For a long time, Varo said nothing.
The old knight simply stood beneath the high, vaulted stones, his one good eye and his one clouded locked upon the young man he had carried through fire. He had watched Merelao sprout from a terrified orphan into a warrior; had washed the road-dirt from his small hands; had shielded him from the poisoned daggers and midnight riders dispatched by his own blood.
Merelao met that gaze, and despite all his arrogance, felt his throat tighten.
"My Lord," Varo spoke at last, his voice thick and low, vibrating with the weight of two decades. "I have walked behind you since you could scarcely reach my sword-belt. I dedicated every breath of my life to see you grow strong, but above all, to see you draw breath. Everything your lord father should have shared with you, I gave in his stead. I taught your hands the grip of the hilt and your knees the feel of the saddle. When I look upon you now, I feel the fierce pride a father was denied."
