Sunset Valley little bird, broken wing

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— his eyes are closed, but he hears every word. it pierces.
she does not understand—but one day she will. he does not punish her for this. he does not raise his voice. only draws her closer, tucking her smaller body tighter against his broad chest, sheltering her there.
he does not fault her for love. he is not so cruel. but blackfell knows what it costs.
those children carry his blood. he says, and there is venom in it—old and still seething. one day, that blood may rise in them. and you will be faced with the choice again.
he leans back, just enough to meet her eyes.
they are innocent, yes. but i cannot watch you die for them. if i must forbid you from fighting, i will. he murmurs against her pale fur, that stings so brightly against his darker. he hears the rebuttal on her tongue and silences it. i never said i will not fight for them. as much as he loathed the idea of it.
there is a great sigh of contempt as he moves to rise to a seated position, leering above his daughter. looking at her fondly, though the knit of his brow above those crimson eyes says more than he could possibly ever convey with words alone. he faces now the impossible route that every father must take: protecting his child. you are young yet. blackfell forces himself to laugh, because if he does not laugh, he might just combust from those negative emotions that well up in him now and eat at his very marrow. these battles... the father trails off. leaning to press a kiss to his daughter's forehead.
they are not yet yours to fight.