At this point, he was just letting himself ramble. Might as well. Wisp deserved to feel secure in their marriage, to know exactly who she had married. She needed to understand what she was dealing with, especially for the sake of their children.

Children. God, did that hurt.

He didn’t know how to be a father. Didn’t have much of a template to work from. Sarge’s memories of his mother were blurred and fragmented, warmth, softness, and then her end. Nothing concrete beyond that. As he continued talking, the words began to spill more freely, his mind drifting further from the present. Detached. Floating.

Then came the scuffle of paws.

His ear twitched, blinking rapidly as he dragged himself back into his body, only to feel gnawing at his ankle.

Startled, he twisted to look.

One of his children. Indignant. Furious. Taking out their tiny rage on him.

His chest seized, not with anger, not with instinct, but sheer terror. Had he really let one of them get that close without realizing?

He froze, watching Selkie attack him with all the righteous fury a pup could muster. Slowly, his heartbeat eased. The room came back into focus. He grounded himself in the weight of the moment, in the warmth and life pressed against him.

Considering everything he had just confessed, he couldn’t help the faint smirk that tugged at his mouth.

A vicious one, ain’t ya, he murmured, a flicker of humor dancing through golden eyes.

Carefully, so carefully, he swept the pup closer, guiding him up to his chest for warmth. Selkie was free to continue chewing, earning only a gentle lick to the head in return.

He would not be his father.

That, he was damn certain of.

When Wisp spoke, his attention shifted fully back to her, and only then did he really see her. The tears. The rage. The hurt.

The last thing he ever wanted was to make her cry. Somehow, he seemed frighteningly good at it.

Then she asked her question.

How had he come to this cursed land?

He hesitated, but before he could answer, she continued, stepping closer.

Winning? His voice remained soft, steady. There is no winning in violence, Wisp. There is only suffering. You won’t change my mind about that.

His gaze dropped briefly to their child. A child didn’t deserve hatred. Had never done anything except exist.

But maybe he had.

Maybe whatever rot had lived in his father had bled into him too.

He shoved the thought away sharply. Not now. Selkie was too close. Too small. Too vulnerable.

His mind drifted back to her first question.

Had he died?

The first memory of Mythris was walking. Marching. Alone. Bitter and hollow. But before that?

The answers resisted him, fuzzy, raw, sensitive. His mind recoiled from the edge of it.

Still, he pushed.

The words that finally left his mouth shocked him as much as they settled something deep in his chest.

I did die, he said quietly. But not by their hands.

His throat tightened.

I… God, why did talking hurt so fucking much?

I killed myself.

The confession barely rose above a whisper as the truth settled between them.