of a resemblance to him it would be immediately identifiable- from all accounts, you took far more after your mother, who you now avoided thinking of as much as possible. But when you looked at his face, and you looked at your own in a mirror, you could not deny it. You were his child- in your eyes, in the furrow of your brows, in the way you smiled lopsidedly, and when you really meant it, it creased the corners of your eyes, and gave you only one dimple. What you could not rationalize as easily, was that he was God. Your Father was God. You rationalized this only by splitting him in two in your mind. There was God, and there was your Father, and maybe they did not have to be the exact same person just yet. For now, you could think of them like they were different. You would get used to it eventually, you told yourself.

Silence passed between you both, so thick and stagnant, you forgot you were there. Your Father set his cup on the coffee table and said, "Kiriona? Are you alright? You can tell me if you aren't."

He only called you that (when he was not calling you 'kiddo' or 'bud' or other such diminutives). You did not know why. You did not know what it meant. But you would, maybe, someday.

"I do think it will get better over time," He said.

You did not answer for a moment.

And then, "I really am alright,"

And before you could stop yourself, before your mature rationality got in the way of your childish desire, “Do you love me?”

What frailty impacted you! Your voice was weak, cracking over the words, as if you might break into tears in a moment, if your tear ducts were even working. You had not yet had the circumstance to figure that out, yet. How childish, how truly, completely pathetic were you? He was God. He had not known of your existence for the majority- no, for the complete course of your life. You were not owed his affections. You looked away, averted your gaze from that sad, kind, familiar one, and braced yourself for the heavy impact of rejection.

It did not come. It, at least, did not come immediately. He was silent for a very long moment, and you could not bear to look at him to see what was certainly so plainly written on his face. Was he concerned? Confused? Pitying? None of it would be bearable. You were left in silence and agony alone, as punishment for your sin of daring to hope you were loved.

Silence passed, all was still, and he set his cup on the table. He carefully got up, and walked around the table, and sat carefully down next to you. You were taller than he, only by a little bit. He rested a hand gingerly on your shoulder, positioned carefully over the embroidered finery of your jacket, the jacket he had given you. He had given you everything, really. His hand was warm.

“Kiriona,” He said, and his voice was, in some way, softer than it had been before. “Of course, I love you. Of course I do.”

“But-” You protested weakly. Did he love you as God loved the world, or as a Father loved his Child? There was nothing in his voice to betray either way. You, very simply, did not know. Your voice cracked again, “But, you’re-”

He made a soft shushhh-ing sound, light breaths whispered through his teeth and lips. He held you close to his body. “None of that. You’re my daughter, Kiriona, and I love you. Of course, I love you. I want you to remember that.”

Was it all so easy? He had not known you- not in the nineteen-odd years of your life, never once did you meet him- and yet, he claimed to love you, and he claimed it so easily. You did not know much of daughterhood, or a parent’s love. You had, of course, never known your mother, and love on the Ninth was never reserved for you. Not that you had ever craved it from them- you had seen the way the Ninth showed its affection, and you did not long for its bony embrace. But still, some part of you longed for some kind of care. You had known something was absent, and you still craved it completely.

Was this it?

“I know,” your Father continued, “that you have faced some… difficulties during your upbringing. I am truly sorry for how you were treated, even if it isn’t my place to apologize for their actions. I wish it hadn’t been that way. I wish I could’ve helped you. I wish I could’ve known sooner.”

He placed a hand upon your russet curls- the color, you now knew, inherited from a mother who had planned to kill him, through you. Could that be forgiven? Could you still be loved?

“But you don’t have to worry anymore,” He said, “Because I’m here for you, now.”

You melted completely into his embrace.

Were you weeping now? Quite possibly, yes. Your eyes shut and your breath calmed and you wept- if not with real tears, with those imagined, for everything that could have been. You could have had everything. You could have had a father. You could have been loved. Was there enough time left? Could you ever repay what you had been given?

“Shhh… shhhhh…” Your Father murmured, not to silence you, but simply to comfort. He caressed your head and patted your back, and he began to sing to you. It was a song you did not recognize, with foreign syllables in an unfamiliar language, but it comforted you nonetheless. How could it not, when it was sung so affectionately, by your own father? You might stay here forever. You felt like a child again, but a child you had never had the privilege of being. You were safe.

“I love you, Kiriona,” He intoned, reassuringly.

And you loved him, too.