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Chapter Text

The body is nothing but a prison, anchoring the spirit to the mortal realm. And yet, the spirit is weak without it—unenduring without a physical vessel.

As the former pupil of the Masters of the Nightwind's most formidable shaman, Ororon knows this fundament better than most. Nonetheless, he has always been an outlier—an incomplete soul with origins as good as anyone's guess. A body unlike a Saurian but not entirely human either; no tether, no certainty of where he belonged. Still, he's long since made peace with the reality of existing outside this world's laws and its people.

So when a startlingly broad stranger loomed over his little garden, unnerving him with his dubious presence and even fishier questions, Ororon could never have fathomed the cruel irony that followed. He couldn't have imagined—couldn't have foreseen with all the spells he was taught—being saddled with the man's children. Much less find himself thoroughly bereft from his death, painted with grief even after all these years. But his memory of the man has dulled, lingering between the strands of his hair, a phantom tingle through his fingertips. Or so he thought.

"What would you have me do?" He asks, quiet but tense. Their pleasant reverie had long since unraveled, frayed by their surprise visitor, who took it upon herself to usher the children upstairs with lots of fanfare and eyes suspiciously misty.

"Stop standing around, for starters." Tartaglia snarls from across the table, scarred hand raking through his unkempt hair. "You find Citlali at your porch, tells you the Captain's missing, and your first instinct is to open the door wide open and welcome her with open arms? She's obviously lying. She's trying to get you back. And not just you." The harbinger chances a glance upstairs before retrieving his gaze, the implication glaringly evident. Ororon appreciates his insistent generosity; he might even go as far as to say he enjoys his companionship, but his recent unsolicited inputs regarding his family have grown irksome—condescending, even. The irate crease on the harbinger's forehead has him bristling.

"I haven't contacted anyone from Natlan in ten damn years, Ajax. Why now?” Ororon barks back at Tartaglia, who merely shakes his head. "How are you so sure this is just a ploy to get me to come back?" He rebukes, but he knows Ajax is right. 

Seeing Granny standing at his doorstep after what feels like a lifetime left him discomfited. Even as he broke from his rattled stupor, he still felt an uneasiness coiling in his gut as he threw the door open and hugged her tight, heedless of past grievances. Despite everything, he would always be her little grandson—bones and all. Great-grandchildren, too. At least, that's what he tries to tell himself. 

Ajax remains quiet for a pensive moment before he responds. "We should leave. Get the kids, I'll arrange for transport."

Ororon is dumbfounded by the order and scrambles for a rebuttal.

"I-I'm not uprooting our life for this." He protests, hands gesturing wildly. He himself not knowing precisely what 'this' is either as Tartaglia's expression darkens. 

"But even if that wasn't the case, what of the Lord of the Night? If he's really gone, what will happen to the Leylines? The Abyss!" His voice is a whip-crack, his attempt at patience ebbing. "She wouldn't have left Natlan to fend for itself." He rambles on, though the other is still fully convinced of her deceit.

Citlali is no fool. Her isolation may be self-imposed, but the Masters of the Nightwind are perilously vulnerable without her oversight. The tribe's safety and the preservation of the Wayob are paramount. She would not stray without cause.

He holds tight to his conviction, yet doubt lingers, gnawing weakly at his belly. There are too many unknowns, too many shadows hounding him from a life he had long since abandoned. And yet, he still can't outrun his past. And this time, it came knocking at his door.

"I'd hoped you'd think better of me, child."

A scoff echoes down the stairway, and Citlali's presence fills the room, youthful as ever. Ororon barely misses a tremor in her hands, the slightest crack in the fortress of the woman who once raised him. It leaves him peeved.

"If all I wanted was to drag you back, I would have sent someone else." She levels him with a grim face, and he would've shrunk away forever ago.

"I'm not cruel enough to lie about this, Ororon. The throne is empty."

He feels something squeeze in his heart then, a tightness he couldn't grasp. His eyes finally fail him and he curls his arms around his torso, a desperate, pathetic attempt to hold himself together.

"So find him. Natlan needs you."

"And what about you, huh?" He flinched, but she didn't stop. No one ever did manage to deny her. Except for him when he left. "You may have gotten rid of me, but you'll always be a part of us whether you like it or not."

Ororon exhales sharply, glancing at her now as Tartaglia mutters something about stubborn old hags. He wants to deny it, to turn away and pretend he's already past all this.

"I'm not asking you to come back. I didn't come here to wound you either." She says firmly. "The Night Kingdom still stands. He's gone, and it's stable. We don't know how or why. Even Yohualtecuhtin's lips are sealed tight. But this isn't balance, Ororon."

She grips his wrist, tight and grounding. "This is the calm before the shit storm of something we can't fucking see."

His pulse is thunderous beneath her fingers, but he can't pull away. 

"You can rage all you want, deny me, spit in the face of everybody...but it doesn't change the truth. We need you, and so do they."

She lets him go and she steps back. Her eyes flicked toward the staircase, toward the faint sound of shuffling above. There is a quiet hush of children who should be tucked safely in their room but are no doubt listening, waiting, hoping.

His darling twins. 

"The world doesn't stop moving just because you chose to stand still." 

Brief as it was, he faltered. 

"There was never any future for the both of you anyway."

Silence. 

"What the fuck did you just say?" Tartaglia swiftly interjects. His stance was forbidding, patience gravely diminished.

"This doesn't concern you." Granny grimaces at him as if it pained her to finally acknowledge the other's presence. "I thought I taught you better, fraternizing with Fatui scum-"

Her disdain finally broke through. Lit by the provocation, Tartaglia rises to bite, but he erupts first. A reverberating fist slams down a small wooden chair—it splinters, reduced to no more than shattered debris on the floor.

"My children's father is Fatui scum," Ororon twists out from his seething tongue, his heterochromatic eyes emanating fury. "Natlan's so-called hero is Fatui scum."

The room crackles with something violent, repressed for far too long.

Citlali does not flinch. But she does not argue, either. It is far more telling than anything else.

The shattered remnants of the chair lie scattered at Ororon's feet, but his rage is far from spent. His breaths come sharp and uneven, his hands trembling from something deeper than scorn. Tartaglia watches from the side, his expression unreadable now—no smirk, no indignation, no usual taunting glint in his eyes. Just quiet, calculating observation. A man weighing his next move.

"You have some fucking nerve-"

None would ever dare to speak with such vulgarity, would never disgrace themselves like this in front of the woman to whom they owed their life. Alas, Ororon has always been an outlier.

