His vision was not what it used to be. He could see a figure exiting his home, he could see the distinct colors of burgundy, white, and black, but they all blended together and smeared along the backdrop of the estate. It could be no other than his eldest, for she was the only one he could count on to practice her duties as his spawn while the rest shed social and familial decorum as cobras peeling away dead layers.

As Nethis glided closer, her form become clearer. There was the fine shape of her face, the sly blue eyes, the red lip color she’d always favored. Dionysios did not expect such a fluttering in his throat when she finally became acute. Three years sounded so long when uttered or thought, but in truth, they were even longer when one was regulated to a singular property. He would not say that he missed her, but having been gone from familiarity so long, something resembling nostalgia briefly grabbed hold of him.

“Welcome home, Father.”

He leaned upon his staff and his eyes scanned her, his mouth entirely flat. Nethis seemed no worse nor better than when he’d left, and a small well of disappointment interrupted what should have otherwise been a satisfying survey.

He could lie to others well enough, but to himself he could not hide. He liked it best when people were bereft of his presence, for when others relied upon him, they were easier to control. Within the disappointment that Nethis did not look worse was a tiny sense of pride and a chastisement for himself—of course she had been fine without him. All of them would be when he was dead and gone, Nethis chief among them. He had ordained it upon her birth and so it became true; such was the will of Dionysios.

“You look well,” she said.

“Hm,” he gave her a curt nod, acknowledging his acceptance and his agreement. Truthfully, he looked ghastly. Old, decrepit, hunched, and faded, three of which were merely symptoms of outliving everyone else.

“I am pleased to be home.” He inclined his head toward the house and bid her walk abreast as they spoke. He did not hug her or otherwise touch her in any affectionate or familiar fashion. It was not suitable for a royal to display such things in the open, for it was a symbolic show of vulnerability: here is who I value, here is how you can harm me. It was not his way to display such things in privacy either, for such benefactions of warmth lost their potency when exhibited freely. He additionally did not comment upon her own health—hearty and hale though she was—for he saved his compliments and approvals for such time as they would suited him.

A servant unloaded his luggage from the carriage. He only brought three trunks, for he’d left garment and necessity plenty in his estate chambers when he’d left three years before. He glanced at Ea over his shoulder and flicked his eyes to the carriage. With a bowed head, Ea curtsied and turned to instruct the servant on where and how Dionysios’ trunks should be placed.

Another carriage would be along shortly with the rest of the belongings he’d accumulated during his sickness. More than once, he’d wondered if it was one of his children that had brought him so low, and it would not surprise him if it were. Unlike Dionysios, they had grown up with both parents until he’d rid them of Ulla’s lumbering presence. They did not know what it meant to have nobody and nothing to care for them, and so it was no bother to simply dispose of one who did. It was something to investigate, but tertiary to most things. He was close to the end, what point was there in wasting precious time upon such trivial matters?

His luggage attended to, Dionysios turned his attention back to his daughter and advanced into his home. “Though it seems as if you are the only one who takes pleasure in my arrival. Tell me, did the others leave before or after the rising sun?”

As they made their way inside, Dionysios—even stooped and slowed—made assurances that his feet passed the entrance threshold before Nethis’. His plain black himation swept around his feet as a symptom of his minuscule increase in speed. It was a small detail, and it was not something that people took notice of, but he’d learned long ago that any tiny movement to assert dominance built into a larger perception for those around him. He may be old, but he was not dead, and until somebody could best him, he was once more the master of his realm.

Truthfully, he relished the thought of someone trying to take his position from him while he was still alive enough to defend it. He’d long ago identified his eldest as quite possibly the only person who could do so. All others were either too lazy or too stupid, and usually a combination of the two.

As they moved further into the house, Dionysios took inventory of his surroundings as they passed. It was pristine and beautiful in its utilitarian style, his house colors accenting the decor in a tasteful and subtle way. Nothing looked changed, and the silence of the house was both obvious and troublesome.

“The dining room will be sufficient,” he said by way of direction. Slowly, he reached out as they walked, grasping Nethis’ elegant hand and tucking it in his elbow. It was a small gesture, but so rare was a touch from him that it spoke volumes. “You must tell me what you’ve been doing all this time, Nethis. The house has been remarkably kept.”

He turned his head slowly and his eyes bounced between her own. A small, barely-there smile carved through his lips. It was wizened and kindly. Polite, even. “Why, it almost appears to be frozen in time, as if nothing has changed since the day I left. One might even call it petrified.”

“Nonsense. We’re all pleased you are home. Only, Dysius is in Megaris, as he belongs. Evras is with her husband and son.”

Dionysios could see through the placations, and not because he had to try. It was easy enough for Dysius to leave. Surely the boy wasn’t actually seeing to any matters. Dysius, like Dionysios’ father, was a weak man. Although his eldest boy didn’t lose himself in opium dens, his penchant for ineptitude was just as gross a sin. Oh, Dysius tried to do exceptionally, but his efforts were mediocre at best. The only reason his attempts were mild and not utter failures was because Nethis assisted him.

