âI did not think anything more Morrigan did could surprise me, but lying about our father is a new and strange low. It matters little to me whether you are a warrior, a scholar, or a cobbler.â It seems like a compliment, and he bites his tongue for the somewhat rough ending he has for the sentence about his opinion on fatherâs who have no count with their children. From what he knows of Morrigan, if this man is not a warrior, there is a very good reason Faolan knows nothing about him. Locked in a cottage, there it is, and he sighs at the mention of it, unsurprised to hear it, not when he knows half a dozen tales about Morrigan and each uglier than the last. Faolan nods, though the man who is his father already makes himself comfortable in one of the chairs, and he follows a little slowly, trying to think of what to say, if anything at all. This isnât a touching reunion. Faolan snorts, head shaking, as if the idea of Morrigan picking anything less than a wealthy foothold is laughable at best. âShe has power, but our family is not so wealthy, she will gladly pick that. Canât say itâs done her any good, she is still no more known outside a smaller portion of people in the Otherlands.â He pauses, swallowing back the comment he has about how little her claim on his name has brought her. It is the manâs life, after all, but still, it has brought her wealth, and power, but less so than she could have gotten if she had⌠What, given them a chance? The idea makes him snort, because he knows a chance with Morrigan means turning up like the selkie girl: deranged, or damaged, take your pick. They are plenty damaged already, he is pleased to have not been dragged down with Morrigan.
Faolan settles down into one of the seats, deciding he canât stand to have this conversation standing any longer, even if it might be easier to distance himself from the earnest way Alistair of clan Quinlan spoke. âThis is not a ploy from Morrigan then to sway our sympathies?â he questions, knowing the answer is negative but blue eyes probing Alistair all the same. He lets the barriers drop a little more, prodding at the feelings swirling around Alistair like a storm, and then, just as quickly, letting his shields snap into place, so that the only emotions he could feel were his own and he held them tight. He smiles, only half-way. âForgive me, but I am great deal too old to need apologies for your absence, it changes nothing in my book. Least of all because I cannot blame you for something Morrigan caused, you are not the first I have met to have crossed paths with hers.â Somehow, they find him first, as if he has a beacon in him that summons them. Faolan inclines his head, and if his father expects a teary-eyed reunion, he appeared to the wrong child. He canât imagine his siblings crying either, but the thought of family brings a concerned frown to his face. âI will, however, question this: why now? It has been a millennia, perhaps even two, I am no longer sure of my own age nor is ClĂodhna sure of hers, so what brings you into our lives now?â
Alistair can understand why his son thinks it may be a ploy from his mother, a cruel joke. Anyone who had the unfortunate pleasure of being in Morriganâs clutches as long as they had would think the same. Nothing is sacred to her but her own worth, and manipulation she spun as quickly as the most agile spider. He can also understand the antipathy, though it makes his heart ache to feel the sheer exhaustion in his tone, in his very aura. What terrible things his son must have weathered over the years. But this was not a man to accept pity, let alone a father suddenly appeared after a millenia. âAh, that is a good question with a long answer. Indulge me a tad, if you would. It needs a proper answer, even if it is long.â Alistair says after a long moment of studying his son, as if to memorize the face itself should he never see it again. Could he blame Faolan if he didnât wish to see his father again? Not truly. âWhen Morrigan first imprisoned me, she took over my family seat as her own. The bereaved betrothed, then the secret wife fighting for her lost husband, once she saw she needed that to hold the land. And she locked my mother, my only remaining family, in a tower.â He explains, hand rolling his cane in place on the floor as if to help him drag the scattered pieces together again. âMy mother was the collateral for my good behavior. Either I let her use me, be it my mind or my body, and kept to the cottage, or she would kill her. She would torture her first, of course. Then me, after she had forced me to watch.â
Alistair pauses for a moment, thoughtful and to some extent, still grieving the mother he had only so recently lost. It is only when he feels Faolanâs eyes on him that he looks up again, the same shade of blue eyes meeting one another. He can feel that his son can easily believe such a thing, even if he also feels the walls that Faolan keeps around himself. Such strong walls, Alistair can only presume that theyâre necessary for a reason he may never know. âFor all that time, she never let on that she had borne any children. Abused me often enough, but her visits were scattered. The more the years went on, I suspected, but I couldnât get an answer any more than I could get free. Until my mother died of her own accord.â If Faolan asks, or if he is willing to reach out with empathy, he will get the clearer meaning of that phrase, but Alistair isnât quite ready to lay it out bare. Not yet. âI helped a child I had fostered to escape once I had heard she died. Because she deserved to be free of Morrigan, and to see if I could get free myself. Morrigan caught me first.â Itâs easier to show the leg than to explain, and so Alistair lifts his left pant leg to show the gnarled, blackened mess of his cursed leg. After a moment, he lets it drop and continues. âLethe I came to by chance. It seems the portal we tore open from the Otherlands leads here. I do not expect you to want to know me, Faolan. In all honesty, I did not expect you to let me in this building. I do not even expect you to believe me. Just listen, the once.â