"-barging into my house, insulting my family."

The dim lamplight has shadows dancing over her stoic face. Her eyes are heavy with a lifetime of knowledge and burdens far more significant than he can hope to know, yet her visage remains young and imperishable, immovable by time. It hits him then. That peeved feeling that's getting harder and harder to smother.

It never should've been him.

It should've been her,

not him.

The thought writhes in his chest like liquid phlogiston, searing through flesh and bone, igniting resentment he can't contain. The weight of it, the sheer gall of it, wrangles his insides. He lifts his gaze to Citlali once more, and not for the first time, he cannot stand to look at her. She hasn't changed. She stands in his home, looking as she did when he was just a child, her face unmarred by grief, her shoulders squared with the same unbearable sagacity she has always carried. Hundreds of years, she still breathes and stands. Was it not enough?

Ororon lets bile rise in his throat. His grief lashes out in ways he cannot control, cannot temper, cannot reel back in. And he doesn't want to. The world tilts and the weight of years-long sorrow crests over him in an unrelenting tide. His voice, when it finally spills from his lips, is a low, guttural thing, shaking with something incensed and raw. "She—" His fingers curl into his palms, nails biting into the skin. "She should be dead." A sharp inhale from Tartaglia. A flicker of something unreadable in Citlali's eyes. She says nothing, so he continues.

"You, with all your wisdom, all your power—" His voice fractures, but he does not stop. "You, who taught me the consequences of my actions. You, who told me to always put myself first." He steps closer now, hands shaking, heart rattling inside his ribs like a caged beast.

"You should've let her die!”

Citlali finally steps into his space, into the landmines of his anguish.

”Mavuika’s our Archon. She had no choice-"

"-she had a choice. He warned her, but she didn't listen. It was her responsibility! Hers! It was Mavuika's." He pins her the blame, but his teeth clatter for someone else's name.

Citlali's lips part—perhaps to protest, possibly to scold, unlikely to comfort. He does not care.

"You shouldn't have intervened, Mavuika should have died." Ororon spits, bitter. "And Thrain—" He chokes on the name, the weight of it too much, too cruel. "He—" His voice breaks entirely, and he can't say anything more. But he doesn't have to. The truth is laid bare between them, a raw wound left gaping in the whirling snow. His grief is a living thing, palpable and vengeful, curling around him seeking to devour.

Citlali remains still, but she no longer looks unmoved. For all her timelessness, there is something fragile about her now, something almost weary. "I didn't choose this." she says at last, her voice softer than he expects, but he recoils from it nonetheless. "It's what he wanted. You know that."

"I don't care if that's what he wanted. What about me? What about what I want?” She exhales, and for the first time, he hears it—the slightest, near-imperceptible shake in her breath.

"They don't even know what he looks like, granny."

"Ororon."

But he cannot listen, cannot bear it. He's already been defeated time and time again.

"Of course not. You stand here in my home to take me back to the very place that took everything from me." he rasps, vision swimming, "That's what you really want to do. Don't lie to me, please."

There is no retort to that. No wisdom, no grand purpose, or exonerable excuse can soothe the withering heartache in his body. Because no matter what she says, no matter how she tries to reason, she is still here. And Thrain is not. And that, he thinks bitterly, will never be fair.

"Eight fifty for the box, a thousand with the Kvass." the old lady said, quoting an unreasonably high price. He noticed the gleam in her eyes, a mixture of curiosity and greed squarely fixated on the crest adorning his head.

"Seven hundred with the Kvass. Any more is a pass." he countered, laying down an ultimatum. The rather unhomely woman's eye twitched in response. This was absurd. He could play this game, too. He removed his helmet and dropped a tattered, bulky bag of mora onto the counter, challenging her to refuse.

The woman stared him down, assessing him in a way that felt both intimidating and invigorating. She swiped the bag, hefting it against her hip. As she felt around for the coins inside, she suddenly stopped, her fingers stained with red blood.

"No one's going to come looking for it." she stated.

"I don't doubt it." he replied, suppressing a grin.

Her exasperated sigh showed that he hadn't completely hidden his smugness.

"Here," she said begrudgingly, handing him the goods. She hesitates briefly before slipping him an Arctic Rose. "Take this too. Bonus for the trouble." He gives her a look but lets it be, tucking the delicate flower carefully in his coat. Just as he turned to leave, her voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I suggest you get rid of the helmet. You're not well-liked in these parts."

She warned, her gaze zeroes in on his helm again, the iron sigil glinting in the light. Fatui.

"... I'll keep that in mind." he said, moving to put it back on. His fingers grazed against his now mortifyingly smooth face, the unfamiliar sensation still jarring. Shrouded in his armor, he felt the familiar weight settle upon his head, a source of comfort and suffocation. Finally, he was left alone to open the box. He picked up a kernel and popped it into his mouth. And just like all those years ago,

Sweet.

Chapter Text

The cold gnawed at him, but it was not unwelcome. The streets of Halstatt stretched ahead, lined with sloping rooftops burdened by winter's weight. Ice spread on the cobblestones in treacherous patches hidden beneath dustings of snow, but the locals seemed to traverse them with little to no caution, going about their business. It was the kind of place where life moved slow and unperturbed—just a fragment of the world, indifferent to who passed through it.

After having filled his belly with a snack and some light booze, Capitano walked with no real direction, only the vague intent of returning to Zapolyarny Palace as soon as he could. The Night Kingdom had been a place of death, yet here he was, walking upon frozen ground, tasting the wind on his tongue. A sensation he had long since deemed as irrelevant. He had essentially died—or at least, he thought he had. A paradoxical existence to spite the gods. It was not the first time he had felt his life slip through his fingers, but it was the first time he had returned without purpose.

The departed souls of his comrades have finally found solace in the Night Kingdom. He made sure of that when he gained control over the Leylines. His intricately modified heart that once harbored them is now hollow with disuse, but the weight of his armor felt heavier than he remembered, and the familiar contours of his mask were a cage around his breath. It was more than just the physical strain; it was the severe awareness of his own body, of breath that should have stopped, of a heart that still beat despite its uselessness. His mask, once a second skin, now felt like an ill-fitting shell, suffocating his skin devoid of rot.

Another thing that shook his core was that his body no longer rots. The dark blue scales of abyssal corrosion adorning his skin had simply vanished. Leaving smooth, young skin in its wake. Spurred by uneasiness, he scratches at the exposed skin of his mortifyingly normal neck. Not even three scratches later, and he recoils his hand. That was gonna need some time to get used to.

