papa // storm and his

He loves his children in a way that he never thought he would be capable of loving anyone. When he was younger, there was a piece of him that thought he knew himself, that understood that he wasn't made to love people in the way they needed to be. After his brother was killed, even the idea of loving anyone at all after that particular loss felt painful.

Then Eve and Night had been born and Mourn knew that every single wall he thought he had built was in ruins. The feeling didn't lessen with every child Esther bore, it only grew. Every gift she gave them cemented his love for her in turn until there was so much of it that he no longer knew what to do with it. Those that are closest to him know this, though capable of great cruelties, there is a depth of love that runs so deep in Mourn that it is to the point of ruin.

Part of him did not survive Storm's games.

Esther knows this because she watched that part of him die. Every hit that Storm took, every moment of pain, Mourn felt it along with him. He'd done his best, tried to go about business as usual but it was a useless endeavour. No matter where he went, there was a television screen with his son's blood face splashed across it. There were knowing looks, pity aimed his way for the patriarch of the Adroxis family and his son, gone off to die in the name of glory.

He blamed himself, of course he did, how could he not? He wondered if he'd failed Storm, hadn't loved him well enough or somehow neglected him to make him think that volunteering for the death games he'd lost two cousins to was the right thing to do. In the days since his volunteering, Mourn tried to make sense of it. The only conclusion that he came to was either Storm had a death wish or Mourn had made him believe that was what he wanted out of him as a father- a casket for a son.

Then Storm had won and Mourn hadn't known what to do.

His baby boy had gone off to war and come out of it scathed, with five deaths under his belt. Mourn had seen enough deaths in his line of work to know that it changes you. He still remembers the first time he killed in perfect detail, it haunts him. It never became easier either, there's never been a face he's just forgotten, they don't leave you.

The dead don't die.

In his first days home, Mourn chose to give his son space. It was enough to see him in his place at the dinner table, he didn't need anything else if his son didn't want it. It's still surreal, seeing him again, holding him in an embrace again and Mourn is still coming to terms with it.

There was a part of him that couldn't bear having hope again after losing Fleur and Nowles. He lay awake long nights, holding Esther, imaging the funeral that they'd have to arrange for Storm, his brain giving out at even the thought of it.

He couldn't stop envisioning Storm laying there silent in a little black suit, his little lightening storm, dead.

No.

It's over, all of that is over.

Mourn leans back in his chair, the stack of order forms he needs to read through and sign illegible in his current state. Tears prick the back of his eyes so he tips his chin up, gazing at the ceiling, blinking madly.

His son is home now, he can let go of the state of panic he's been living in for the past few weeks. There's nothing to worry about and if he's right, Storm is currently playing video games with Hal on the other side of the house, not hundreds of miles away.

He's got to let go or he's only going to push Storm away, he knows that. It's difficult though, when he has all of this love and worry for his children and he doesn't know where to put it. Sometimes it comes out wrong, too sharp and his love becomes a cruelty.

There's a knock at the door and Mourn sits straight and picks his pen up again, as if it's truly all he's been thinking about. "Father?" comes the uncertain voice of his prodigal son. There's too much of a question in his tone when he announces himself as Storm, as if Mourn does not know the sound of his own child's voice. He smiles a little, then shakes his head.

"It's open, Storm," Mourn says and comes out from behind his desk to greet him. In such little time, his second youngest has grown so much, too much even, in a way that Mourn hoped that he would never have to. When Storm steps inside he pulls him into an embrace and then steps back, hands on his son's shoulders. He looks him over carefully for a moment too long, as if committing his son's features to memory and then a corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Have I ever told you why we named you Storm?" he asks.