From what I had gathered, the bed was upstairs, and in his aged state it was reasonable to wager he’d be asleep. Although moonless, and candles out, I could see quite well. Maybe years spent in dark cellars or matching places had rendered me a brother to the night or the creatures therein. I was staring at a familiar parlor, though it felt a lifetime ago.

To my immediate right was the fanning display of sabers. Next to them, medals from the Far East, Pelat, and the massacres of Serabandantilith. To my left was a table in front of the very leather furnishings I’d once spilt milk on. My eyes passed closed doors to strain the exact shapes of stairs.

The distance between the front door and this stairwell was soon over taken. The muscles in my heart raced.

I had practiced on a particularly warped section of planks in the Pauper Morgue’s office. Placing the tip of my boot on the first step, I pressed my weight onto the wood until assured I could plant myself without a crack or noise. Slowly, with a concentrated dexterity unfound in large bodies, I continued this method until I came to a turn in the stairwell. An arm’s length more, a turn to the right, and I would be facing the final steps leading up to the bedroom.

Cough!

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

He had to be withered with age, battle wounds, and the heavy weight of the bottle. Moreover, I was no boy and had faced younger, more able men in the alleys of Nilghorde many times over. No matter how much one changes, I suppose, we’ll never forget some things, and I came to this realization as I began the first of the last steps. My whole life as a man, I hadn’t so much as considered him. Now I was in his home, knife in hand. I made the final climb.

He was asleep under the window. To my right, his dwindled fire still gave off enough light to expose how thoroughly his hair had grayed. The bedroom itself was a mess of chests and bottles. Preparing to wade through, I put away my knife and grabbed what I’d bought from the blacksmith. It was a special occasion, and, after all, I was a poet at heart. I pulled a farrier hammer out from underneath my cloak, then I stepped forward.

Without fail, a board moaned under my boot.

“In the doorway a figure in black, unknown to you, has come to claim you, old man. I have become strong. The menace is upon you. From the crumbling edges of life I have come for you. You taught me to never shut my eyes. You taught me discipline.”

When I struck, Father flapped and batted at thin air. Above his eyes, blood escaped, violent and free. His hand gripped wildly for a weapon that wasn’t there.