“But he ripped her drawings! On purpose!”
There is a hint of melody to the young Siren’s whining: but it is still whining. Astraeus sighs a little, shaking his head at his daughter.
“I understand that. But that doesn’t excuse you fighting him. Look what happened to you in return.”
Astraeus gestures towards her face where the bright red ring surrounding her eye seems to be getting darker, and looking more and more painful, by the minute. The child shifts guiltily on the stool she is sat on, fiddling with her plaited black hair, as she responds in an indignant whisper.
“He looks worse… I got both his eyes.”
Her father can’t help but chuckle. He brings a large white wing forward to cover his face briefly, as he composes himself before continuing:
“That may be! But would it not have been better for neither of you to have been hurt?”
The young Siren’s usually white, but currently mud-covered, feathers bristle. “No! Then he would have gotten away with it!” She glares at her father, obviously upset at what she perceives to be a moral failing on his part, before hurriedly looking away as tears of anger start to well up in her eyes.
“Little dove: anger is not a bad thing! It shows you when things are wrong. Drives you towards change. But you can’t let it control you.”
Astraeus lifts his daughter's chin up with a stained hand, forcing her to look him in the eyes as he continues.
“Learn to keep your anger tempered and you will find it is much easier to make things go the way you want, the way you need them to go, later on. There were other solutions to this problem than just hitting him. I promise.”
The small Siren’s gaze softens a little, the scent of her father’s perfumed hands calming her almost as much as his words.
“Why don’t you think about what those solutions might have been for a moment while I see if I can’t find something to clean you up? I think I might have a salve for that eye somewhere around here…”
[Written the morning after the Great Games Arena.]
How can they look at that man and cheer? How can they applaud him as he bends the rules of his own tournament to make himself look good and spit in the face of all the other nations that came to Mytros to compete in good faith?
It… it was like I was watching Estor. Just for a moment. He and Acastus may not look the same... but they have the same feeling about them. That is all I remember of Estor really: the way he made me feel. The cruelty that hid underneath his charm. The darkness that everyone either didn’t see… or just willfully ignored.
And I… when he brought his sword down on Hippofilius... I couldn’t help but think: is this what we are fighting for? For another Estor to pick up where the Titans leave off?
Something needed to be said. He couldn’t be left to stand without opposition in front of all those people… grandstanding, spouting lies, hurting people. That is how Estor was allowed to grow into the man he was.
But should I have been the one to say it? What damage have I done by speaking out? What damage would have been done if I hadn’t?
Oh, Gods. My father would have held his tongue, waited for a better time... and he would certainly have told me to hold mine. And the old Calliope… well, she would have… ugh… I don’t know! I mean, what did she - what did I - do about Estor?
...
Oh. What is done is done now I suppose. For better or worse.