Something inside you tightened your throat as your father led you through the vast garden of your estate. Even as a small child you had run through this garden, chasing birds and stroking cats.

Sometimes your mother had allowed you to bring the cats into the kitchen of the house. She had quickly regretted this decision because after a few days dozens of cats had come to the kitchen begging for milk.

The staff had adopted many of the animals at the time. Since her death, however, you hadn't had the same desire to do things.

Her laughter had been missing as a reaction, her slightly angry expression when she gritted her teeth to keep from yelling at you. She never got loud. She had always left that to your father.

But in the end, she had been a good mother and had known how to raise children. Or at least you. You never had any siblings, although she had allowed the other ladies who worked in the house to bring their children to play with you in the garden.

At this time of year it was still bright outside for a bit but not as warm as in summer. The leaves were already beginning to turn yellow and brown. Lavender was still in full bloom.

The slightly sweet smell made you tired, calmed all your senses and made you think of better times for a moment. Times when all three of you still had picnics together.

Reveling in his own memories of her, your father lifted his hand and caressed the thick blossoms of roses hanging from a trellis. This plant was older than you were. The petals crumbled to the touch, tormented by the approaching fall.

Thorns poked through the greenery, clawing into wood and forming a dome. There wasn't much you remembered, but those roses were one of the many things your mother had loved almost as dearly as your father and you.

On particularly sunny days in the summer she would tell the servants to put a table under the green dome and you would eat there, breakfast with homemade bread, lunch with roast meat and apple pie in the evening.

Despite her good lineage, she had been very down-to-earth. Perhaps even so much so that she didn't fit into this house. Which made her all the more suited to your father.

With a strained groan, Hoskel sat down on a bench he had made for her after her death. Not far from you, crystal-clear water rippled in a fountain. Your gaze wandered to your father.

He had grown old, more in his heart than on the outside. His hair had become thin, the top of his head completely bald. The strands of his beard became grayer with each passing year. Soon it wouldn't be long before it was white.

"How are you?", at that moment you realized how long it had been since you had last asked him this question.

He grunted tiredly and closed his eyes. A light breeze danced through your (H/C) hair.

"Do you know how much you look like your mother?", he asked suddenly, still completely nostalgic.

The question sent an arrow through your heart. On the one hand, it filled you with pride. On the other hand, you knew that it caused him great pain. You were all that was left of her. And yet he still mourned her.

Sometimes there was only one person in life for someone. She had been his and he would never be truly happy again until the end of his days. He had made his peace with that.

Your lips opened to ask a question, but closed again just as quickly. There was no point in asking him. In the end, you knew the answer anyway.

Inhaling deeply, you lifted your nose to the wind and listened to the distant voices outside the gates. People lived in this area. They laughed and cried.

For far too long, this house had been more graveyard than home. Every day had been mourned.

"It's about time.", your father sighed again and a stone pressed on your heart. "You are such a clever boy. Your mother's son."

"I'm your child too.", you contradicted.

Still, there wasn't much you could say against his words. He was right. You were the spitting image of her, the same hair, the same eyes. Even the expression you gave him now, defiant and yet worried, was hers.

How often had you looked at yourself in the mirror and thought that you looked like her?

And yet not quite. In the end, you were a man too, a son of another son. Your father had given you enough, even if you couldn't see it. But you felt it every time you sat on a chair next to him in the shadows.

A dark foreboding crept over you.

"It's getting late.", you said, lost in thought. "Let's talk tomorrow."

He shook his head.

"We can't put this conversation off forever.", he insisted, scratching his beard.

Your heart tightened.

"You want to leave."

It wasn't a question. You both knew the answer. Humming wearily, he nodded.

"Eventually.", he returned and watched as one of the last bees of the year stole some nectar from the rose. "But before I go, I'll give you something else."

You frowned.

"Medarda gave you ideas.", you joked. "We don't have to argue. I'm patient."

He grunted.

"And I've been part of this council for far too long without participating.", he rose with a ponderous snort, his eyes shining with pride and a smile on his bearded face. "You do so much for this house. This family. I'm old and I don't want to be foolish. This chair should be yours. I'm just keeping it warm."

You had to laugh quietly.

"We'll never win a vote. Medarda has something against me."

"Heimerdinger feels threatened by your drive.", he agreed. "But you have secured the house of Talis. That in turn earns you Cassandra's approval."

"What about Bolbok?"

He gestured with his hand.

"Useless pile of metal."

"Shoola and Salo?"

"Salo has a weakness for you."

You hesitated.

"I... we..."

He exhaled deeply.

"I'm your father.", he shrugged. "I know."

Suddenly you felt light. Of course you had an inkling that he might know, but you never said it out loud.

"And even if they agree...?"

"They don't have to.", Hoskel straightened his vest. "I can simply install you as my authorized representative. And once I'm no more the seat will go to you regardless."