He continued on his aimless trek, wallowing in confusion and a haze of slipshod motion. There had been a time when the truth did not bother him. The moment his home was destroyed, he'd never longed for another place to belong, only a cause to serve, a war to wage. Death and revenge became his compass through the endless void of his immortal existence. He had never needed to ask himself why he fought—but waking from the dead with his duty already relieved left him plenty of time to ruminate the unfamiliar, grinding question of why. Why had he survived? Why had he come back? What was left for him to do? The Lord of the Night echoed back nothing but silence to his plight.

His steps slowed, boots crunching against the elevated snow. For the first time in a long while, he found himself hesitating. Would it have been so bad if he had truly perished in the Night Kingdom? Would it have mattered? He didn't even know just how much time had passed. It might've been decades or a couple of centuries already. And this unfamiliar town he'd alighted himself in left no clues to that matter.

He was no cold-hearted bastard. The second he'd cracked open his glittering star-spangled eyes, he didn't think twice before gliding down Ochkanatlan's staggering height into a quaint, secluded home. Only, it was deserted. And the aphids that once littered the area are nowhere to be found, and the once meticulously maintained garden had run its crops dry, the walls of the tiny house overrun with vines and dust. Ororon would never leave his crops to die or his home in such a surly state of disarray. It was dead in every sense of the word. Alas, he didn't bother venturing toward the capital or seeking Citalali's whereabouts. He loathed to think Ororon would be nothing more than a legend carved into stone or, worse, a tomb. So, he fled quietly to Sumeru's docks and boarded the next ship to Snezhnaya without looking back.

He may not belong here. But he did not belong there, either. Not anymore.

He exhaled, the cold seeping through his lips and clinging to his face. There was no point in dwelling on it. He would return to Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, assess his position, and regain his footing. That was all that mattered. The battlefield did not wait for soldiers who lost themselves in pointless introspection.

Still, as he wandered through Halstatt, past the flickering lanterns and the faint echoes of laughter from warm-lit homes, he could not shake the feeling that something had shifted. That he had left something behind—and that it had left something for him. Where and what? He doesn't know.

Suddenly, a sound caught his ear—a sharp crack, followed by a muffled shriek of laughter. He turned his head, gaze landing on a frozen lake just beyond the main road. Two children darted across its slick surface, bundled in winter coats too large for them while their hoods squished their heads with only their round faces nipped by the snow, their boots slipping against the ice as they chased one another. They were small, barely past their first decade, yet fearless in their play, unbothered by the biting cold or the dangers beneath their feet.

Capitano watched them for a long moment.

Then he moved.

"Get off the ice."

His voice, rough with inactivity, carried over the space between them. The children halted, startled by the sudden intrusion. One of them—blue-eyed—stared at him in open curiosity. The other, a more petite figure, squinted her magenta eyes as if assessing him.

"Why?" the petite one asked.

Capitano stepped closer, his boots sinking into the fresh layer of snow. "Because if it cracks, you'll fall through," he said flatly. "and you won't come back up."

Up close, he could see their faces were nearly one and the same. They must be twins, he thought. The first child—pale, almost sickly-looking beneath the layers of wool—gave an exaggerated shiver. "That sounds like something an old man would say."

The second child gasped. "Ron! You can't just call people old!"

The one called Ron shrugged, entirely unrepentant. "What? He sounds old. Like a grandpa. A huge, scary, possibly kidnapping grandpa."

Capitano let out a slow breath. He had faced creatures that could swallow men whole, crossed battlefields dripping with his enemies' blood, and stood unshaken before gods most recently. But now, he found himself being compared to a grandfather—and a kidnapper, no less—by a child in a coat two sizes too big and whose face is squished by his too-small hood. What an abomination of a tailor this kid had.

"Do I look like a grandfather to you?" he asked, voice flat, completely ignoring the kidnapping comment.

Ron squinted at him, his lips pursed in deep thought. "What's there to look at? You're covered head to toe. Are you perhaps ugly?"

That earns the boy a quick smack to the back of the head and a hushed whisper of 'idiot, stop being rude to the old man.' The aggressor then bowed, taking the boy's head with her to bow in apology as well. This one seemed to have a semblance of manners, save for her echoing the other's sentiment of him being an old man. Were children these days so unflinchingly brash? He didn't particularly care for his visage, but he knew he wasn't unsightly. How rude. What if he really was a dodgy crook? These two would be nothing but minced meat. Screaming and crying as he dragged their small-boned bodies to Nod-Krai's highest bidder.

He shakes his head as if to dissipate the nefarious thoughts.

"Sorry, my brother rarely thinks with his head...or at all. It's because of the mask," the first child added quickly as if trying to smooth things over. "it's very…serious-looking. Like someone who gives long lectures."

Capitano sighed. "I do not give lectures."

"That's exactly what someone who gives lectures would say." Ron muttered under his breath.

The even-tempered one elbowed him sharply before turning back to Capitano.

"I'm Nor. That's Ron. And we've been coming here since forever. The ice has never once broken when we play." Ron puffs out his chest in support, though it wasn't compelling coming from him. He only looked silly.

"The water does not care how many times it has spared you," Capitano said. He crouched at the lake's edge, running a gloved hand over the cracked ice. The layer was indeed thick but far from indestructible. "one misstep is enough."

Nor bit her lip, considering. "Okay, but what if we stay close to the edge? Then, if we fall, we can just climb out."

"That's not how falling into a frozen lake works."

Ron hummed, unconvinced. "You talk with the confidence of someone who's fallen in before."

Capitano paused. "…I haven't."

Ron grinned, triumphant. "Then how do you know?"

Capitano exhaled slowly. "Because I know how ice works."

Nor looks up in contemplation. "Well, I guess that's fair to say."

Ron, ever the devil's advocate, was still skeptical. "You still sound like someone who fell in before."

He stared at them, unimpressed. They stared back, clearly waiting for him to admit it.

"Make haste and get off the ice." he repeated instead, much to their dismay.

They exchanged glances, then, to his surprise, actually obeyed. Nor stepped onto solid ground with practiced ease, while Ron took an unnecessarily dramatic leap, landing with a flourish. They turned to Capitano expectantly.

"So, what do we do now?" Ron asked.

Capitano blinked. "That is not my concern."

Nor frowned. "You're the one who stopped us from playing."

