Fox's Glade My silent lips

As she reined in her own emotions, closing herself off from his prying eyes, he tried his damnedest to do the same. Only, it wasn’t as easy for him. When there was already something there to hide behind and to continuously shove stuff into the shadows of as if he were a child cramming his toys beneath the bed was easy—but this, rebuilding something to hide himself away in, was difficult. Difficult beyond belief actually, to the point where he questioned the possibility of it; he couldn’t do it, not now nor ever, if he continued down the same tightrope he was currently perched precariously atop. And in how it made him vulnerable, it also made him blind; blind to the lies hidden in her words, sheltered by the incorrect truth.

He was easy to fool, believing her words to be the true reasoning behind her distress, and he felt for her. After all, he’d left his own children behind, too, hadn’t he? But he didn’t want her thinking that way—so he spun his own lies.

“Merrick knows why you had to leave,” he explained, easing into his own story with a softened voice. “I talked to him before I left to find you and Laurel—he understood, he wasn’t mad at you.” Which was not entirely a lie, as he simply hadn’t cared enough to be upset—but that addition did not need to be shared. “We can look for him and bring him home,” he offered, hopeful. He could help her, make her feel better. Whatever she wanted to do, whatever she needed to get done, he could help. But as swiftly as came the sudden burst of hope, there it went again—

—Lucas… he’s dead.

Xan had never known his children to Laurel well, she hadn’t allowed him to see them. All he had to remember them by were the names she’d given them and the few glances he’d been able to steal while they were out. And yet, learning of one’s passing was not nearly as easy of news to hear as he would have expected: Lucas had been his son, after all, even if they’d hardly known one another. And to find out that he was gone, that they would never have a chance to get to know one another, hurt more than he ever would have guessed—and perhaps that is what it means to be a parent.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say at first. Sorry he hadn’t really known the boy, sorry he’d never tried to change that when he had the chance—sorry he hadn’t been there for her or Laurel after he’d passed. “I’m… sorry, Indra. I’m so sorry.” Now more than ever, he wanted his family back together.