Neriah
He crossed the small space and sat down beside me on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. Never in my memory had my father sat on my bed. He always stood, towering over me, maintaining the physical manifestation of his authority.
"Your mother's condition has worsened, Neriah," he said solemnly, staring at his hands. "And the healers are not so positive again."
A cold dread washed over me. My mother has been ill for nearly two years now, with brief periods of improvement followed by devastating relapses. But my father had always maintained she would recover, that it was just a matter of time.
"But can you do me a favour?" he asked his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
I was shocked. My father had never asked me for a favour. He commanded, and I did his bidding. That was the way it had always been. The balance of power between us was s fixed as stars in the sky.
I nodded wordlessly, afraid to speak lest my voice betray my confusion.
