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Fenika


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FENIKA

 

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The wedding had been nothing exceptional, at least not as far as any objectivity could be concerned. Nevertheless, to him, it had been monumental, a moment that he would only ever experience once. Sure, he would walk Vasilia down the aisle, perhaps Yasmina and Josefina too, and maybe even Barbara. But the feeling of walking someone down the aisle for the first time, that would stick with Franz forever.

 

They exchanged a few hushed whispers outside the Cathedral, an anecdote from when Lorena had been pregnant with Fenika, how she had gotten that name; Fenika Lichte. It was a story that was simple, and not even that interesting. Nevertheless, where he had put countless hours of thought into the names of all his other children, Fenika Lichte had come to him in a moment, instantly. It had been a snowy night, and in the morning him and Lorena had been playing with snow. That’s what the name derived from, Fenika Lichte, for it was merely the Naumariav translation of Snow White, it symbolised that pure white snow which he and Lorena had played with that day, one of the last days the two were happy.

 

Franz proceeded home after the wedding. He had no interest in participating in the festivities after, as he had stated to Maric, “There are things to ponder,” and so he retreated to a hill outside of the city, overlooking the vast swathes of forest that surrounded Karosgrad, with a distant lake in the background.

 

As much as Franz loved Fenika as any father would love their daughter, there was always one thing that he had despised. It was how much she reminded him of Lorena. They were both adventurous and free spirits in their essence, and both loyal and selfless to their core. It always soured his mood every time he noticed the similarities, to have Fenika be so much like a woman that she had never met, and likely never would meet, for he knew that the two would have gotten along swimmingly, a proper mother and daughter. But instead it had only been him and her, father and daughter.

 

He did not consider him the best father, nor he did consider himself a good father at all. After all, who would he have learned anything about being a father from? Sigismund had killed himself almost a year before he was born, and so he had grown up raised only by governesses and tutors. He had older brothers, sure, but they were either ruling, drinking, or mutes, surely no one he could have learned much about fatherhood from.

 

Though, despite all that, Fenika had been thoroughly inspired by her father. She had become a Page and then a Squire, hoping to become a Dame in the Order of the Crow, just as he were a Knight of it. And she had also run for Duma, becoming one of the youngest to sit on it as Alderwoman Barbanov. He was filled with immense pride, that she had looked up to him and admired him enough to emulate him and followed in his footsteps. Though, perhaps he also lamented it, that he had not been able to teach her properly to follow her own path and her own fate, a lesson that he had hardly taught himself.

 

Though, he thought it best to live a life without regret, and steadily he pushed himself from his seat. He was to retire soon, and there was still much life in him yet. He had not failed as a father, he assured himself that, for there was still time left in the world. He quickly began to Greyspine, for he did not intend on allowing Fenika to slip through his fingers.

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Fenika Lichte was throwing things, somewhat haphazardly, into her trunk later that evening. Packing away her childhood into a few boxes, as one does, after marriage. Once the job was finished, she looked about her old room, examining each displayed portrait and niche in the wall in hopes to commit it to memory. Perhaps Otto would even get a proper bedroom now that her's was emptied...

 

Then, just as the girl went to close her cupboard she spied a book lying in the back corner. Taking it into both hands and blowing the dust off the colour revealed the all-too-familiar title of Princess Leralina, the fairytale penned by her father for her sixth birthday. It had been her firm favourite for years. Fenika squinted at such a title, thumbing through the worn pages of the story. A little sigh escaped her as she recalled the countless nights Franz had read its contents to her, at her firm request, and decided to slip it under her arm - to keep for her own children, perhaps. 

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