Chapter Text
My father is unlike any man I have ever known.
Rather, he is the only man I have ever known. Most of my other “male” companions are the sheep and goats we raise.
His speech is eloquent, his voice deep and rich, and he loves to read. I sit on the rug beneath him, resting my head against his thigh as he rocks slowly in his chair.
Our little shack is overflowing with books. There are always chores to do, yet my father– who towers taller than some of the trees– completes them with ease.
I help, of course, but there are days I sleep in and wake to find everything already done. Fresh eggs cooked for breakfast. The barn swept. The animals fed. All accomplished silently, as if by magic.
“Why do you have so many scars, Father?”
He pauses. The rocking chair goes still.
I trace the ridges of scarred skin that show even through the worn pants straining to fit him. He is a giant of a person. I remember when I was small enough to curl into the crook of his neck like a baby chick.
“Why am I so smooth?” I ask, running my fingers along my cheek for comparison. “Why don’t I have pretty patterns like yours on my face?”
He inhales, not sharply, but slowly, as though remembering how to breathe.
“My father made me this way.”
He said it softly, as if the words themselves had weight. As if speaking them pulled something heavy up from deep within him. His voice was always low, resonant, almost musical when he read aloud, but this tone was different. Hollowed.
I lifted my head from his thigh. “Your father? Did he have scars too?”
A small smile touched his lips, one that never reached his eyes. “No, little one. He was… a learned man. Brilliant. But his brilliance was sharp. Like a knife. It cut more than it healed.”
I didn’t understand, not really. I only knew what I could see: the way his broad shoulders tightened when he spoke of this man, as though remembering a long-ago cold.
“So he gave you the scars? On your hands? Your face?”
I touched the back of his giant knuckles — the ones that could crush a stone, but had never once harmed me.
He took my hand gently between two of his fingers, careful as though I were spun glass. “He gave me life,” he murmured. “The scars came after.”
His eyes drifted to the window, to the grey mountain beyond our valley. The rocking chair creaked beneath our weight, but he was no longer really here with me- he was someplace else, someplace far and bitter and old.
I crawled into his lap, settling against the broad plane of his chest. He always relaxed when I did that. The tension loosened, his breath deepened. His arms came around me like a shelter.
“You’re perfect as you are,” he whispered into my hair. “Smooth skin, kind heart. You were made the right way.”
I giggled. “Made? Like bread?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Perhaps. Though you rose much sweeter.”
“But you’re still my father,” I said firmly, something fierce blooming in my chest. “Even if your father didn’t make you nice.”
He went still again- but this time differently. As if my words were something fragile he didn’t know how to hold.
“I thank the stars each day,” he said slowly, “that you do not see me as the world once did.”
I frowned. “Why would the world think anything bad about you?”
He did not answer. Instead, he folded me closer, as though the question itself could bruise him.
Outside, the goats bleated. The trees rustled. Life carried on.
Inside, my father held me as though I were the only warmth he had ever known.
...
I think I am beginning to understand what my father meant.
We heard howling. It was loud, sharp, and close- during our walk to gather fresh berries. Before I could even gasp, Father scooped me up and lifted me high into the branches of a sturdy pine, settling me where no creature on the ground could reach.
“Stay here. Be quiet. I will return soon.”
He pressed a kiss to my forehead and sprang toward the noise.
Wrapped in his heavy, patchwork coat of wolf furs, he looked mighty as he disappeared into the trees. But I was left alone and trembling.
The howls turned to squeals. Then to whimpers. Then to nothing.
Gunshots cracked through the valley; birds shrieked as they burst from the canopy. The sun bled into the horizon, and still, Father did not return.
I did not move — he told me not to — but the sky grew dark and my fear grew sharp, and at some point I soiled myself, too afraid even to shift my weight.
“Where are you, Father?” I whispered into my hands.
I leaned my head against the trunk. I tried to stay awake, afraid that if I fell asleep I would tumble to the forest floor. But exhaustion crept in, warm and heavy, and stole me before I could fight it.