Dionysios would need to find Dysius a wife soon. A hyper-competent one. The amount of noblewomen in Colchis was severely lacking, but it could not be an Athenian or Taengean bride; they were too conditioned to obey. Better to find a woman who would handle things as Nethis might and ensure her loyalty to the Thanasi name. A minor noble would not be seen as a particularly advantageous choice where dowries and and alliances were concerned. However, the Thanasi did not lack wealth and networks. What they lacked were heirs, and preferably from the wombs of women who did more than twitter and sing.

A bride with a keen mind would be worth far more to the Thanasi than a bride with an impressive dowry. At least a marriage between Zanon and Evras had been secured years ago. Evras’ absence was far more permissible, as she seemed to be the only one actually accomplishing anything. Nethis was merely manufacturing excuses for her siblings' wish to keep well away from Dionysios. It was no matter for the time being. He would summon the rest of them later.

“If you excused Thea and Mihail, then surely there is a reason. Dysius, however, has no excuse," Dionysios said.

He and Nethis made their way inside the estate, walking abreast in the corridor toward the dining area. He made sure to tuck her hand to his arm, signifying without so many words that he would not be going anywhere soon, and neither would she. He noticed the polished silence of the house immediately, of course, and its immaculate state. Almost as if he'd never left. He, of course, inquired after such obvious paralysis and asked after Nethis' activities.

“Maintaining the household. Helping Dysius. Minding Senate business.” She flashed the briefest of smirks. “Entertaining myself.”

She was doing all that she should be doing, all that he expected of her. And yet...where were the results? Maintaining, indeed. No advancement, no profit, only business as usual. This was not what he envisioned of the future, and it certainly wasn't the result he desired see upon his return. However, he was not so boorish that he would speak plainly on the matter. Dionysios wanted to know what, exactly, her actions entailed. And why, exactly, she had not risen to the occasion of his absence. He expected better of her.

Words could so easily be twisted and repurposed. Lies easy to tell, shrouds easy to wear. What could not be hidden so well were the layers that covered the truth. To get past them, they needed to first surface, and then be sliced away. Mirth, hope, faith—they all dissolved like acid. And underneath all of that vapidity was where the true power lay, where the fuel of human action rested. Fear, anger, and despondency.

He would find them presently. “Why, it almost appears to be frozen in time, as if nothing has changed since the day I left. One might even call it petrified.”

“Petrified? So you are disappointed, then.” Nethis' voice was measured, smooth, betraying nothing.

He’d learned long ago that silence was the best instructor. If one was quiet enough for long enough, others simply vomit their minds just to fill the quiet void. And so, he did not respond. He simply allowed her to empty her head like a nauseous stomach.

“Would you have preferred the house in disarray rather than stable? Or for me to be less capable of a responsibility left to me eighteen years ago when mother died?”

Stable. What an awful term. Stability. Mediocrity. Insignificance. At least in failure, one could do so spectacularly. At least in risking disarray, chaos, and failure, should the gambit prove fruitful, the results were above par. That exceptionalism was the ideal that drove him as a young man. He’d tried to act and believe in the way he was told he should, but in goodness, when adhering to the majority rule, he was nothing but another young man with a few extra responsibilities.

He got nowhere with stability. Only another day of the same thing. Sometimes even another day of scorn, or failure, or derision. It was only when he did things the way others wished him not to that he became more, that his successes were uncounted, that his was a name that would not be forgotten, but feared. That is why he’d raised his children as he did. He did not wish for them to learn what he learned the hard way.

And yet it seemed that decades of his nurturing were for not, for here was his daughter and heir spitting spite like a petulant child. She should not be surprised at his underwhelm, for she was the one who had done nothing particularly impressive. If anything, she should be chagrined with her efforts—or lack-thereof—and perhaps she was. Perhaps that is why she turned her ire outward rather than conceptualize that her surprising lack of advancement belonged to her. Only the weak became defensive.

“Shall I apologize for both? Either?” She used such a pleasant tone, yet Dionysios had known her far too long to be fooled into thinking the content of her tone was the weight of her meaning. “You need only say the word, of course.”

Anger. At herself, if he had to guess, for her adequacy. Perhaps she was chagrined, then. Perhaps she was reminding herself of all she'd done as a way of soothing her wounded pride without realizing as much. Then again, perhaps she was reminding him of all the responsibilities she had been given in her life as a way of forcing him to see that she was doing just fine.

Truthfully, what she had or hadn't accomplished in the past was of no concern to the present, and so reminding him of it was a null argument. In any case, it seemed that she valued her past actions as if they might answer for the here and now. They didn't.

For a heartbeat, three, he said nothing, only continued down the corridor to the dining area. When he did speak, though, his own tone was as calm and quiet as a babbling brook. “Such contempt.”

He turned his chin ever so slightly to her, mapping her face with his eyes. There was a spark of something in the familiarity of her features. Affection. perhaps. He remembered when she was just a slip of a child, how difficult it had been to keep his temper when she tested him. She’d been insolent to him, haughty, even. But by staying a disciplining hand, he’d encouraged such behavior and audacity. Her pride, even as a child, had gladdened him and made her the treasure of his house. And yet now, such pride was making her far too easy to read. That would not do.

