Mother had been crying, again. She always cried when his father left them for work and he was always working. Kolyat stood in the doorway as he watched his mother looking out of her window, staring up into the cloudy, starless sky, tears flowing like the rain outside of the dome.
"Mama," he said quietly, half afraid that she would fuss at him for being up so late. Irikah wiped away her tears before turning to face him, a soft smile playing on her lips. She opened her arms wide, beckoning him and he ran into them readily.
He threw his arms around her neck, hugging her with all his might. "Daddy's gone again?" he asked, but he already knew.
"Yes…daddy's gone," she said, gathering him into her lap. He quickly got comfortable, resting his head against her chest and listening to her heartbeat. He rubbed his eyes, trying to ward off sleep. He wanted to stay up with her, for as long as she was going to be awake. He didn't want her to cry anymore.
She rubbed his back, gently rocking him back and forth. "Don't worry," he could hear the sadness in her voice. "He'll be back soon."
But he hadn't been back. Not soon enough.
"Say a prayer for your father, Kolyat," his aunt said as he held her hand tightly. It was a time to celebrate the bonds of family, but he had so very few left. The days were filled with food and dance as their distant relatives came from a far to pay their respects. Kolyat liked that part. It was one of the few times he got to play with children close to his age outside of school. It was the ceremonies at night that he didn't like.
After the sun had set, the visitors gathered to say a prayer for the family that could not be there because their souls had left their bodies or because they were off-world. Irikah had always made sure the boy said a prayer for his father, but now he had to pray for her, too. Shiore could barely come to grips with that harsh reality, it was a wonder how Kolyat was dealing with it. He did not often talk about it.
"No…" Kolyat said quietly, so that only Shiore could hear him. His hands balled into tight little fist at his sides. "I hate him, Auntie…"
His aunt bent down, so that they were nearly eye-to-eye. "You shouldn't say that, Kolyat," she said softly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Losing his mother at such a young age was hard. He was hurt and confused, so she tried to be understanding. She usually didn't try to force him to do things he didn't want to, but this was different, this was tradition. Where his father was, he probably needed his prayers.
"Why?" he sniffled, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand.
"Your father loves you very much. I'm sure it would hurt him to hear you say that."
"If he loves me so much, then why isn't he here?" He shrugged her arm from his shoulders. He pushed his way through the assembled crowd, elbowing his way towards the house. He ran inside, letting the door slam shut behind him. Shiore apologized to their guest, who for their part nodded in understanding, and followed him inside.
Kolyat was where she'd found him at least a dozen times before; lying face down across his bed, his head buried under a pillow. He'd left the door standing open, an invitation to for her to enter, but she still knocked before coming in. As she lowered herself onto the foot of the bed, she knew he could feel it sink with her weight but he didn't turn to look at her.
"Why isn't he here?" his sobs muffled by his pillow.
"You're father's working," she said as she slid closer, placing a hand on his back. He allowed it, no longer flinching at her touch. "He has to work to make sure he can send money for you every month."
"But it's not fair! He should be here! Jaile's father was here, and he works some in the city!" He shouted. Slowly she lifted the cushion from his head, and saw that it was wet with tears. Yes, his playmate Jaile's father worked some distance away, but it was not the same as being off-world nor was it the same kind of work, but this was hardly the time to argue that point.
She pulled him into an embrace and he resisted, pushing weakly against her. She cradled him to her chest, and he relaxed. She folded the hem of a billowy sleeve and dabbed at his eyes.
"Someday you'll understand why things are this way." She kissed him on the crown of his head, right before his crest of ridges. "It'll all make sense then, I promise."
No matter how long he stayed there, his aunt's house never felt like home. It wasn't because of aunt. She was kind, she treated him well, and he never lacked for anything. The house was just too quiet. It was hard to believe that Shiore and his mother had been sisters. Their personalities were like night and day. While his mother's house had been full of vibrant color, music and life, her sister's had a quieter demeanor. There was still music but it was somber; there was color, but they were more demurred, less vibrant. She seemed to embody everything he'd heard a mature, older sister role was supposed to be. Even after five years, he still woke up in the middle of the night, unable to be truly comfortable within the strange walls, haunting the corridors of the empty house.
He missed his mother, and recalled her memory often. Her smiling face would fill his dreams, yet she was almost always accompanied by his father. His presence soured the experience, and snapped him awake. He'd always found it harder to go back to sleep after that.
People always told him that he should be proud of his father; he did good work, but no one would tell him what. When he questioned his aunt, she always told him all would be revealed in time. So he remained ignorant and in the dark.