Ron gasped and pointed an accusatory finger at him, his short arms straining to do so. He was painfully getting hit with deja vu. "Yeah! That makes it your problem now."

Capitano pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his mask. How had this become a negotiation?

"Make a snow fort." he said, mostly to end the conversation.

Nor brightened, returning to her earlier state as a ball of boundless energy. "That's actually a good idea. I like that!"

Ron crossed his arms. "Fine. But only if you help."

"No."

Ron gave an exaggerated sigh. "Then at least supervise. You already sound like an old man, might as well act like one."

Capitano stared at them, wondering if there had ever been a point in his life where he was this insufferable as a child.

Without waiting for his answer, the two got to work, packing snow together with far more energy than precision. He watched, arms crossed, as their so-called fort took shape—if "fort" meant an uneven pile of snow that barely held together.

"There." Nor dusted off her gloves, nodding in satisfaction. "A masterpiece."

Ron squinted, his hands squared, mimicking a kamera. "I feel like it needs…something."

"Stability?" Capitano suggested dryly.

Ron stares him down. "Criticism from grandpa?"

Nor smacked her sibling on the arm. "Oh shush."

Capitano sighed. The sun was dipping low on the horizon. It's too low for the twins to stay outside. It was probably time to leave. "Don't stay out too long, or you'll have no sun on the way home." he concluded as he turned away. He briefly hesitated before reaching for his left breast pocket, where the Arctic Rose, given to him by the old woman, was tucked safely. He took it out and handed it to Nor, who enthusiastically accepted the gift.

The twins give him big waves, Ron looking a little more enthusiastic than he'd let on with his behavior earlier.

"I've never seen you around here before. Are you staying in town?"

A pause. Then, finally—

"Temporarily."

They nodded, satisfied with the answer, and after a few more exchanges of words between themselves, they departed. He watched their retreating figures, their meager footprints vanishing beneath the falling snow. When he was alone again, he exhaled lengthy and slow. It would seem to be a habit beginning to form. 

An inn stood a short distance from where he was, its warm glow beckoning him inside as he stepped through the heavy wooden door. The flickering flames of the hearth cast a soft warmth throughout the hall, but it did little to thaw the deep, bone-chilling cold that gripped his body. After exchanging a few coins for a room, he climbed the creaking staircase, the sound echoing softly in the dim light, and finally shut the door behind him, sealing himself away from the world outside. 

The bed loomed before him, its mattress looking uninviting and stiff, and the air was thick with an unsettling stillness. He peeled off his helm and boots, setting them aside with a soft thud that barely disturbed the silence. With a heavy sigh, he shrugged off his coat, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. As he settled on the edge of the mattress, he fumbled to undo a few buttons of his shirt, the rough fabric brushing against his skin as he sat there, his feet pressed firmly together.

His mind churned slowly, thoughts spiraling in circles that felt both heavy and disjointed. He had emerged from a place where death had seemed inevitable, only to find himself wandering through a town that remained blissfully unaware of his turmoil. It was harrowing. He'd spoken somewhat amicably to children who had all the reason to fear him, and yet, as he leaned forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, he struggled to shake the oppressive weight that had settled deep within his ribs.

Ororon.

The name flickered through him like a dying ember. It had been years, probably. He would seek the truth later. Still—that was too many. But he could still see the shape of him in his mind, blurred at the edges, but still hopelessly in love with it. His memory slipped further from his grasp with each passing moment.

What became of him? Did he ever forget about him? Did...

Did he move on with his life?

He pressed a hand to his face, breath unsteady.

No. He had to return to the Tsaritsa first. He had to gather himself, recuperate from all the bullshit he'd gotten himself into, and make sense of whatever future was waiting to devour him.

But after that—

His grip tightened.

Only after that—

He'd allow himself to hope.

Chapter Text

Snezhnaya’s winters are uncompromising,

as evidenced by the magnificent pile of snow presently thwarting his itinerary. The innkeeper had advised him to remain indoors until nightfall when the storm was expected to subside, but not before he’d already fitted his armor after he woke from his slumber and didn’t make it more than ten steps before a sudden onslaught of ice and wind forced him to retreat. The innkeeper’s husband was even kind enough to loan him a change of clothes upon seeing the tattered state of his. It was snug but comfortable enough for the weather and gave him as good as any excuse to get rid of his Fatui ensemble. With it, he can blend in. He’d definitely lucked out with finding this place. Since then, he’d resigned himself to a couple of hours idling at the inn’s bar.

Remarkably, he no longer felt the previous day’s fatigue. Considering his humble accommodations, the musty, board-thin bed had surprisingly provided adequate rest. Still, it was an unexpected luxury compared to the rough encampments he’d grown accustomed to. Yet, for all its modest comforts, the inn could hardly compete with a certain boy’s home. Ororon’s house is—was.

He took another drink, swallowing the thought with it.

Capitano downs another pint as he sits by his lonesome beside the window, only to see the stubbornly uncooperative weather. Outside, the town had vanished beneath a thick veil of snow. With no immediate way forward, he was left with nothing but time and his own thoughts. He did not like either.

He drifts briefly, and his eyes snap open as the wind bangs against the window as if to taunt him. He massages his temples, a feeble attempt to soothe a burgeoning headache. He raises his hand for another glass, immediately grimacing at his pitiful situation. Should this misfortune persist, he would have to consider alternative travel arrangements. It would take at least a week to reach Zapolyarny palace from where he currently was. However, with all the obstructions he’d been encountering, not to mention how scatterbrained he’d been acting, a month-long trek was frustratingly starting to sound more likely. Worse still, his supply of Mora was dwindling. To begin with, it was sheer luck that he’d stumbled upon a syndicate of smugglers and a band of amateur treasure hoarders to‘fund’ his voyage from Sumeru to Snezhnaya, with the little leftover quickly being depleted by his expenses with food and shelter. If he continued at this pace with his current consumption of liquor, he would be penniless before nightfall.

Disheartened, the lone harbinger glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. Barely past noon.

Fantastic.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. His fingers tapped absently against the counter, his mind wandering despite himself.

