FOUR YEARS LATER

FUKASHI

In the late hours of a stormy afternoon, Cel voices her severe displeasure.

"I miss Daddy," is her complaint.

The apartment is battered by the storm, but it holds up well. Still, the walls are thin. When thunder booms, the tiled floor beneath their feet shudders and the paintings mounted to the sheetrock tremble. There are no family photographs. Too Risky. Cel’s still as gray-haired and red-eyed as the day she was born.

Fukashi, who was woken up three hours past midnight to rearrange the living room furniture at her insistence, heaves a great sigh. He indulges her far too often, but Malais is three months into a war with a neighboring territory, Arthur has not been home since it started, and their daughter's moodiness and strange impulses--like the spur-of-the-moment furniture rearrangement--have only gotten worse since he left.

As he absently pats the girl's head, rain batters the living room window. It doesn't always feel right, calling Cel his daughter, but she has snuck under his skin and twined her little fingers around his fiercely beating heart. His own speech patterns are woven into her voice. She emulates his gestures. It unnerves and astounds him to see any part of himself reflected in her. But in temperament and intelligence, she is Arthur in miniature. The similarities between them make him ache. She's not the only one who misses her father.

"He will return when the war ends," Fukashi explains as gently as he knows how. Even all these years later, he's still learning how to talk to her. She has never responded positively to being patronized.

"When's that?" She holds a book in her lap. It's an account of some ancient battle in Simikee, written in the Simikee language, which Arthur had begun teaching her last year. It's not the sort of book a four-year-old should be reading, much less understanding, but Cel is by no means normal. Fukashi’s half-convinced she was born literate. It’s baffling how quickly she learns.

Her brain is like a sponge, and Arthur has done nothing but pour information into it since the first day Fukashi brought her to him. They both take pride in her accomplishments, no matter how unusual for her age. At four, she is brighter than most adults.

"The war ends when it's won," he tells her, shifting so she falls more heavily against his side. She’s warm as a bonfire. Arthur has said over time she will learn to retain her heat, but it is no easy task for a young firecore. For now, she burns, and Fukashi must put up with it. It’s fine, really. He’s no stranger to a little sweat. He’s merely thankful her firecore keeps her from getting ill. She’s never sniffled from anything other than childhood theatrics--a scraped knee, a desire for food after bedtime, a misplaced trinket, etc.

She snaps her book shut with a sigh and drops it onto his lap. "Why's he taking so long to win?"

"It's not a board game, little one. The war is a fight between nations. No one person can win."

"Daddy can.” She picks at the fabric of his soft sleeping pants. They've been stuck inside so much, he rarely bothers to change out of them, but Cel can't be seen outside until they find a way to hide her hair and eyes. As she is now, any Malroix would take one look at her and know what she is.

Even so, the small apartment is stifling, and Cel has seen little else.

Fukashi puts her book on the end table. "Why don’t we go make dinner?”

Her head whips up. She glares at him and looks so much like her father that Fukashi has to hold back a laugh.

"You didn't answer my question,” she says.

He is frequently unnerved by her intelligence, but he's equally good at hiding it. He smooths the dip of her brows with a fingertip. "I cannot predict the outcome of a war, Celosia. It will end when it ends. No sooner."

Her nose crinkles.

Before he can tease her for it, the apartment’s main door flies open with a clatter.

Cel is on her feet and barrelling toward it before Fukashi can stop her.

“Daddy!” she shrieks. There is a faint sound of impact as she slams into his legs. By the time Fukashi reaches the door, Arthur has already swooped her into his arms and is peppering her face with kisses.

Butterflies flutter in Fukashi’s belly. Arthur’s in his officer-uniform, a formal purple ensemble accented with white buttons, ropes, and epaulettes. Neither color suits him.

“You’ve been promoted,” Fukashi says, with some surprise, used to seeing a garish yellow-gold where white now accents Arthur’s clothing, “to general?”

Arthur grins, his chin tucked over Cel’s shoulder, her arms wound around his neck. She’s clutching him so tightly that Fukashi’s surprised he can breathe.

“They gave me a title, too,” Arthur boasts.

Fukashi notices movement behind Arthur’s leg. He leans sideways to get a better look, and Arthur moves aside, allowing him to see the little girl hiding behind him.

Fukashi stiffens.

Staring at the floor, the child can’t be older than seven, with features that are undeniably Busuruli. A girl then. The Busuruli only recognize one gender. The girl has golden hair and warm brown skin and a distinctly hooked nose. It’s worrisome, for the war Malais has been fighting is against Busurul. It’s a bloody contest for their little portion of the Golden Isles. Malais wants to use their island for its navy, but the Busuruli have owned the territory for five hundred years and naturally want to keep it.

The girl must be a war prisoner. If her Busuruli coloring hadn’t given the truth of her origins away, her glaring injury would have. Halfway down her upper-arm is where the limb ends. What remains is wrapped in bandages. Fukashi has a horrible suspicion about the burned skin peeking from underneath them, but he holds his accusations close to his chest. He wants to believe Arthur wouldn’t deliberately harm a child.

Fukashi softly calls out to her, “Little one, please come inside. You should not stand in the hall.”

It was foolish to have kept the door open even this long. Anyone could walk by and see Cel’s gray hair and red eyes.