He found himself outside of his aunt's study. The door opened just a crack and he could see her inside, her back to the door. Her hands were neatly folded on top of her desk, speaking to someone he couldn't see, "He needs to see you, Thane."
She was on a call, though there was no hologram from the caller. Either they had the camera off, or their communicator was too cheap to send images at long range. She sounded upset.
"Sister," started a familiar, gravelly tone. "You know that I can't have him with me. What kind of life would that be for him?"
That voice. Kolyat knew that voice.
Mama is crying again, he sobs wake Kolyat from sleep as follows his father past his room, to the front door.
"Don't go this time," she whispers, clutching at his back. He hesitates for a moment, his shoulders still as she presses against him. "Ignore this job, just this one."
He doesn't look at her as he gently removes her hands from his shoulders. He is voice is low, tired.
"Irikah, you know I can't do."
Most of his memories of the man were like that. To hear him now, he wasn't sure how he felt. Should he be happy that he was still alive? Angry that he'd left him here? Hurt because he refused to see him?
Shiore pressed her fingertips to her temples with an exasperated sigh. "Do you want to talk to him?"
There was a pause and Kolyat froze. If she called for him to talk to his father, what would he say? What could he say? His throat went dry with anxiety. It was something he wanted and dreaded all at once.
"No," the voice on the phone said finally. "I've already been on this channel longer than I should have." It sounded like a lie. A strange mixture of relief and anger washed over him. Talking to his father at this point would be the same as talking to a stranger, yet that he didn't want to talk to him cut him to the quick.
"I don't know when I'll have a chance to call again. So place, give him my love?" The words seemed to carry no weight, when he wouldn't even bother to say it to him directly. "May Arashu watch over you both."
"Amonkira be with you," Shiore replied, her voice sounding as tired as the caller. With an audible click, she close the comm-link.
"Kolyat, I have something for you."
When Shiore called him to her bedside, Kolyat knew she didn't have long for this world. Her face was gaunt and ravaged by illness, her scales no longer lustrous, surrounded by an army of machines meant to keep aid her in the most basic of functions; breathing. It hurt him to see her this way, but he wouldn't leave her alone in her time of need. She'd been there for him, and he knew what it was to be alone. Kolyat entered her room, wary of coming too close, afraid that he might make her condition worse, though the nurse on hand had tried to assure him otherwise. She was sitting up today, looking as pleasant as usual; a small metal box lay across her lap.
"How are you feeling today, Auntie?" He hadn't called her Auntie for some years, but somehow seeing her like this, he wanted to do anything he could to comfort her, no matter how small an act.
"Oh, no better, no worse," she smiled. He took his usual seat next to her bed as she hefted the box. Wooden bracelets clacked together loudly on her arms, much thinner than Kolyat had ever seen them. "Your father left that for you. He wanted me to give this to you when you were old enough, but I'm not sure I'll be around for that."
"Auntie, don't say that." He didn't want to think of what it would be like to have to live without her. She was all he had left. She hushed him, and gestured for him to take the box.
He took a deep breath before removing the lid. He stared silently into the box unsure of what he was seeing; it was filled with OSDs and old holos with names and locations written on them. The most notable of which was a human child with the word Mouse written on the back. Kolyat felt a lump of dread forming in his gut. What the hell did this mean? Was his father some kind of voyeur? A pedophile? He rifled through the contents until his fingers brushed against something cold, metallic. He wrapped his fingers around it, slowly pulling it free of the clutter. A gun. He looked at his aunt, baffled.
"Your father was in service to the hanar as an assassin."
"Assassin," Kolyat repeated, the word sounded heavy, menacing, not at all like the man he'd known.
"When he met your mother, she'd made such an impression on him that he asked the hanar released him from the compact so that they could wed. They did, and later they had you." A familiar soft smile crept across her lips, a shade of her former self.
"They had trouble making ends meet, and so your father went back to the trade. Your mother didn't approve, but he had no other skills. It was all they taught him." She coughed, covering her mouth with a shaking hand, the other wrapped around her middle as she doubled over in pain. She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears. "It was all he knew. Don't hate your father, Kolyat."
Kolyat watched numbly staring down at the gun in his hand as one of nurses rushed to her aid, while the other ushered him out of the room. Nothing in this box answered the questions he'd grown up asking. In fact, they'd only created more.
If he ever wanted answers, Kolyat knew he had to find his father and ask him in directly. He would have to leave this place and everything he ever knew on the slim chance that there was some trace of him. It would be a long path his aunt had set him on, but he hoped it would be worth it.