Frederick hasn't slept in so long. It feels like weeks, but it probably hasn't been that long; he just really does not like the idea of sleeping right now. After what he's been through ( or, not been through? the details are hazy, fog filled, distant things ) he would rather avoid thinking about Verdane at all.
But, as it is, he needs to. For himself, at the very least.
He finds Henry alone and approaches him, his hands behind his back. His face is solemn and serious, though he doubts the mage will find anything amiss with such an expression. He's not sure how to apologize ( can he? for letting his son die in a dream? it seems absurd ) -- but if he doesn't, it will weigh on him.
"Henry," he says, because that's what comes out. "It's good to see you. I've met up with Las-- with your son, Inigo."
"Freddybear!" His face lit up, wick to flame, enthused by the length of thread that had intertwined their paths in the past. Henry was a sick man, a twisted one. But in the tangling knots of his own depravity, there was a silly little concept he had come to terms with—a thread so thoroughly gold, it pulled him from his labyrinth. The Shepherds. They had taken up a guy like him... and for what? Were they suckered into it? And after all the Plegians had done to them? There was one guy in particular, who liked order in a way that should've oiled-to-watered him to Henry's chaos. The key here, was "should've." Because he still dragged Henry around like a rag doll, like one of them. A shepherd instead of a wolf. "I've been looking everyyyywhere for you!"
Forget Cassandra. Sometimes the things Henry said felt like a lie by default.
But he was. That is. He was looking for him.
To be honest, now that he had a good look at him, Henry's thighs started to ache just from the thought of those hellish workout routines Frederick used to drag him on. "Nya ha ha! Why the long face? Borrowed it from a horse or something?" He paused, at mention of Inigo so abruptly into the conversation. "Huh... So you were with the boyo, were you?"
His 'not-from-here-nor-anywhere-really' son. His 'damn-now-I-have-someone-to-live-for' son.
"Hey, uh. You good, bud?"
He was never good at these touchy-feely things. Or maybe he was deluding himself into thinking that. Either way, there's something distant in Frederick's eyes that made him feel like the guy had been through a doozy or three. Maybe he should recommend him to one of the psychologists he had on the line. Hmmmm. It would sound a bit nuts coming from him though.
"The last time I went on a mission in August, I looked juuuust as rough as you did! I shoulda warned ya, but y'know, I kinda missed the memo." He wagged his finger once, conducting the air in his ever-nonchalant attitude. Maybe he should have mentioned that he died the last time he went on a mission like that. Henry made death feel un-intimate, yet carried his crosses like he knew every corpse he came across by name. A crow cawed, landing playfully into Frederick's nest of hair. "Guess Crowm missed ya."
It was the closest thing to Henry admitting the same. The Shepherds had become a silly home for a silly man, after all. After the world had threatened to come down on them, Henry was glad this time around, it didn't. It hadn't. Because he had a little too much care for these folks, this time around. It'd be a bloody crime to rip them away from him now.
"Anywayyyys, you're going to have to catch me up to speed. And not in the Frederick's Fanatical Fitness Hour kinda way. Like... tell me something I can latch onto. Maybe I'll send a curse or two their way?"
"...Ahaha~" He rested a hand on Frederick's shoulder, to help anchor him a bit. Ship to shore. "Just like old times."