The last time he had been forced into idleness, he had his life force sucked out of him. Which he thinks, was more tolerable than this excruciating inactivity. And then, before that—Ororon’s house again. He could recall its warmth with infuriating clarity. The smoke of charred meat, despite his constant corrections to the boy’s abysmal cooking. He hears the sound of crystal beetles buzzing and twinkling from afar and the occasional snapping of wood shifting in the hearth. And on the nights when the weather was mild, they’d huddle at the campfire with his men. Ororon would hover at his side, like an over-eager apprentice, despite having long since grown too old for it. He’d drink and acquiesce to Ororon’s request of one cup, and with the heat of Fire-water in their bellies, they’d get more courage. Neither said it out loud, but the soldiers had an inkling and would retire for the night. Meanwhile, they touch—no. Confirm. Duty and allegiances swept aside to make room for limbs and love on his bed.

He left before he could confirm what had become of the boy. He had told himself it was because there was no point. Because he did not want to see a grave, nor did he wish to find nothing at all. That had been enough of a reason to turn away. Yet hope cripples him, doubt finishing him off. Because what if he was still alive? Old perhaps, but alive? Alive and has well moved on—with someone else. He sighs, with his head in his hands, and digs his fingers into the root of his nose, letting his gaze fall.

Blood dripped on the wooden floor, his guts mutilated beneath his feet.

He gags at the stench of iron, resisting the bile rising from his throat.

Snow rushes in, and the bar’s wooden door bangs against the stone wall, dragging him violently from the depths of whatever abyss had dared to swallow him whole.

The world lurched, and the room snapped back into focus.

The floor was clean. No blood. No mangled intenstines. Only the quick intake of his breaths. The door had swung open with great effort, nearly taking out a chair in the process. A gust of icy wind accompanied two familiar figures bundled tightly in their thick furs. Boots coated in slush, fresh snow trailed their steps.

Capitano stared.

The twins blinked at him. Then, simultaneously, their eyes lit up with recognition.

“Oh, hey! It’s Grandpa!”

Ron’s voice rang through the muted bar with all the subtlety of a barrel explosion.

Capitano closed his eyes briefly.

Of course.

Nor smacked her brother on the back of his neck. “Don’t just yell at him!” She lectures. “What if he didn’t want to be noticed?” A little too late for that.

Ron sulks, smoothing a hand over the assaulted body part. He looks at her as if she had spoken pure nonsense. “Why would he?”

The boy juts a finger towards where he was innocently seated and starts spouting nonsense of his own.

“He’s massive. How’s he gonna hide? Besides, he totally remembers us.” Ron argues in quick succession. Nor sighed, exasperated, though he noted she didn’t refute her brother’s claims. Because Ron was right. He did remember them. That was the problem. He doesn’t suppose chumming up with the town children would alleviate the current source of his headaches. If anything, he’s drawing a massive target on his back as the town creep.

Nonetheless, Capitano did not react when they plopped themselves down at his table, utterly uninvited. Nor did he protest when Ron, apparently deciding he had already won some kind of invisible battle, rested his arms against the table with an expectant grin, legs swinging underneath it.

Capitano simply blinks at the boy and presses a loaf to his mouth. He figures now would be a great time to keep his vocal orifices occupied. He chews, though not particularly to sate any hunger.

Nor turns to look at him, offering a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. My big brother has no sense of shame.”

The older gasped, visibly affronted. “That is so not true! I have—” He paused, considering. “—a little sense of shame.” His words dissolve into a diminuendo before gaining once more. “And what was that calling me ‘big brother’? You never call me that, Nor! You’re acting nice in front of the dark knight!” Ron redirects his attention and points at him now.

Dark knight?

“None at all.” She reaffirms as Ron obliviously proves her point.

The boy has admirable courage for his age, and his sister unflinchingly matches it with her wit. If he had one quibble, it would just be that the kid’s too eager to point his fingers. Capitano wonders about the kind of parenting that was approached with these two. Possibly even the lack thereof.

Though currently, the specifics of their childrearing were the least of his concerns as the two bundles of mischief made themselves comfortable on his table. And what was that about a dark knight?

“What are you doing here?” Capitano asked, cutting through the boy’s enthusiasm before it could escalate.

“Hanging out with you.” They answer synchronously in that weird twin telepathic way. It unnerves him, but he also should’ve known better than to expect a serious answer from these two.

“I meant, why did you come here?” He sighs for the nth time, glancing out the window.

“It’s not safe for children to wander around during a snowstorm. It’s snowing he-...hedgehogs..” He corrects himself. Associating with them was bad enough; he didn’t need them to soak up his vulgarities too.

“Since when did hedgehogs fall from the sky?” Nor murmurs, puzzled.

“It’s an...idiom.”

“You’re really weird, mister.”

“I realize that.”

“Ugh.” Ron interjects as he melts further into the wooden chair

“We’re running away from home.” He drawls as if that explained everything.

It just gets better by the minute.

He chuckles at the absurdity of his reply and pours himself a glass.

Nor, who opted to remain silent after Ron’s admission, was far more aware of his movements. Her sharp gaze flicked toward his half-empty glass, then back to his face. “You’re drinking.”

A statement, not a question.

He lifted his glass slightly, an unspoken confirmation.

“You don’t seem like the type.”

People had a lot of opinions about what type he was.

Ron, who had been watching the exchange with mild interest, suddenly leaned forward. “Hey, since we’re all stuck here, wanna play cards?”

Capitano barely had time to register the suggestion before Nor groaned in exasperation. “Ron, you can’t just change the subject like that!”

“I’m not!” He pouted. “I mean, kinda. But what else are we supposed to do in this weather?” He bangs his tiny fists against the table’s wooden surface—though it barely made noise for its intended effect—before perking up again. “Besides, wasn’t it you who said we should be like ‘distracting ourselves’?”

“Not like this.” Nor muttered, turning away from her brother.

Capitano watched their back-and-forth with the distant patience of someone who had already resigned himself to whatever nonsense they were about to rope him into. However, they didn’t seem to be joking about being runaways.

“So, you're running away from home?” He interrupts, steering the conversation back.

Ron blinked as if only now realizing what he had just admitted. Uncertainty clouded his small form briefly, but then he shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Nor crossed her arms, looking less than pleased. “You make it sound like we packed our things and ran off in the middle of the night. We’re just…taking a break.”

“That’s the same thing.” Capitano pointed out.

“It’s not.” she huffed, but the defensiveness in her tone betrayed her own apprehension

Ron fidgets with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Mama’s been weird lately,” he said, voice quieter now. He didn’t look at Capitano when he spoke.

“Not like, ‘Oh, Mama’s in a bad mood’ weird, but…really weird .”

