Violinist

Footsteps shuffling forward, Raven made his way to a place that he hated, but he supposed it was about time he paid his due respects. Empty handed, he surveyed this place of resting, of mourning with a flat gaze. He shouldn’t be here. Or rather, he should have been buried years ago. It was a hard line of thinking to toss away.

The Don had meant a lot to the bird. Funny how that had happened. And now a dead man was paying respects to a man he couldn’t kill. That he’d thought no one could ever kill. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d believed that old man to be immortal. A rueful laugh escaped lips set in a grimace. Nothing was immortal.

There was a familiar sound coming from up ahead. Eyes finally lifted towards destination, Raven saw Harry. The young man appeared to be talking to himself. Or rather, he supposed, his memory of his grandfather. Halting, the archer considered turning back—it wasn’t his place to intrude. Not upon a moment like this. But why was Harry smiling…?

Caught in the act of turning to retreat, Raven gave a start as a shout was directed towards him. Couldn’t go back now.

"What’m I doin’ out ‘ere? Funny question, that. Came t’ see yer ol’ man, a course." The bird gave a shrug, hands spread wide. “Guess I jus’ got ‘ere late.”

There was a tinge of guilt there. For always leaving. The Don was almost something like family—and Harry too, he supposed. A rough hand reached up to ruffle blonde hair as if the young Whitehorse was still a child.

Harry didn't react at first, the smile from earlier gone as a mere soft 'huff' seemed to escape his nose. It felt like Raven was guilted into something, or perhaps he should say that's what it looked like. Huh, coming to see his grandfather, aye? "If yer gonna do it, then ya should do it an' not act like a slinkin' dog." It was a statement, a hand lifting and swatting at the other's wrist to get it out of blond hair.

He wasn't a little kid anymore. He wasn't that same happy-go-lucky kid, even if sometimes he wished he could go back to that time and keep playing with swords and fists, collecting bugs and just being ... well, a kid. But things weren't that simple; things were never that simple.

Continuing a slight wave of the hand, Whitehorse moved onward, feet tapping against the cold ground, "An' how am I holdin' up? I'm fine, ol' man. Somethin' gone wrong 'n that head'a yers t' get worried 'bout me?" The one who'd caused the incident. There was no reason to be worried. He was dealing with the consequences, especially with the old man, his only 'family' disappearing more than half the time.

He wasn't thought of then, so why now?

"HQ's as hectic as ever an' the top five ain't 'zactly bein' helpful with the trade 'n power." The relent, slight as it was to know 'how he was' in the all. Harry wasn't exactly keen on admitting to being in an awkward position, but he was. With the way everything was set up, he could have been considered emotionally unstable enough to pass on the power to someone else -preferably- someone who had more experience than he did.

There was a little catch to this though. No-one knew a Whitehorse strategy, strength and mind better than another Whitehorse. Being who he was, Harry himself was just as strong-willed and (honestly) could out-pass his grandfather's shadow, if not by size, by words and actions. Given a stepping stool, all he had to do was fill the shoes first.

He stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. The boy was rambling on and on in a way that sounded like he was rehearsing. He wondered how long it’d take Harry to realize that he was standing there, and heard the whole thing.

A grin crossed his face. Gone was the terrified youth. Gone was the happy little boy Harry once was. His little grandson was all grown up, and he’d missed it happen. He supposed watching someone’s head getting sliced off was enough to harden a soul. But it was endearing to see.

He burst out laughing as Harry finished up his speech. Strolling forward, he patted Harry on the back. Of course, a pat from The Don was probably enough to knock Harry forward, if not through the nearest wall.

Harry was staring at the supposed grave silently, not yet realizing the person behind him. After all, Don Whitehorse was dead. He had rehearsed this so many times over in the mirror, to himself, had to play his violin so often just to get the courage to even bring up such a topic, however . . .

The pat on his back certainly gave Harry a jolt.

The look must have been priceless. He'd stumbled lightly forward, having not expected the sudden force but, he was a whitehorse so he stood steady on his feet even after such a shove. His head snapping behind at the voice he knew all too well. "P-Pappy?!"

Well there went the boy's courage from earlier. He'd thought he'd finally get to say those words but here he was staring at the man alive again and that certainly made things a whole lot more difficult. He'd heard rumors, of course he had! It was a bit difficult to miss his grandfather walking around the streets--

. . .wait a minute. His cheeks flushed red and his hands cupped over his mouth. He'd just called his grandfather Pappy.

He hadn't called the man that in near over ten years.