I find that usually, when you talk to people about where they're going in life, and what their plans are, you end up with one of three results. Either they're exactly on the money, to a depressing extent, have that entire plan derailed within a month, or have it turn out in the worst way possible.
I rolled over, stretching out in my bunk. I tried not to think about how my own life was shaping up. My hands and hooves pushed against the edges of the cutout into the oak, and my father had refused to either get it carved out or let me carve it wider for the past year now. 'And I should have done it a year earlier', I could hear him insist, 'Home is where a bunty stays, not a woman'.
I couldn't help but gag imagining it. I sat up, taking a deep breath of relief that it looked like I at least wasn't going to grow tall enough to scratch the top of my bunk with my horns yet.
It's not like I didn't appeal to the clansmen, but it's hard to sort out the chaff from the wheat when your dad is the council head. I could probably pick whoever I wanted, but I'd yet to find one that wasn't letting admiration of my father seep into his feelings for me.
Given, it'd also been a year since I really looked, but that was neither here nor there.
I shrugged on a veil and longskirt, knowing in advance my father would quietly judge the latter. *Technically* it was a garment for mothers or wedded Satyrs, but he'd be hard-pressed to call himself my father if he objected to me covering myself better. Stepping through the curtain into the main room, I couldn't help but pasue.
My father's long, twisted horns could be argued to fit a bovid better than a Satyr, but he wouldn't shave them down until they were grinding against rocks in the dirt of his grave. Most people found it intimidating, or a little unkempt, like a bushy beard that would only have the sides braided. I'd never really seen it, having grown up with his large, stocky figure protecting me from everything with a pulse. He was a scary wall most of the time, but I knew better than to worry about it. He wore angry dispassion like a comfortable chainmail; His skin was only so thick if you knew where to strike.
Judging by the tears streaming down his face, it seemed like he'd been struck.
"Dad, are you--"
He put up a hand. He needed a moment, still. My father needed a moment. I saw his eyes go over my longskirt, and his head droop. He put his hand to his face, not even finding the strength to let his head fall to the table with force. He took a deep breath, clearing his throat.
"Sit."
I did so across from him. I met his gaze, concern for my father overtaking my face as the stark redness of a long cry had run them ragged. Still, I didn't speak. He would tell me what was wrong when he was ready. If he was ready. I got the impression he was crying because he wasn't.
He looked down. Away from me.
"Do you know why I let you keep that longskirt?"
I shook my head. In truth, this was the first time he'd ever commented on it aside from asking about it the first time I wore it.
"Sometimes, when I look at you in it, I feel like your mother's still around."
I put my hand forward, trying to console him. It wasn't like him to wax poetic like this. He pulled his hand back, putting his head in his hands again before taking another deep breath.
"What do you know of the human kingdom?"
"They're... a little stupid, I guess. And horndogs, but that's most species."
"Do you know they blame us for the wendigos?"
My concerned frown took on a look of incredulity.
"What?! Why in the hells would we want a bunch of--"
He raised his hand again. I bit my tongue.
"I don't know. They come from the mountain forests, we come from the mountain forests. I suppose that's enough for them. They've done a piss job of explaining it themselves."
His hand came down, balling into a fist.
"But however bad, they believe it. Enough to blame us for it. To blame us enough we've had to... make some trades. As a show of faith."
I didn't like him sounding ominous. This whole exchange wasn't like him. He took my hand in his. His large, overbearing fist enveloped my hand completely. He looked me eye-to-eye again, unable to stop more tears from forming at the corners of his eyes.
"You know that I love you, my daughter, right?"
"Of course, Father."
"I need you to marry a man for me."
Was that what this was about? All these tears over *that*? I couldn't help a relieved laugh sneaking into my voice.
"Father, are you serious? I-I didn't know it meant this much to you. I'll find one if it truly bugs you so, but I had no idea--"
"A human man."
My heart sank. That would... I might need to think about that. There was certainly more variety than the clansmen, but in some ways that only exacerbated the problem. I looked up. He was crying again.
"...it's not just any man, is it?"
She shook his head. I could tell he was trying not to let his tears sneak into his voice.
"There's a prince who fancies himself Satyrs. Ones with powerful fathers."
My heart fell to the floor, doing a sickening flop over itself. The color drained from my face. My father's grip tightened around my hand, turning into a vice grip.
"I've tried to find some other way, you must believe me. I've tried so many others."
"Dad,"
"They-- They just don't listen! I've sent men to die before even considering this, men who those humans only considered token."
"Dad, I--!"
"You must believe me, love, that I've not been able to find any other way! If there was any, anything else I could've done it wouldn't have been--"
"You're hurting me!"
His hand flipped open, letting the blood flow back into my arm. He opened and closed his hand, watching it move for a moment before his head collided with the table with all the force of a feather. I shook my hand, shaking off the pins and needles. It didn't stop shaking.
Neither of us spoke for an eternity.
I was the one to break the silence.
"I guess it's a good thing I wore my longskirt, the--"
My dad's head shot up, his eyes mad with fury as a bright green glow coalesced around his forehead. He stood up and reeled back, giving me only a moment to cringe away myself.
I coughed at the smoke from the explosion, staring down at the shattered halves of our table. My father stood there, panting, letting the sweat drip from the char mark on his brow. I couldn't think of many times I'd really seen him butt out of anger, but whatever the list looked like, this had topped it. He fell to his knees, his heaves turning to sobs as he mourned the loss of his daughter. I knealt down in front of him, going to put my hand on his shoulder before he cringed away.
"I'm afraid to hurt you again, love."
"Hurt me as much as you need to."
He took my statement literally as I was pulled into a bone-popping squeeze, grunting from my father's hug knocking the wind out of me. If I hadn't been his daughter, it probably would've actually hurt me. Slowly, painfully, my hands went around to his back, trying to reciprocate the hug. He tightened in response, pushing the last vestiges of breath from my lungs as he spoke to me in a whisper.
"You'll make a great princess, love."
I couldn't decide if that made my heart sink further or not.
I've heard there used to be a lot of stories about one human getting punched into a fantasy world. This one's sort of the opposite, save for a caveat; the rest of my world came with me, and nobody really wanted to go back.
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