[m] [p] little bird, don't stifle your song

Marcel Moineau · 09-15-2012, 07:06 PM

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The timid little thing was really trembling, and though they were far from the cooking fires he doubted that it was wholly because of the cold of early autumn nights. He wanted to tsk softly and call her out on it, but instead he allowed himself a moment of reflection, gazing upon her face, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. Once upon a time she had worshipped him like the others—and why wouldn’t she? He was her daddy, and he fed her where once meals had been hard to come by, if he understood the wilderness right. She’d been compliant and sweet, everything a little girl should be, but he knew now that things were changing. They saw each other differently, though he could not fathom who had begun the transformation. She was growing into a young woman, while he was fully aware of that fact, and Marcel almost thought she feared him.

Pah, he guessed she should. He was like a god, and you feared gods as terribly as you loved them. So long as the two went hand-in-hand, he wouldn’t mind a touch of fear; it made him feel all the more powerful, an omnipotent presence that loomed over his raiders and his blood. No, the day she did not fear him was the day that he lost all control over her, and then he’d have to hurt her, and that always made him terribly sad. He tried to be kind to her, he really did, but he had a heavy hand; that was how he raised his sons and his daughter was no exception, though perhaps he was quicker to comfort her and kiss wherever his hand or teeth fell.

Sparrow confirmed that she wanted to say, and his smile broadened. “Just as well,” he said as he settled down on the floor before her. The bloodbeat of the party outside sent a burning longing through him, but he had to ignore it. There would be other celebrations, made for any excuse possible even if it was just to celebrate particularly pleasant weather; and sometimes the alcohol and drugs and instruments were broken out without any pretense of reason. He listened for a moment, hearing here a cacophony of barking and snarling, there a howl that shivered with something much different than anger.

Marcel frowned momentarily, his ember eyes falling onto his daughter’s yellow ones. “You do know that I love you,” he half-stated half-questioned, brows lifting. “I love you very much, Sparrow, and all I want is for you to be warm and fed and happy. You’d be much happier outside with the others, I think, but if you don’t want to bother with those morons, just as well.” His words slurred as he repeated them, reaching back to scratch behind one of his own ears for a moment. He let a silence fall, his expression contemplative, though there was a dangerous current under the smooth surface.

The man stretched lazily, his long limbs falling sloppily where they may. He shot her a drowsy smile, though it flashed with the strength of any of his grins. “You are okay here, right? Much better than where I found you. You were skin and bones then, my little bird.”

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