The illness had crept in quietly at first. It was a shadow lurking in the corners, a slight tremor in our father's hands, the way he'd stop mid-sentence as though he'd lost his train of thought. Daemon and I grew used to his absences, his long business trips that kept him distant from our lives. But when he finally came home, it wasn't with the strong, commanding presence we had grown up under. He was smaller somehow, frailer, a thin shell of the man we knew.
Daemon seemed to sense the weight of it before I did. I remember catching glimpses of him in our father's study, pouring over medical papers and bills, his brow furrowed as though he could somehow solve everything by sheer will alone. He didn't look at me during those times, didn't explain anything. And I didn't ask.
The day our father's health truly faltered felt like an intrusion into a life I'd tried to avoid. Daemon had found me reading in the library, his face expressionless as always, but his words clipped. "You should come. He's asking for you."
He led me down the hall, his stride quick and purposeful, and for the first time, I felt a strange kind of gravity around him. As if he were both my guide and my wall, the thing shielding me from reality and the one forcing me to face it.
The room was dim, and our father lay in bed, the light filtering softly over his features. His once-strong face was thinner, his eyes dull, but there was still a spark there—a distant memory of the man he had been. Daemon took his place by the bed, his posture straight, as if he were standing at attention.
I lingered near the foot of the bed, unsure, the words stuck in my throat. I wanted to say something comforting, to give him some indication that I was there for him, but I felt like an outsider looking in, a ghost haunting a room I barely belonged in.
Our father's gaze shifted from Daemon to me, and his eyes softened, if only for a moment. "Take care of her, Daemon," he whispered, his voice barely audible but weighted with finality.
Daemon's jaw tightened, his eyes focused solely on our father. He didn't speak at first, and I could see the reluctance flicker in his expression, as if he were processing an obligation he hadn't asked for. Then, in a voice as low as a breath, he responded, "I will."
Something in me stirred at those words—an odd mixture of comfort and fear. I didn't know if I wanted Daemon to take care of me, didn't know if I wanted to become another part of his obligations. Yet the reality of our father's passing settled into the room, casting a shadow that felt colder than any silence I'd ever known.
The days after the funeral were a blur of condolences, empty gestures from people who didn't know us. Daemon took on every responsibility, his expression unreadable as he navigated the legal proceedings, the finances, the endless sympathy from strangers.
I, on the other hand, was at a loss. The house felt hollow, like it was swallowing me whole. It had always been a cold place, but now, without the faint presence of our father, it was unbearable. And then there was the matter of our mother.
She hadn't come. I'd expected her absence to be noticeable, a void that would be as painful as our father's passing, but it was like she'd never existed at all. Her departure had left a scar that didn't even hurt anymore; it was simply there, a reminder that I was used to loss. That absence was a part of my life.
I walked into the study one afternoon, half expecting to find Daemon there, buried in his endless work. Instead, I found a quiet emptiness, the faint smell of my father's cologne lingering in the air. The leather chair sat untouched, the curtains drawn. I took a step inside, my fingers brushing over the desk, feeling the chill of the polished wood.
I found myself wondering, Had I ever truly belonged here?
I felt his presence before I saw him. Daemon stood in the doorway, his gaze sharp, assessing. He said nothing, simply watched as I drifted through the room, my hand tracing along the edge of the desk.
"He wouldn't want you in here," he said finally, his voice cold and direct.
I turned to face him, my heart tightening at the harshness of his words. "I just wanted to feel close to him," I replied, my voice barely a whisper. But even as I spoke, I could feel the words falling flat, swallowed by the silence between us.
Daemon's face softened for just a moment, but it was gone before I could catch it. "Sentiment doesn't change anything," he said, his tone resolute. "He's gone."
His words hit me with a finality that left me breathless. I looked away, feeling the sting of tears that I refused to let fall.
Daemon turned, his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving me alone in the room once more.
In the weeks that followed, Daemon and I barely spoke. He busied himself with the estate, the responsibilities that had fallen solely on his shoulders. I wandered through the house like a ghost, caught between grief and a sense of detachment I couldn't shake.
One evening, I found Daemon in the sitting room, staring at the fireplace, the light casting shadows across his face. He looked tired, a weariness settling into the lines of his expression that I'd never seen before. For a moment, I saw beyond the icy mask he always wore. I saw the man who had carried the weight of our family, who had borne burdens he hadn't asked for.
"Daemon," I said softly, stepping into the room.
He glanced at me, his eyes guarded. "What is it?"
I hesitated, unsure of what I wanted to say. "I just… I wanted to say thank you. For everything you've done."
He didn't respond immediately, his gaze flickering back to the fire. "It's what he would have wanted," he said quietly. His tone held a hint of something I couldn't quite name—resentment, perhaps, or resignation. A shadow of the promise he had made.
As I looked at him, I realized how much he had sacrificed, how much he had shouldered without complaint. And in that moment, I felt a pang of guilt, a sense of inadequacy that I didn't know how to express.
"Daemon, I don't want to be a burden to you," I whispered.
He turned, his gaze sharp, almost angry. "A burden?" he repeated, his voice edged with frustration. "You think this is about you being a burden?"
The intensity in his words took me by surprise, and I shrank back slightly. "I just… I don't want you to feel like you have to take care of me."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his composure cracking for just a moment. "It's not about what I want, Nina. It's about what's necessary."
The words stung, but I couldn't find it in me to argue. He had built his life around duty, around responsibility. I was just another obligation, another part of the legacy our father had left him.
"Daemon," I said softly, a sense of desperation creeping into my voice, "I don't want to be something you're forced to care for. I want to be more than just a responsibility to you."
His gaze softened for a brief, fleeting second, and I thought I saw something there—an unspoken sentiment, a crack in the wall he had built around himself. But just as quickly, his expression hardened once more.
"You don't understand, Nina," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't have a choice."
And with those words, he turned away, leaving me standing alone in the dim light, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a stone.
In that moment, I knew that the promise he had made to our father was a chain that bound him just as surely as it bound me. And no matter how much I wanted to break free, no matter how much I wanted to be more than just a burden to him, that chain was something neither of us could escape.