Eight creatures fight for the power to control Newearth.


9. Chapter Nine


 Con made his way back from the Farlows'. Bea Farlow made dresses and that's usually there everyone went. Bea sowed him a dark blue dress for Dalya. It was a bit more fancier than the usual pink dresses she wore but it was pretty much the same.


When Con had asked his eldest child what she wanted, he had hoped she'd say a bow or a dagger, but no, she'd said a dress. He knew he shouldn't have hoped. Dalya would always be a princess, even if she didn't deserve the title.

No! Don't think like that, Con. It doesn't matter that you and Tornei aren't married. 

Yes it does. said another little voice. They don't deseve the name Fyrehart. They should have no name. All three of them should have been left for some orphanage owner to find. There shouldn't even be three!

As Con made his way back to his home the battle continued in his head.

He entered his house and went in search for Dalya. He saw Cadmys outside by the lake and decided to ask if he knew were they where.

'She and Jenna went upstairs.'

So Con made his way to Dalya's room. He could hear crying and opened the door to let himself in. Once he'd seen his daughter crying, he put the dress on the table and quickly walked over and sat on Dalya's bed, pulling her into his arms. He used to do this with Tornei when they were children and she used to have nightmares about her parents dying. That's after he actually worked up to courage to even sit by her.

'What's up?' Con asked his daughter. He thought about getting Tornei in here and dealing with her- those two were always closer than what Con was to Dalya. He didn't know what made him decide to stay but whatever it did, he was thankful for it.

'Do you like me?' Dalya asked.

Con was confused. He didn't understand what Dalya meant. Of course he liked her. She was his daughter. His and Tornei's. Their first. She was conceived the first time they ever laid together. Of course he liked her. In fact, he thought her more than that. He loved her. 'Of course I like you, Dalya.'

Dalya looked up at him with her blue eyes shining because of her tears, so much like Tornei's. 'I mean because I'm not like Jenna.'

Then it hit him. This is about the present thing.

'I thought and thought about it. I've wanted to be like Jenna, but somehow that isn't me. Weapons and violence and anger, that isn't me. Dresses, and manners, and gentleness is me. I can't help it, Father. It's just the way I am.' The tears had gone now and in its place was the stubbornness that that was who she was.

Con could imagine Jenna saying something the same had he hoped that she wanted a dress instead of a bow. He smiled at that. Dalya had gotten Tornei's princess personality while Jenna had gotten her warrior one. But thought girls shared her stubbornness.

'I don't fault you for it, Dalya. There have been times were I've wished you turn around and say a sword instead of dresses but I've heard you're arguments with Jenna and you mostly win them because you have your power with words. Besides, you know how much Bea Farlow charges for her dresses so there's no way I was throwing it away had you turned around now and said you wanted a bow like Jenna.' Con saw as Dalya's eyes lit up.

'You got it?' she asked.

'Yes.' Con got off the bed and walked to the table where he'd put the dress down. He picked it up so he was holding it at the sleeves and showed it to Dalya. 

Once seeing it, Dalya got off the dress and touched the dress. 'It's beautiful.' she said.

Con smiled again. 'I'd hoped you like it.'

Dalya looked at him. 'I do,' she jumped up at him then to hug him, nearly knocking the dress out of his hands. 'Thank you, Father.'

Con didn't drop his smile. No, he didn't fault his daughter. He loved her the way she was. Maybe one day she might become less princess-ey like and become a warrior. Maybe she already was. Maybe she just hid it, kind of like Tornei did. But however his daught was, he didn't mind it for she was a wolf and even the nicest wolves can have a sharp bite when threatened.

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