“Someone went to visit us recently. Our granny.” Nor supplied, this time in a hushed voice. “That was the first time we...saw her. We’ve never even heard of her. We didn’t even know we had one.”

“Mama sounded really angry, and Mama’s never been that angry. Even Uncle Tart sounded mad...”

Capitano tilted his head slightly. “So your uncle was there too? What were they talking about?” He pries, way too invested for his own good.

“I don’t know.” Ron confessed, frowning. “It was hard to hear from upstairs. And Granny left as soon as she came. But the other day, Mama was standing in the kitchen, staring out the window like something was there. But...there wasn’t anything there.”

Nor’s expression darkened. “Mama’s not been sleeping much, either. And when Mama does, Mama wakes up in the middle of the night and just…stands there,..waiting. We tried asking Uncle Tart, but even he wouldn’t budge.”

Capitano didn’t react immediately, but something in their words gave him pause. “And your father?”

The twins exchanged a glance.

“Don’t have one.” Nor answered, tone clipped. “Mama never talks about him.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Ron piped up, forcing a grin. “I figured if we hung out for a while, Things would…I don’t know. Go back to normal?”

Capitano leaned back slightly, deep in thought.

The children in front of him, for all their bravado, were scared.

And worse, they had nowhere else to go. Like kindred spirits, they were.

Capitano exhaled, setting his glass down. He would indulge them, just this once.

“Well,” he said finally, “if we’re all stuck here anyway…” He gestured to the deck of cards Ron had fished out of his coat pocket.

Ron beamed. “See? I knew you’d be cool about this!”

Nor still looked troubled, but she didn’t object as Ron enthusiastically shuffled the deck.

“When the storm passes, I’ll escort you home.”

“No need! We’ve snuck out a couple times in worse conditions. We’ll manage.”

“But-”

“Besides, our uncle’s gonna rip us a new one if he sees us going home with a stranger, mister.”

He huffs but doesn’t push. Capitano, for his part, merely watched as the storm resumed its relentless howling beyond the inn’s walls. Quietly, reserved for his and the the twin's ears he whispers,

“Thrain...you may call me Thrain.”

Despite the initial reluctance, he found himself unable to shake off the twins in the days that followed.

It started subtly at first. A casual greeting as they passed each other in the market. A quick nod of acknowledgment in the town square. But soon enough, it became an inevitability—everywhere he went, the twins somehow managed to spawn there too. If he sought food, they were already in line ahead of him. If he stopped by the blacksmith’s to mend his equipment, they were loitering nearby, eager to inspect the weapons on display despite being too young and small-boned to have any real use for it. If he wandered aimlessly through town, they appeared at his side as if summoned by some unseen force.

And, despite himself, he let them stay.

There was an odd comfort in their presence. They were loud, nosy, and prone to dragging him into things he never would’ve considered alone. Like the time, Ron insisted on ice skating despite having the balance of a newborn deer, dragging Nor—and, by extension, Thrain—into the ordeal. He had no intention of joining them on the ice. Still, the boy’s sheer determination to stay upright kept him stationed at the rink’s center, watching over them with a silent but present vigilance. Then there were the evenings in the taverns, where the three of them would huddle over plates of steaming food, the twins engaging in exaggerated storytelling while he listened, nursing a cup of something mild. Even when they weren’t speaking, the comfortable quiet between them was a welcome contrast to the usual solitude he had resigned himself to. The market outings became a routine as well, with Ron darting ahead to sample whatever he could charm the vendors into offering while Nor scolded him for his lack of manners. The lone harbinger never interjected, only handing over a few spare coins whenever Ron’s antics inevitably led to them having to pay for something. Some afternoons, they’d sit in the town square, watching the townsfolk go about their day. Other times, they’d simply walk, weaving through the snow-dusted streets, speaking in lazy conversation. It was almost… peaceful. A strange sentiment, considering his usual circumstances.

For the first time in what felt like years, there was nothing pressing to do. No mission to complete. No battle to fight. No blood to shed. Only the quiet rhythm of days spent in the company of two children who had wormed their way into his daily routine.

Of course, the peace was bound to be temporary.

But, for now, Thrain allowed himself to enjoy it. Zapolyarny Palace wasn’t going anywhere after all. 

Chapter Text

There is a comfort in knowing you can’t lose like this again.

Ororon thought it often but never aloud. A fact so cold, cruel, and oddly consoling; he will never lose Thrain again because he already has. He carried the thought like a splinter wedged stubbornly in the throat—too deep to remove, too dull to bother destroying.

The worst pain is already behind him, the deepest possible grief that no future loss can ever compare. There was a time when his body broke with it. Shaking, gasping, kneeling in front of him with hands pressed to his face like a prayer. Begging.

Come back to me.

That, too, passed.

Unlike other kinds of loss, in death—or whatever convoluted sacrifice Thrain had subjected himself to—there was no ambiguity, no hope of return. Soul-bound to burn for the sacred flame. And in a way, that clarity, that brutal finality, felt bearable. The abyss was decimated and forced to retreat to its plunging recesses. As for Ronova’s price, it was...paid. There was nothing left to guard against. No one left to lose. That’s what brought him a strange comfort. Not peace. Not hope. But the certainty that the worst thing that could happen has happened. Every sunrise after that was ornamental. Like he was a spectator in everyone else's life.

His house still smelt of the captain. Though not as sharp or enclosed. Merely the suggestion of it: old leather, fur, and ice on frozen lakes. It clings to the fabric of his coat, still hanging by the open window. He doesn’t move it. Doesn’t touch it. Sometimes, the wind would sieve through his house, unfurling the scent. Shamelessly, he would bask in it. Other times, he’d sit across from it and stare, wondering if this grief would eventually soften or just settle into his bones like a second skeleton.

He doesn’t know whether to be angry or proud of himself that he more or less strongarmed the man into leaving his coats to wash after the Fatui’s particularly muddy scrimmages. He practically gift-wrapped an excuse for the captain to keep coming back.

Either way, it’s outlived its use and its owner.

In the weeks that would ensue, however, he’d found a new purpose for it as he began his trek for Snezhnaya, a new home for their new life. Cloaked by the warmth that lingered in his absence. He will not lose again,

or so he thought.

Granny’s presence existed like a scab that itched at you to peel—arriving suddenly and steamrolling her way into his home and into his life. She brought forth nothing but cryptic words and more questions he didn’t want to know the answers to. So they bid each other goodbye swiftly, out to the grueling snow.

