A well furnished room sat quietly in the glow of the morning light, filtering through the tall open window dressed in charcoal coloured curtains. Dark bookshelves lined the walls, neatly arranged with leather bound books, and a few lavish vases, all of peculiar shapes and sizes.
Behind a desk was a high-backed chair titled slightly backward. In it, the yet to be captain Roswell slept with his head fallen to one side, chin tucked loosely towards his chest.
In front of him, dominating the desk like a precarious monument arose a mountain of paper work. Stacks upon stacks of files, folders and loose sheets towered upwards in uneven columns, threatening to spill right over him.
A low groan escaped him before his eyes even opened, a rough, reluctant sound dragging up from deep in his chest. Shifting, he raised himself upward as his eyes blinked against the faint sunlight, squinting at the towering stack looming inches from his face.
For a moment he stared at them in bleary disbelief, another soft sigh slipping out as reality quickly set in.
'Shit.'
He was supposed to have finished all this last night, and yet the daunting pile hadn't shrunk one bit.
'I'm an Awakened! I should be out sailing the seas... exploring new land or something!! Whose the genius that gave me the idea to run a sea faring company??!'
After a short pause, a disappointed sigh then escaped from his lips.
'Oh right.. that was me. Why the hell did I do that??'
He only pondered this question for a short moment, as his eyes quickly fell upon a small framed photo, barely clinging to the desk amidst the the sea of paper. In it, was Roswell himself as stern as ever, dressed in something far more fancy then he was in currently. Standing next to him though.. was a frighteningly beautiful women with long hazel-brown hair, that resembled honey and chestnut. It framed her face like a painting, complementing her striking green eyes that shimmered like a forest.
Sitting just in front of the two on a stool, was an almost identical copy of the first women, wearing an almost identical yellow dress. If it wasn't for her much younger and youthful appearance, one could've mistook her for her twin sister.
"..."
For just a moment, a hint of sorrow crept on his face, before he quickly slapped himself hard on the cheek.
'I should atleast go out today.'
**
He walked slowly down a narrow stone path, his footsteps muted against the cobbled ground, with the sight of his manor disappearing behind him. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of flowers over head, dappling his body in shifting patterns of green and gold. On either side, tall purple flowers swayed gently at his waist, brushing against his hands as he passed.
As he reached the end of the shaded path, the arch of the blossoms thinned behind him and the space ahead widened all at once. The narrow corridor gave way to a vast, sunlit garden stretching outward, in layered greens and bursts of color.
At the very center of that expanse, sat a solitary figure before a canvas, her brush lifted mid-stroke, it's tip blackened by paint. As Roswell drew closer towards the centre, the already recognisable figure become more and more pronounced.
It was the same girl that was sitting in the photo.
With a soft smile, he said warmly,
"Good morning, Clea."
Continuing to paint, she said without any delay.
"Father."
As per usual, her expression was unnaturally frozen and calm. When she spoke, her voice sounded empty, making Roswell feel almost hurt.
She wasn't hostile, but neither did she feel anything towards him either. It was such a simple thing really, but it hit him harder then a thousand words ever could.
His eyes then shifted away from his daughter, and onto the portrait that she was painting. It depicted a raging storm, swallowing a ship and dragging it down into it's very depths. It was a common occurrence, yet still a tragic sight in these seas.
To be able to navigate this world, one either had to be in possession of the storm gods blessing, or be a descendant of her blood. So to find yourself drowning in the same seas that she had created, was a sign that you had angered her very badly.
'She takes after her mother a little too much. Always painting grim things.'
The manor storeroom was filled to the brim with them.
Sighing, he spoke,
"I'm going to eat at Oakley's. Do you want anything?"
She responded, clear and blunt.
"No."
The simple reply made his heart feel almost heavy. He felt like he had been ostracized for something he hadn't even done, and yet, she hadn't directly accused him of anything either.
There was just a strange sense of guilt stalking him. One that he just couldn't shake away.
But even so, he tolerated it. She had every reason to be upset at the world right now, and all he could do was try to make it a little more comfortable for her. It was his job as a father to make it so.
But still.
'I wish she would atleast look at me.'
Just as he turned around to leave, he caught sight of something out of place. Any other person would've normally ignored or even not noticed, but that wasn't the case for his extraordinary Awakened eyes.
Sharply walking back, he noticed a few drops of paint splattered on the ground. But the manor of where they were and how they got there was truly odd.
Turning back around, he looked at Clea with suspicion, before looking back at the odd pattern.
A few drops of paint trailed away from where she sat, scattered along the stone like misplaced jewels. They were small but vivid spills of crimson, gold and brown, colours that bore no resemblance to whatever she was painting currently.
Even stranger though, the pattern of drops appeared to be a trail, steadily leading away from the girl as it shrank in size, until eventually halting at a thick, green bush.
He turned back and looked at his daughter with a hint of suspicion, but she still didn't even give him the time of day.
Not letting himself be swept away though, he shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice filled with anger as it echoed across the garden.
"Drewey! You better come out of there you rat!"
For a brief moment, nothing seemed to occur. But the second Roswell took a heavy step in the suspicious Bush's direction, it suddenly began to shake violently as if something inside was fighting its way free. Not long after, a familiar boy stumbled out, his messy blonde hair tangled with twigs and catching the sunlight in wild uneven strands.
"Wa-wait! Mr. Roswell!!!"
The instant he made himself known, Roswell leapt at the frail youth without any hesitation. Launching himself forward with a single leap, he collided with Drewey as he drove him down into the grass.
Holding him tight by the collar, he shouted.
"How many times did I tell you to keep your grubby hands away from my daughter!? I really mean it, I'm going to kill I say!! You're dead!!"
The boys panic was obvious, but forcing a very nervous smile, he joked,
"Good morning too, Sir!!"
"..."
There was only empty silence between the two for a short moment. Roswell's anger instead turned into confusion, but he maintained his tight grip around him anyway.
'Obviously I can't actually kill him, Clea is right there! How should I scare him away for good though.. I guess breaking a finger shouldn't be a problem?'
Immediately after he thought this though, the sound of laughter erupted behind him, making him freeze.
It sounded foreign at first, but the longer he heard it, the more familiar it became.
Looking back, he saw Clea still sat in her stool. However, the distant face she usually carried was gone, instead replaced by a light hearted smile that seemed to light up the world.
Just seeing it, made the anxiety he felt earlier melt away. The guilt subtly eating away at him, seemed to subside just a bit.
For the first time, she didn't look untouchable nor so far away. She looked simply happy, the laughter finally warming her as she broke free from her shell for a brief moment.
The large gap between the two seemed to shrink.
Or atleast that was what he thought at first.
Realising something else, Roswell looked down at the Bush where Drewey had hidden himself earlier. Buried inside, he caught sight of a canvas with a rather crude and incomplete painting, as well as several cans of paint that had accidentally been spilled all over it.
They were crimson, gold and brown alike.
'...'
It wasn't the gap between him and Clea that had closed. It was something else, between someone else. Someone that wasn't him.
Glaring at Drewey once more, he mumbled something quietly to himself before freeing the youth from his grip.
Nodding at him in understanding, Roswell simply left.