When I woke, I was in our little shack. Clean. Redressed in my nightgown. A blanket tucked around me.
And the stench of blood hung in the room so thick I thought I would retch.
I pushed myself upright. Father sat hunched before the fireplace, a pot suspended over the flames. He stirred whatever simmered inside as though nothing were amiss.
Tears slid down my cheeks before I even knew I was crying.
“Where did you go?” I asked, voice cracking.
He didn’t turn.
But I wanted him to hold me. I wanted to bury my face against his chest the way I always did. I stumbled from the bed and reached for him, but he shifted away too quickly, avoiding my touch entirely.
“I do not wish for you to see me in this state, little one,” he murmured.
“Why? What happened to you?”
He stirred the pot once, twice. The fire popped.
“Do you remember the gifts I bring home?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” I sniffed. “You said people give us clothes, and grains, and herbs.”
“They do. Because I protect their homes.”
I didn’t understand. I stared at his broad back, at the way his shoulders seemed to fold inward, as though he could not bear the weight of his own presence.
“Sometimes,” he continued, “the people do not realize I am their protector. They see me as one of the beasts that harm their livestock… or as a thief in the night. They defend themselves as any frightened creature would.”
That was when I realized: the blood was not from the stew.
It was from him.
His words hung heavy in the dark little room, thicker than the scent of blood simmering on his skin.
“They hurt you?” I whispered again, smaller this time.
He paused his stirring. Just once. Just long enough for me to know he was choosing his answer with great care.
“There are… wounds,” he said slowly, “that look worse than they are.”
That wasn’t an answer.
And we both knew it.
I stepped closer, timidly. “Father, let me see.”
“No.” The word was gentle but absolute, like a stone dropping into a well. His shoulders tightened, massive beneath the patchwork coat he still wore. “My little one, you should sleep. Your heart has endured enough fear for one day.”
“But you said you would come back. You promised.” My voice warbled. “And you did… just not the same.”
He drew in a long, shaky breath.
“I am always here,” he said, and finally turned only half toward me — enough for the firelight to catch the edge of his face, the torn seams, the dried blood caked in the creases of his greatcoat.
“But you were shot,” I said. “I heard it. I heard—”
My voice broke.
“And yet,” he murmured, “I stand before you still.”
I stared. Something twisted inside my chest. Confusion. Fear. Relief. All tangled.
“But people die when they’re shot,” I said. “People die when… when beasts claw them.”
His gaze flicked toward mine, only for a second. In that second, I thought I saw something bottomless. Ancient. Not quite sorrow, not quite guilt — something worse.
“Yes,” he answered softly. “People do.”
My breath caught. “But… you’re—”
“I am your father,” he said quickly, too quickly. “That is all that matters.”
He looked away again, shoulders hunched like a mountain folding into itself.
The fire popped.
I swallowed. “Are you lying to me?”
His hands stilled on the spoon.
He did not turn.
“I am protecting you,” he said.
Something in his voice cracked on that last word.
I took another small step toward him. “From what?”
He finally faced me fully.
And though the fire was dim and flickering, I saw it plainly — the gashes knitting closed, the bullet holes shrinking like dew evaporating.
My breath hitched.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Only a trembling exhale.
“My child,” he whispered, “some truths are too heavy for small hands.”
I felt tears heat my eyes again. “But I want to carry them with you.”
His expression broke, truly broke, like old stone weathering into dust.
He knelt, painfully slow, until his giant frame was eye level with mine.
“You would not fear me?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.
I touched his cheek. “You’re my father.”
He swallowed hard.
“And what I am… that does not change your love?”
I shook my head.
And for the first time since we returned from the forest, he allowed himself to pull me into his arms.
His chest was warm now. Too warm. Like a forge cooling after violence. But his embrace was gentle. Desperate. As though he feared I might slip away if he held any looser.
He lulled me to sleep, and later I awoke to the fresh smell of fried eggs once again.