“You should apologize for neither, and nothing. Regret is a symptom of guilt, and that is the last thing a Thanasi should feel.” He took a deep breath, releasing it on a dry sigh, “As is disappointment.”

The corridor opened into the dining chamber and Dionysios led his daughter to the long, polished table. He let go of her long enough to pull out a chair, the cushion a fine black and gold design. Ulla may have been a Kotas, but she’d been a tasteful decorator at least, if that was indeed the same chair she’d purchased years before.

After Nethis was positioned sufficiently, Dionysios rounded the table and took his own seat across from her, lowering himself with a soft grunt before placing his staff upon the table with a sharp clatter. “I am not disappointed with you, Nethis, and have never been.” A lie. “Concerned is a more apt term. I am concerned that everything seems to be in order, and nothing more. That is, of course, unless there is something beneath the appearance of a stagnated house?”

As he spoke, he grabbed his staff upon the table and began loosening the small hole at the base of the lacquered laurel. The junction between wood and cotton separated and he let the small disk clap to the table.

“It is because you have been handling such responsibilities for two decades that I expected...more. My absence has given you plenty of opportunity to do as you wished. You have been controlling my steward, as you have noted, to conduct senate business that should be mine. You have had access to all my trade and investments. You have been able to rule my house like a queen, and yet I see no results of your reign. This is quite unsettling. Have the duties of managing a household and entertaining yourself distracted you from progressing?”

His brittle fingers pinched and reached into the small, hollow hole of his staff and after a moment of struggling with the contents inside the chamber, he was finally able to grab hold of it and pull it gently from its hiding place.

“It does, however, seem that you wish for me to apologize for my concern. I won’t, of course, as it is well-earned. You should, however, ponder upon your disdain—the why of it. Why should you feel such things against a father who always and only wanted you to thrive? When you find your answer, daughter, you will surely be better able to mask it. As I have told you time and again, speak too often, and you appear common. Speak too often, and people will be able to read you and thus control you regardless of your insistence to the contrary. Now—”

He spread a small roll of thin parchment before him. The letters upon it were not Greek, but Aramaic. “You will provide me with a concise list of what you have done, what you have not done, and what you intended to do but have yet to accomplish. You will have such a list upon my desk come morning, and with it, records of every deed both fulfilled and attempted.”

And should she withhold anything, he would know. He had, after all, spies in the house who brought him copies of her documents—Dysius’ as well, though his were decidedly less substantive. Dionysios had been well enough for the past one and a half years to conduct all of his business from his bed, but he did not. Instead, he allowed his children to do it. He simply watched, critiquing and lauding them in silent turns with each motion and decision reported to him.

The soft clack of sandals upon the hard floor was enough of a warning that the entrance of Ea and the slave boy was of no surprise. The boy was balancing a hefty trunk in his arms and upon Ea's silent direction, he swiftly deposited it upon the table and beside Dionysios. Without a word, the two slaves departed.

“Onto more present matters.” He slid his parchment across the table to Nethis. “I have come into possession of certain assets. It is my wish to bequeath them onto either you or Dysius. The natural choice would be you, but it isn’t unlikely that Dysius could prove his competence before I die. I will see which of you is more deserving of them in the coming months.”

He nodded to the parchment, “This receipt requires an algorithm to decode, which you will have delivered to your room before evening tomorrow. The shipment on record will be arriving within the month, and you will see all deliverables merged—discreetly—into our new textile venture. Manage this without issue, and you will have a new task. Complete that one with satisfactory results, and you will have a third. If you should prove able to handle these matters, then they shall be yours. And, of course, discretion will require privacy and freedom of movement, both of which I will award in the form of a province should you be gifted the assets.”

He reached up and unpinned the heavy buckle upon the trunk, pushing the top up and open. Dionysios rose just enough to reach into the depths of the wooden compartment, grabbing hold of its most precious cargo. It was a large square of thick linen, round about the edges and pliable to the touch. He laid it in front of Nethis and unfolded the linen, revealing two large bolts of rich material.

“A gift from the orient.” Dionysios slid the first fold of silk from atop the second. One was a deep scarlet, the other obsidian black. Never had such fine silk crossed the Greecian border, for it was of the purest quality—not a single thread of cotton or linen interrupted its integrity. Dionysios allowed his eldest a few moments of silence to gather her thoughts before he lifted an eyebrow. “Such fine adornments shall surely assist in attracting a satisfactory betrothal. After all, it is clear your duties are already formidable in number, and to add to them might overwhelm you. It would be much easier to conduct senate business and assist your family if you had someone to manage your household and provide sufficient entertainment."

He would not care if she married or not under usual circumstances, but his daughter's ineligibility had gradually become a heartier thorn in his side as time wore on. With marriage came bindings, and the Thanasi would do well to bring outside parties to heel—as many as possible. He had four unmarried children—four opportunities to collect further resources to nourish the great serpent.