He hadn’t spoken of it to the twins. Though, he had no doubt they had their own queries about the stranger he called Granny. He had tried, instead, to distract himself. Tending to the house had kept his hands busy but not his mind. Her words echoed in his skull each time he shoveled snow and wiped sweat on his brow.

“This is the calm before the shit storm of something we can’t fucking see.”

He had dismissed her then, as he arrogantly did. Thrain would never half-ass anything, much less a sacrifice. But the truth was—yes, he had felt something. A shift in the way wind howled through the streets, how the chill crept earlier into his bed.

And yet, he had done nothing about it.

He had been so wrapped up in his own head that he’d barely kept track of his twins’ comings and goings. He convinces himself they were just getting into their usual mischief. Right now, he was occupied with the simple, mundane task of buying bread. That was all he needed to worry about. He stood at the baker’s stall, scanning the selection, when his ears perked up. He caught the tail end of a conversation from the vendors a few ways away.

“…twice the size of any man I’ve seen, I tell you! I’d bet my shop on it!”

Ororon wasn’t listening at first until the response piqued his attention.

“-you think he’s really one of them? I haven’t seen a Fatui Harbinger in these parts in ages.”

His fingers hovered over a loaf of bread, his stomach turning in mild interest. Tartaglia again?

Granted, the man had left with no small amount of fanfare after plenty of assurances that they’d be fine after the reunion fiasco. But his duties demanded his company elsewhere. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time the Eleventh had prompted a whirlwind of rumors in Halstatt. Ororon had heard plenty of exaggerated tales about Tartaglia since the day the man made a home for them in this little town, usually involving heaps of corpses or some other dramatic gesture. For someone in his line of work, it was hardly worth concern.

But then the butcher scoffed.

“Bah! If it were that orange-haired menace, I wouldn’t care. If you stretched your brittle ‘ol bones once in awhile, you’d see him round the square every moon or so.” He scoffed, puffing out smoke from a cheap cigar.

Then, there was a certain lilt to his voice like he was sharing some big secret.

“No, this one’s different—huge, like a walking fortress, I tell ya. Gloomy black cloud over his head, barely says a word.”

Ororon felt his pulse stutter.

That…didn’t sound like Tartaglia.

A quiet hum of unease ran through the gathered merchants. Ororon kept his face carefully neutral as he picked up a loaf. He told himself to ignore it. It’s not your problem.

Then the butcher spoke, voice low and conspiratorial. “Well, whatever he is, he’s been seen skulking around with a pair of kids. Boy and a girl. Twins I reckon. But I didn't get close enough to know 'em.”

“But I did hear a name. I think one of 'em was...eh...what was it...“

"..Near..?...N-noir? No..not that either.."

This time, he felt his chest constrict with the rest of his body.

"..Nor!"

Nor.

The bread in his hands was crushed into a misshapen lump as realization dawned upon him. There were only a handful of twins in Halstatt. Even then, they were mostly grown or of the same sex. His children had been spending time with a stranger—possibly a Harbinger.

His mind raced. When had this started? Had they mentioned anything? He had been so caught up in Citlali’s visit that he hadn’t noticed.

Panic raced at the edges of his mind.

He turned away from the stall, leaving behind an exasperated vendor calling after him about payment. He moved quickly, his pulse suddenly thrumming in his ears.

He had to find them. Now.

Ororon shouldered past a crowd without so much as an apology, the half-frozen slush spraying beneath his boots as he veered off the main street. He didn’t notice. Didn’t care. The snow burned like white fire in his lungs, but he didn’t slow down.

His children might be with someone dangerous. That was all that mattered.

What was initially a suspicion gradually hardened into a mortifying conclusion. It was final and absolute in the way only instinct could be. He knew of peril. Had been forged in it. Waded through it like a tide until it drowned everything soft in him. And whatever else this stranger was, if he was a Harbinger or Fatui, he was not safe.

Not for Ron. Not for Nor.

His coat flared violently with a sudden gust as he ducked into the next alley, boots slamming against the ice-caked stone. No sign of them. No familiar voices echoing off the walls. No telltale giggles or scatter of small feet fleeing mischief. He stopped only to sweep damp hair from his eyes, scanning every direction.

The twilight settles into the horizon, signaling the evening has come. The last of the townsfolk start to disperse and trickle indoors. The world was emptying out, narrowing to silence and his racing pulse.

Where would they go?

Think.

He pivoted so fast he nearly slipped; his gut twisted as he sprinted. If anyone in town would be foolish enough to entertain a man with Harbinger proportions and an enigmatic presence, it would be the altruistic couple running that damned inn. Always eager for company, always quick to offer up a bottle to anyone with mora and a story. It was a reasonable guess, in fact, the most plausible one, especially this late in the day when supper approached.

His vision gleams in the snow, the silver trinket dangling in the air as his legs move lightning-quick. The wind tore at the back of his neck as if chasing him. He counts down each succeeding lamp post he sweeps past, the soft glow casting elongated shadows on the cobblestone path. With each step, he feels the warmth of their light staving against the cool evening air, drawing him closer to the inn at the end of the street.

Inch by painstaking inch, the inn came into view as he heard a sound to his right.

Two distinct voices—one boyish and sharp, the other softer but tinged with the same cadence.

His breath hitched.

He followed the noise, boots crunching over the ice-laden ground. He rounded the rusted frame of a food truck, billowing clouds of steam-

He skidded to a halt, chest rising, falling. Faster now.

The twins were there, huddled on the truck's awning parked beneath an old flickering lamppost, their forms bundled in furs. Ron leaned on his elbows mid-joke, Nor hugged close beside him, fingers pointing at something on the vendor’s stove. Posing beside them, half-shrouded in steam, massive, even slouched against the awning, was a man.

No—not a man.

A figure.

Broad.

Still.

Head slightly bowed, a single gloved hand clasped on Ron's shoulder like he could snap it in half if he so wished.

Something about the man prickled in Ororon’s chest. The sight of him made his knees waver with primal fear, causing his hand to reach for his bow. He was layered in coats, each adding to his imposing figure, with patches of snow clinging stubbornly to the curve of the pelt draped over his hulking shoulders. Long black hair cascaded down his back, some curling prematurely on his face. But it was his eyes that unnerved Ororon the most—black as cinders. 

He did not know this man. Not his face. Not his silhouette. Not the low hum of approval about something to the twins. But the fear that pierced his gut was old and true.

He called out, low and firm. “Ron. Nor.”

