She has crossed his mind too many times since their last meeting for him to continue to ignore it.

It is not so much an infatuation with her directly — though she is, of course, beautiful; brightly lit and blindingly white, the near polar opposite of his swarthy shadows, with that electrifying undercurrent of magic. Instead it is the never-ending chain of thoughts that often haunted him after he had been with someone, the guilt that quickly took the place of pleasure once he remembered the downside to the possibility that such things could result in children.

It is not that he viewed any of his children as mistakes; he is the mistake. 

He is the one that should not be subjecting innocents to a life like his, a life lived in the darkness and suffering from cravings that control your every waking moment, the kind that alienates you and makes having any kind of lasting relationship virtually impossible (he thinks of Despoina, and as always it feels like a twist of a blade lodged in his chest — where is she? Had he left her, or did she finally grow tired of the madness he created in her?). Of the children he has (that he is aware of) none have escaped at least some kind of ill fate, and he knows that it is entirely his doing. 

And so his uneasy thoughts drive him away from the solitude of the forest that he so prefers, knowing that the only way he will find respite from this anxious thinking is to confirm once and for all if his fears are unfounded. 

She had said that she was living in a place called the Dale now, and while it is an unfamiliar kingdom (truth be told they all are, but this one is unfamiliar even by name) he finds it easy enough. He had waited for nightfall, and though the subtle shifting of the shadows that cloaked his body caused him to mostly blend in, he knew that she would not miss the glowing crimson of his eyes if she were nearby, and even more likely that she would be aware that an outsider had entered her kingdom.

It does not take long for Beyza to find him. His eyes are drawn to her glowing white form — thinking how it reminds him of starlight, and for a moment he is once again struck out how she is such a contrast to him — but almost instantly they stray from her and fall to the two small boys at her side. His chest squeezes tightly, but his expression remains unchanged, and mostly unreadable thanks to the shifting shadows. He can see immediately that they are like him, but also so curiously similar to their mother, with pale coloring swathed in shadow. This does little to alleviate the guilt that he feels crawling up his skin.

He wonders if they already feel it — the insatiable cravings, the undeniable feeling that they are different. He had not been born a bodach; he does not know what it’s like to be one when it is all you’ve ever known.

Perhaps it is easier, and he pities them (no; pities himself) for no reason.

He forces his gaze to lift, recognizing that he has stared at them for too long, fixing his red eyes to her peculiar white ones. “Beyza,” he returns her greeting, though it is awkwardly delayed. Beneath the shadows of his brow there is a frown, but he recognizes it and smooths it away, not wanting her to think that he is displeased by their children. He is not; he has never denied or disliked any of them. “I’m sorry I did not find you sooner,” he says, though he isn’t sure why. Somehow she has found herself in the small category of individuals that he thinks about when he is not being held captive by the infinite hunger.

Now, he looks back to the boys; Harrowed and Evade, she had named them. He lowers his head, though he does not step towards them, simply tells them, “I’m your father, Torryn.”

They’ll need you to teach them, she says, and somewhere in the shadowed cavity of his chest his heart goes still. He knows he has other children that are hunters, but he has never had the opportunity to meet them. He cannot say that he blames their mothers; there is nothing about him that indicates he would be a good father. He had tried with Caelum and Racine, though he is not sure if he succeeded, and somehow failing at that felt as though he had failed his own father. Ether had been a good father; he had been the kind of man Torryn had aspired to be, before this curse took hold of him. He is convinced it is only by still having his father’s blood in his veins that he is not entirely captive to the darkness he became, and that even a sliver of a conscience still exists.

He isn’t sure if he can be that same anchor for his sons, though, but he knows he will not forgive himself if he does not at least try.

“Of course,” comes his quiet response to Beyza, wondering if she can sense the turmoil that never seems to cease inside of him. He lowers his gaze to the boys again, noting how Harrowed had his own red eyes, yet Evade’s were a golden yellow, similar to the rest of Torryn’s family. They both made his heartbeat catch, for different reasons. “Perhaps I will stay in the Dale for a while, if that’s alright with you,” he says to the pale Queen. He cannot recall the last time he stayed in one place; the last time he saw Despoina, he supposes. And while right now he had no intention of making this place his home, he also knew it would be easier to teach the twins if he was at least here regularly.