Chapter Text
Her daddy never comes back home . Pontifex is only five years old when she is given a pretty dress—stiffly starched, ruffled with cream lace, and so, so itchy—and it is the beginning of the end, the start of endless moments where her mother stands still and tall, her face an expressionless mask to everyone but Pontifex; and it is a dark oak box draped with a flag that she sees waved everywhere with patriotic flare. Music, loud and blaring, with trumpets, drums, bursting with percussive force.
It is a farce. The box is empty. Pontifex does not understand, she is only five.
Understanding comes later, much later. He is a photograph, captured in an accidental one moment still-frame. Forever twenty three, never to grow a single second older, officer’s cap askew upon hair the rich copper tone she had inherited. Immortalized with a crooked smile.