so make your siren's call and sing all you want, I will not hear what you have to say --
He remembers the first time he had met Ivar. He had smiled, kind of, and even at that young of an age, Varick had known there was no kindness there. He was not smiling because he had another son; he was smiling because Varick was a kelpie – the only acceptable offspring, according to his sire. Instead of feeling proud that he had hit the genetic lottery, all this had done was cause Varick to resent his kelpie form.
He did not want to be like them.
He did not want to be ruthless and cold, selfish and cruel.
It’s why when Sabbath suggests that he would hurt their son, there is a flicker of something dark that passes over his eyes, his jaw clenching as he quells the brief anger that tightens his chest. Not anger directed at her, because he had not given her any reason to think he was different than the rest. It was a blameless anger, one that had nothing to grip to and no roots to speak of. And so it passes, and he chases it further away with another crooked, half-hearted smile. “Sounds like you’ve met my father,” he says, not realizing that she has, actually, met Ivar.
His blue eyes move from her as Crowns begins to make his way towards him, tipsy and uneasy on his too-long, brand new legs. There is something else in his chest this time, an all-consuming pride and a whirlwind of emotions when his son touches his nose to the frosted scales on his chest. He lowers his head, pressing his muzzle into his dark mane, and breathes him in.
He looks up when Sabbath speaks, surprised at the panic that trembles in her voice. He frowns, ignoring the pang of hurt when she implies that he would actually harm his own son. “I’m not going to hurt him,” he says quietly, his eyes searching her face in earnest from the distance that he keeps between them. “I promise,” he adds, again looking down and running his nose against the boy’s neck. “What did you name him?”
He did not want to be like them.
He did not want to be ruthless and cold, selfish and cruel.
It’s why when Sabbath suggests that he would hurt their son, there is a flicker of something dark that passes over his eyes, his jaw clenching as he quells the brief anger that tightens his chest. Not anger directed at her, because he had not given her any reason to think he was different than the rest. It was a blameless anger, one that had nothing to grip to and no roots to speak of. And so it passes, and he chases it further away with another crooked, half-hearted smile. “Sounds like you’ve met my father,” he says, not realizing that she has, actually, met Ivar.
His blue eyes move from her as Crowns begins to make his way towards him, tipsy and uneasy on his too-long, brand new legs. There is something else in his chest this time, an all-consuming pride and a whirlwind of emotions when his son touches his nose to the frosted scales on his chest. He lowers his head, pressing his muzzle into his dark mane, and breathes him in.
He looks up when Sabbath speaks, surprised at the panic that trembles in her voice. He frowns, ignoring the pang of hurt when she implies that he would actually harm his own son. “I’m not going to hurt him,” he says quietly, his eyes searching her face in earnest from the distance that he keeps between them. “I promise,” he adds, again looking down and running his nose against the boy’s neck. “What did you name him?”
VARICK
@[Sabbath]