Gaze locked on the mysterious stranger, two small shadows flinched in his periphery.

The two children turned, their eyes freezing.

Ron blinked, dumbfounded. “Oh no.”

Nor moves towards him. “We were just-”

He seizes her hand, drops to his knees, and inspects her, hands skimming over her shoulders, elbows, legs, and chest, checking for bruises or cuts. She winced at the cold brush of his fingertips but didn’t protest. His palms were rough, careful but practiced.

"A-are you mad?" She asked timidly, scared to incur her mama's wrath.

Ororon didn’t reply and single-mindedly continued his inspection. His hand comes up to loosen the furs bundled around Nor’s head.

"Mama..?" Nor frowns as he peeled back the tight hood fully. Saurian ears sprang out into the frigid air, gently finned, a dusky blue with flicks of soft pink. The smooth curve of them was identical to his own.

He rises to his feet, beckoning Ron over and examines him too. A solid moment passes before he stands up and shields them behind him with one arm and fixes his gaze on the danger.

The man stirred. His eyes—not as dark anymore, but still fathomless—met Ororon’s with a glimmer that stalled the air.

Unbeknownst to Ororon, something cracked open in those two bottomless pits. Recognition. Grief. Awe. The world seemed to rotate sideways for him. His breath caught sharply in his throat as if he had been transported back to the Night Kingdom.

The man stepped closer, no longer standing under the awning, but his expression had shifted, something deep in his chest seemed to cave. His shoulders hunched in a way that betrayed the steady composure he’d worn a moment before. His mouth parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came.

Ororon stared at him.

Something was wrong. The man looked like he’d been struck. Shaken.

“What the hell are you doing with my kids?” Ororon demanded, hand still firmly dividing the other from the twins, voice pitched lower now. Not just anger—but confusion.

Still, no answer. The man looked at him as if he were a ghost. As if Ororon were the dangerous one. 

And Thrain—because that’s who he was, behind the silence and the shape of a stranger—couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Because the moment Ororon pulled down those hoods, the puzzle resolved itself cruelly. The curve of those inhuman ears. 

There was no mistaking it now.

They were his. They were Ororon’s.

He had recognized Ororon the instant he arrived. How could he not? That distinctive gait was carved into the very marrow of his bones. Even now, stripped of boyhood clumsiness, it was unmistakably him. Yes, he was plumper. Softer around the eyes. Beautiful, even in his melancholy. Yet, beneath all the changes, it was still him.

Alive.

His mouth went dry. His hands wouldn’t move, but still, he wanted to call out.

Wanted to fall to his knees and say I'm here. I came back.

I'll never leave you again.

But what sound can carry those words? There's not enough muscle cording his body to lift them.

Ororon’s eyes fell on him, and there was no recognition. Just the wariness one reserved for strangers. Hand drifting toward a weapon. A subtle lean in front of the children.

No battle could ever be as painful or hopeless as the one he was having with himself right now. The man he loved stood inches away, and he couldn’t find a voice.

His throat closed around the effort. What would he even say? You don't know me like this. You never saw me like this. Not when I was still human. 

Ororon was speaking now. Voice deeper than he remembered, but still, that same gentle rhythm even as he barked at the twins—half in relief, half in fear. He’d craved of hearing it again, in dreams or memory. He just hadn’t imagined it would sound like a threat. But the melody was short-lived as he turned his attention back to him.

“Are you deaf?” he asked, dry and brittle.

Thrain flinched.

It was unfamiliar. A lot of it. Too much of it. The scowl, the stance, the faintest flicker of bloodlust buried beneath his technicolor eyes. But he couldn’t breathe.

He watched them. Watched Nor tugging at his sleeve. He heard her attempt to defend him. Felt something small and holy splinter in his chest at the sound of her voice. 'But Mama, he helped us'. But Ororon wasn't having it. His instincts had drawn a boundary, and Thrain was clearly on the wrong side of it. He hadn’t noticed how tightly he clenched his hands until the leather creaked.

But he just stared.

And Ororon’s suspicion grew.

“Not a single word from you. Running around following this man? What were you thinking!” Ororon snapped, eyes bulging at the twins.

The question cut too close. Not because of what he said but because of how he said it.

Protective. Curious. Scared.

He had become a mother, after all.

It was a victory and a wound, both.

“You’re not from around here.” Ororon spans his attention to him once more, voice leveling. "What do you want with my children?"

Thrain tongue remained unmoved but his hands were trembling. He folded them into fists and hid them beneath his coat. He could feel the heat in his chest rising—panic, grief, the unspeakable tide that came with proximity to something he thought was long lost. 

“You’re Fatui?” Ororon asked, low.

He didn’t answer.

The silence grew teeth.

Then came the words that drove a spear clean through his ribs.

“You know who I am,” Ororon said. "Don’t you?”

He had to look up.

Their eyes locked.

And the old ache returned like a second spear.

He doesn’t know me.

He didn’t know the man with a whole face. With warm skin. With no rot, no armor, no plague of abyssal corruption peeling from his limbs.

“You recognized me,” Ororon added, his voice quiet now. "You looked like you were staring at a ghost.”

Because I was.

He wanted to say it. But it stuck behind his teeth like a scream. He looked like someone bracing for it to end.

Ororon came closer. 

"Did Citlali send you?" Now, there was hostility there he was unaware of.

Thrain’s lungs locked.

“You know me.” he whispered. "So I’ll ask again…Who are you?”

Thrain opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

His body wouldn’t let him say it. The sound of his name would make it real. Would bring it all crashing down. And if Ororon hated him for it, if he turned his back on him, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

So he tortured himself further with silence.

And watched something shutter behind Ororon’s eyes.

“Fine.” he said. "Keep your silence.”

Thrain’s lips parted.

“I am not your enemy.”

He utters finally. Although it is far beyond what he wants—needs to say. 

It was a threadbare truth. Not enough. Not nearly. But it was all he could manage. He could beg. Grovel and plead. I came back. I looked for you. I never stopped.

But those were lies. He was a coward. It took one look at a deserted cottage for him to lose his sanity and give up. 

Ororon stepped back, the cold following him.

“Then you’re a stranger sitting with children that don’t belong to you. In my town. You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. Stay away from them.”

Thrain didn’t reach out as the man turned.

Didn’t move when the twins gathered themselves and stumbled into his beloved's arms.

Didn’t speak when they left.

He just stood there.

A ghost in borrowed skin. A captain without command. A father who had come home too late to be called one.