Chapter Text
Peter Lukas cannot remember the first time he was Lonely. Maybe it was when he was 5, when his parents took all his siblings and left him alone in the house. Maybe the power first touched him then, as he wandered the empty halls of a cold, silent, sprawling mansion, too timid to cry out for an answer that he knew would not come. Maybe it was before that, when he realized that his parents did not love him, did not love anything or anyone. Maybe it happened later, as a teen, when he accepted that he was exactly like them. Hungry and yearning and empty inside.
He relished in the power of seeing someone disappear before his eyes, of finally having control of the people around him. The fear in that innocent annoying man’s eyes before he disappeared was thrilling. Peter knew, somehow, even at the beginning of his god’s gifts, that the place he was going to was quiet and lonely. He almost envied the poor bastard.
(He used to think the money was left out because his mother wanted to chase him out. Then he stopped thinking that when he was led below their house, into a catacomb that he never knew was there. And then, much later in life, Peter realized he was never wrong in the first place.)
He remembers clearly when he learned what his family name meant. A life of isolation and bitter neglect. All waved away with the explanation that it was to make him stronger, make him better, more suitable for their god. How Peter relished it, finally understanding why his parents were so cold and distant. They did not hate him, they just simply felt nothing for him, and in that moment he, too, felt nothing at all, as the emptiness of serving the Forsaken filled him.
One by one, his family left. Three sisters and one brother, all left because they could not find comfort in their isolation. They’ve all abandoned him. Did not even think to take him with them when they fled. Do they ever think of him? Peter hopes they don’t, for all they may deserve, this is not one. His mother is silent as always, his father’s absence is different than that of his siblings.
Peter stepped into the fog. What else could he do?
He takes to the seas, sailing on the Tundra. It's still under his family’s name of course, but he can almost trick himself into believing that he chose the Forsaken by himself. The ship heads to port less and less, it’s not like they’re actually shipping anything. Peter doesn’t like the feeling of being watched when they head to shore, eyes on him even when there’s no one there. He had chosen the right crew, they don’t utter a word of complaint when he calls them out on a starless night for a send off. Not even when it becomes a grim routine. The joy he feels over the torment of his crew and the cloying desperation of the people fed to his god almost makes up for the bitter taste in his mouth when he sees a rolling fog. Peter likes this, he has to like this.
(He finally believes that much, much, much later.)