Bearclaw Valley b

The child appeared shocked, to say the least. It made sense for her to be—perhaps he, too, would be shocked upon meeting the former husband of his grandmother, especially had he been unknown. At the same time, however, Kove could not fully understand the feeling, for he’d known both of his grandparents just as well as anyone should, just as she should. But he did not blame her parents for this lack of knowledge—how could he, when it was by his own doings that he was not in their lives? It was his fault and his fault alone, of course.

“Yes, she was my wife,” he said again, further certifying the claim. It’d been so long since he’d last claimed any sort of connection to her, so long since he’d last admitted he cared. Kove had, in his old age, learned more than the arrogance of his youth ever would have allowed, and said lessons had a way of coming forth, as of late.

Valette is my mom!

Ah, Desna. Of course the child would be hers, as she resembled the late Scarlett just as much as a young Desna. He smiled at the thought and then at her, admiring the pride that seemed to radiate from her being at the mention of her mother’s accomplishments. “She told me about Easthollow before, a long time ago,” he told her. “Valette, your mother. Though... Desna was the name that your grandmother and I gave her.” A name he knew she no longer answered to, but it was the name first attached to her soul all the same. But with it came the memories of the past, events that he wished he could change—events that seemed to repeat themselves, too, but now it was the newer generation living through it. “I am sorry that your father left you,” was his next comment, the sincerity not lost within his tone. “That was a terrible thing for him to do.”

Pot, meet kettle.

Kove glanced past her then in an attempt to recollect himself before letting out a breath he’d not known himself to be holding. “I suppose this all means that you’re my granddaughter,” were the next words to leave his mouth, though he struggled to believe them. This girl, the daughter of his daughter... how odd it was but how true it had to be. “Has your mother ever mentioned me? I would assume she hasn’t.” And whose fault was that? He knew, truly and fully, that it was he alone that held the blame.