The moment theyâre alone, Thancred lifts his hands in a show of surrenderâ and, admittedly, an attempt to ward off blows that he knows are not truly coming. Not that Urianger requires blows to wound him, as his father turns on him and proceeds to drop both his speech patterns and any pretense of a professional relationship, reverting entirely to the very angry, very frightened father he has been for years. Heâd been expecting this very thing, been somewhat wary of it, and yet it seems he wasnât wary enough, for the level of fury being directed at him is greater than any he has ever known, even after one particularly idiotic stunt he had pulled during his time in Sharlayan, when he was still a youth hellsbound to push everyone away before they could cast him aside.
âI know,â he says, and though he tries to sound steady, in the face of Uriangerâs anger he falters, something uncertain and younger than his years on his face. âI know I did, I know âtwas a risk, and I know she needed and needs me still. But I could notâ Ranâjit was there, seeking to kill her or to capture her again, and sheâd only just made the decision that she wanted to be strong for herself, to live for herself and try to save this world of her own volition, not because of her ties to Minfilia, and I could notâŚâ He draws a breath, feeling his eyes grow misty, and he swallows. ââŚI couldnât see that wasted, athair. You know I couldnât.â
With that said, he lets his father shake him, and when Urianger tips forward to rest his head on his shoulder, Thancred wraps his arms around him in as tight a hug as heâs capable of giving. ââŚAye,â he says softly, and here, in private, he loosens the iron grip he usually holds over his accent, and adds. âIâll not do this tâ ye again, athair. I promise yeâ that.â He pauses for a long moment, letting the words sink in, letting his Urianger breatheâ and then pulling both good humor and his more cultured manner of speech back around himself, Thancred grins and adds, âIf ever I should have to risk my life in such a manner again, Iâll be sure to give you enough warning in advance that you can off me yourself and save us all the trouble!â
At the youthful uncertainty in Thancredâs face, Urianger does soften. This is his son, after all, for all his stupid reckless foolishness. Perhaps not by blood, but he doesnât need to be. He will always be his son, has been since the moment the scruffy Lominsan teenager had been dragged spitting and hissing into his care. An angry little thing who didnât believe he could be more than that, someone so like his own younger self...the other children in his care were less so his, belonging also to others --- Papalmyo was older, and Lyse was his to care for, Yâshtola studied under Master Matoya, and the little twins, his little twins, did also have their blood father and Master Louisoix. But Thancred and Gâraha had been his. His to raise, his to teach, his to look after. His to fear for and his to be so, so very proud of. And now that he can, his to be angry at.
But...though he is angry, he sighs. âI know, Thancred,â he says. âI know it was a risk you had to take, for her. You know well that I would do the same, had I need to protect you or any of the others.â He hugs him, returning the gesture. âI know you would do it again, too, if you had to. But that doesnât make it any less difficult for me to...â He pulls away slightly to smile faintly at him. âNo matter what may come, sionnach, I am your father. I will always worry. And now that weâre both of us ourselves again, you cannot expect me to sit idly by and fret in silence while any of you run off to be your reckless selves, least of all you.â A mischievous smirk of his own plays across his face. âThis is your doing, you realize. Youâd best not regret it now.â
It warms his heart a little to hear that accent, know itâs not something he usually lets slip and know itâs for his sake, and warms his heart even further to hear him call him father again; he hadnât in all the years theyâve been here. And then he pauses, and makes his own little jest, and Urianger shakes him once more and groans, burying his head back in his sonâs shoulder. âLittle imp,â he complains with a fond grumble. âOr should I call you a little pixie now, theyâre far too much like you not to.â A short sigh, affectionate and irritated. âDonât think I wonât kill you myself, should you try something like that again. âTis not your opponent youâll need be afraid of!â Truly, heâs missed this. Heâs both missed it and--- itâs been...this is something thatâs been long coming. They had started to work on themselves and each other when theyâd been Called, and though it wasnât without trouble...here they were now. Heâs glad for it.
