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He brings it up casually, on one of the many occasions he invited you to have tea with him (he said it’s important to spend time with your children, that he is making up for the years he didn’t know about you). John Gaius says: "What do you think about being my cav? Wouldn't it be neat for you, my kid, my heir, to be my sword?" He looks at you and smiles kindly, the way you always imagined your mother smiling at you as you told her all about your life on the Ninth.
It is a sudden and unexpected question that makes you want to make stupid jokes. "One flesh, one end," your foolish mouth wants to say but you choke down on the words. You think about her and the time you swore yourself to her. You think of giving her your flesh, your end and your life. So, there is no need to mention the oath God wouldn’t care for anyway; not like you have anything else to give. Not like anything you have is not owed to him.
To be his cavalier, huh. You try not to think of his previous cav, no, you remind yourself, his current one. But if he is offering he must not want her anymore, right?
Your dad takes your silence as a refusal so he smiles in that awkward manner unbefitting for God, his now familiar attempts in pretending he is just a guy. He takes your hand and squeezes it gently. He says: "Of course I understand if you would rather not. I know how much Harrow means to you and how devoted you are to her. I do not mean to try to take her place in your heart."
Except he is, you think absently, God wants you to turn to him and to love him the most because he is a selfish man who has lost everyone who has ever loved him (his own fault, really, an incessant voice buzzes in your head). And what does he even know about the depth of your devotion to her?
Take her place.
God, your Resurrector, turned your body into a perfect construct, the final expression of the art of the Nine Houses; you are dead and you don't need to breathe nor can you cry. And the sole mention of her is enough to cause you to choke and your eyes to burn with tears they cannot shed.
"No! I would like that," you say and try to smile but the muscles in your face refuse to obey you. Your body is a construct that does not belong to you. "It would be neat," you reassure him and yourself, "to be your sword. An honour."
Your dad beams at you and holds his arms open. He is giving you a choice, he thinks, whether to accept his touch or not. But there is only one option for you. He will accept your rejection yet the sadness on his face will cause an all-devouring pit to open in your chest, a desperate need to apologise and take back your words. A need to please , to be good to your father, your God. And to avoid that feeling you are willing to accept his touch, to endure it, and to choke on the revulsion (he is your father and you love him as you know how to but he caused her pain and that you can't forgive. He was the one to say forgiveness does not exist, so maybe you can love and hate him all the same.)
And so you hug him (more like collapse into his arms and let him hold you for as long as he pleases; a pliant doll with limbs to arrange and position to his liking). It gets easier to bear with time. It's not like you don't want to be touched or hate being hugged. No, you hunger for it, crave it like a starved man craves food, dream of it like a man in a desert dreams of water. You want to be touched, even from Ianthe. It's just that there is a voice in your head that is more Gideon Nav, an indentured serf of the Ninth, than Kiriona Gaia, Her Divine Highness, the first of the Tower Princes. And that voice reminds you over and over of that night and all his lies revealed. You get better at silencing it the more time you spend with your God, your Resurrector, your father. You get better at fitting yourself into his arms. You wrap your hands around him tightly and rest your head on his shoulder.
"I would love to be your cavalier, if you'll have me," you repeat it just to hear yourself say it. You don't have to look to know he is smiling and a part of you, a treacherous, childish part of you is happy he is pleased.
"It would be my honour," he says softly, casually and all you can do is lean into him further. "I love you," he says and all you can do is wish you could cry.
Later, he pulls away and tells you of what you will have to accomplish to become his cavalier. Open the Tomb, awaken Her and kill Her. “With your blood, you will succeed. You and only you can do it,” he says, his hand still on yours.
“You won’t be God if She dies,” you blurt out without thinking and cringe at yourself. Your father just laughs softly.
“I have been God for over a myriad, I am ready to become a man once again. And I don’t mind becoming mortal for you. Not God, just your father,” your dad says. “And your necromancer, but that’s not as important,” he adds a second later.
You feel dizzy and lightheaded. This is what you want, isn’t it? To be accepted by your father? To be chosen by someone, anyone? Your father is offering all of that and all you have to do is kill Her. Not like you haven’t thought of it already. He says you can do it and you must believe him.
“I thought you loved her,” your foolish mouth says anyway and God sighs before you can take back your words.
“I loved her once, my Annabel Lee, but you are my daughter,” he says as if it explains anything. “It is time for me to step down from the divinity she gave me and only you can make it happen. Make it quick, but kill her.”
He gently cradles your face and smiles at you. “I love you, Kiriona,” he says and, in his infinite patience, does not begrudge you when you don’t say it back.