RAGNA POV...
I stood there as everything spiraled out of control, my father’s voice cracking through the air like a blade drawn too far back to be sheathed again, his words heavy with disbelief and fury as he demanded whether plotting and beating his own son was truly Gustav’s idea of revenge against our family.
And before Gustav could even finish shouting back, with more poisonous excuse could crawl out of his mouth, I saw Father’s hand rise and come down in a blur, the sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the room as Gustav’s body twisted helplessly, his left ear ringing so violently that the force sent him skidding several feet across the ground like a discarded rag.
Even then, I could tell it wasn’t enough for Father—not nearly enough—because his hands trembled with an urge so raw and savage it frightened me, like he truly wanted to slap Gustav until nothing remained but regret and silence, and if not for Mother’s sudden presence at his side, her gentle fingers closing around his arm, I don’t know how far he would have gone.
"It’s okay,"
She said softly, her voice calm but trembling underneath, telling him this was already enough, that anything more would only destroy what little remained, that at this point all they could do was try to guide him back to the right path, and somehow, impossibly, that quiet voice restrained a storm that brute force could not.
Father let out a long, broken sigh, shoulders sagging as though the weight of an entire lifetime had finally crushed down on him, and in that moment I realized something terrifying—this was the first time I had ever seen him this heartbroken, this close to shattering, yet even then he refused to cry, as if tears themselves would be an admission of failure he could not afford.
He shook his head slowly, bitterness lacing every word as he spoke again, saying he didn’t believe Gustav had learned anything at all, that this child was already beyond saving, that without reflection there would only be more harm, more destruction, and then his voice spilled into a long, aching confession of everything he had ever tried to be as a father.
Hw many times he had told Gustav that family was flesh and blood, that love and respect were not things you demanded but things you earned by giving them first, how he had never once failed to remind us that we were one family, not strangers forced together by fate.
As he spoke, it felt less like a lecture and more like a man emptying his soul, admitting that as a parent he had tried to correct mistakes rather than enable them, that he had taught us siblings were meant to protect one another, not dominate, not enslave, not raise a hand just because age granted authority.
That beating your siblings didn’t make you a man but a coward, because if you couldn’t be a shield, then at the very least you should be a weapon against the world—not against your own blood.
His words shook as he talked about responsibility, about the burden a man carries on his shoulders, about protecting family no matter the circumstances, and even as he admitted he wasn’t perfect, that he had flaws and regrets, he insisted he had done the best he could, before finally breaking, his voice cracking as he asked what he had done to deserve this, confessing how tired he was.
How lost, how he didn’t know what else to do anymore.
I watched him stagger back like a man struck from behind, barely keeping his balance, his eyes shining with tears he refused to let fall, until he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
And when he spoke again his voice was quieter, heavier, as he questioned why Gustav could hate his siblings, his family, with such consistency and cruelty, why there had never been real remorse, never genuine love or appreciation, because if there had been, it would have shown itself right then and there—instead of curses, insults, and venom, even toward the woman who had loved him as her own mother.
Father asked Mother if she truly believed redemption was still possible, quoted his own father’s words about children lost in their own darkness being unable to see the light around them, and said that without punishment, a child would never learn what was right.
Only continue deceiving himself, before his voice hardened with resolve as he warned that today it was me—but tomorrow it could be his sisters, or the entire family, and he would not stand by and let the home he had built with his own hands be destroyed.
Even as he said all this, his lips quivered, his hands shook uncontrollably, and Mother held onto him, her tears falling freely now as she silently blamed herself, wondering if loving harder could have changed this outcome, and after a long, suffocating pause, Father finally spoke a single word that felt heavier than any blow.
"...Exile."
The room froze as he declared that a child who could not love his siblings, nor his parents, who could plot against his own brother, would be stripped of the family name Ringwood, that from this day onward he had only one son—and that son was me, Ragna—and if anything happened to me, he would not shield Gustav, nor take responsibility for him, and that Gustav and his accomplices would be reported to the village militia for attempted murder.
Mother gasped his name in shock, eyes wide, words dying in her throat, but a second later all that remained were silent tears, and Father thanked her without looking, knowing this was something he could never have told her beforehand, knowing her kindness would have opposed him, and knowing he would never allow that kindness to be exploited to tear our family apart.
His voice was cold, unyielding, and when he finished speaking, the silence was absolute.
Gustav, still sitting on the ground from the slap, suddenly went limp and collapsed, unconscious, his world finally caving in, because in that instant the dream he had always chased—the love and approval of his father—shattered completely, and everything he had planned, everything he had imagined, vanished in the space of just a few merciless words.