My second daughter asked me once, after one of my depressive spells and some sad conversation, why she was born. I Knew the spirit of the question, but I did not answer it, I answered the word, I answered the literal, took all the liberty I could to ignore what she was really asking. I told her I had sex with her mother, and that was why she was here. I had hoped she would've laughed at that, taken it as a joke, or at least something other than to continue on with the subject.

But even if she didn't continue, I had already answered the spirit of her word, had already broken my own illusion. It didn't matter if she laughed or moved on, none of it mattered now, she'd die all the same because of my own thoughts.

She did rephrase it though, made the spirit and word one; made it impossible for me to take any liberty in my next answer. She forced me to say what I had wished not to.

"Because I have use for you." was my truthful answer

It was the mane that bobbed about, it was the laughter and joy that filled the halls of our home. I wanted those things in my life, I wanted to know that this happy, little person existed because of me, as proof that I could create more than despair and terror, to know my wish and all my sacrifices weren't for nothing.

There was a dark aura between us for many days after that; but eventually she got over it, and resumed smiling and laughing full-heartedly, as my words, his words, continued to fester in my head. Memories resurfaced, things I'd forgotten, things that only used to nip at the back of my mind but were mostly ignored. Their bites became hard, no longer did her smile bring me joy, no longer did the laughs and wild mane bring me happiness. At the height of her joy I remembered the depths of my despair, in her throes of laughter I remembered being more used than her.

I did not care for my daughter; I cared for the happiness she'd once brought me, cared for her once virulent smiles and joys. Her status as my spawn was almost irrelevant; it only made it easier to make her happy and in turn satisfy my selfish pursuit. But that river of satisfaction was dammed now; her existence no longer did me good. All it did was remind me of the past, remind me of all I'd lost, my wife, my comrades, of that day on the shores of recreation. Whenever I looked at her I saw someone else; whenever I looked down upon her, I felt like someone else.

She had outlived her purpose, I got no more joy from her smile, it was only those flashes of some terrible memory, or a guttural feeling of regret mixed with no small amount of rage.

I put her to bed one last time, tucked her in like she was much younger than she was, and she fell asleep with an ignorant smile, as I remembered sleeping out in the cold.

I sedated her, and carried her from the room, the cathedral lit halls of Teppelin were silent, aside from my feet smacking on the cold floor not a single Beastman stirred. I carried my daughter for the last time, she was a young woman, this would be my last memory of her, smiling and in my arms.

To a crate with her, and to a canyon with that crate

She, the first, was the only one I ferried across the oceans, the first of my children I'd kill.

I never grieved for her, nor any after, all the tears that came, every depressive spell, where for reasons and events that occurred long before any of their births.

Looking at Nia now, with her little army and that red Gunman, it seems the Beastmen are no longer capable of taking out the trash.

"Nia."

"It has been a long time, my father."