— I'll break you a hundred different ways —

In a rare moment of solitude, he winds through the thick foliage and brush of Tephra. It was quieter now, with the oldest four of their children now grown, though it was not uncommon for them to come and go from the family’s nearly private area of the territory. Rosine was less and less frequent, but he did not find that surprising; she had always been prone to wandering away from her siblings, and he didn’t think it was likely that she would plant her roots in Tephra. Tamlin and Bea did not seem to stray far, and accompanied by the twins it was easy to forget there was a world that existed outside of their own.

It was almost chaotic enough that the absence of Thorn could have gone unnoticed, if it was not something that gnawed relentlessly at the back of Nightlock’s mind. He would hardly claim to be a good father; he was still too stoic for his own good, and all of his love for his children was still frequently trapped beneath layers of hardened indifference that he likely would never shed. But, it was there. Buried or not, it existed, and his subconscious would not let him forget it.

Up ahead his gaze narrows onto a familiar form, and even though the young stallion’s back is to him, he recognizes him instantly. He lengthens the stride of his walk just enough to slowly begin to close the gap between them, though there is no rush to his pace. He tracks him long enough to try and decipher if he was purposely avoiding him, or if he truly did not see him. “Thorn,” and the strength of his voice in the silence sends more birds fluttering for higher branches, giving his son no choice but to turn and face him.

— and I'll make you remember my face —

— I'll break you a hundred different ways —

“Because I can,” is Nightlock’s dry response to his son’s somewhat accusatory question, though nothing in his face implies that he is irritated. There is little that any of his children can do to rouse the sleeping beast within him; the one that eventually snaps, the one that would rather hear the crack of bones than any kind of excuse or explanation. He has not touched on that hidden anger in years; not since he chose to stay with Wonder. Though outwardly he was similar to the way he had been back then – stoic and quiet, with smiles few and far between – the corners of his soul did not feel quite so dark. It did not mean he found it any easier to express concern or love, but, it did mean anger was becoming more and more of a stranger to him.

But the sight of Thorn’s chest inspires something – something like anger, something like fear. The young boy turns towards him with what Nightlock expects to be a wounded glare and instead he is met with that gaping, bleeding hole in his chest, and he is sure the look that crosses his face is one he’s never worn before; the storm-clouds briefly chased away by a flash of lighting – concern and alarm but then, of course, anger.

“What the hell happened to you?” The words sound sharper than he had intended, and in a matter of strides he is before him just as he folds to the ground. He can’t deny that his own father is the first thought that flashes across his mind – he can’t think of anyone else in this land that would set someone loose with a gaping, unhealable wound across their heart. But Thorn’s quiet gasps draws him back, and he looks down at the boy and the pool of blood. “I’m real,” and though his voice is still rough it has lost all of its edge, and he lowers his head to brush his nose across the top of Thorn’s neck. “Why wouldn’t I be real?”

— and I'll make you remember my face —