Chapter Text
“You will never, never get over it.”
It was a small gathering that was Crepus’ funeral, hosted during an electric, rainy night. Few had been invited per Diluc’s request. The boy in question was ridden with grief–hair splayed about, eyes drowning in red as black clouds outlined his lids. He declined an umbrella, choosing to stand directly in the rain. I want to be strong, he’d thought. His clothes clung to his shivering figure. His complexion was pale, face stuck in shock and mourn as he stared down at the stone block representing a grave.
“It will haunt you for the rest of your life.”
The words had stung back then, but now that he was looking in the mirror, he couldn’t help but realize how right they were. How those two women who had whispered in their sickly sweet voices were telling the truth, after all.
The tears and prayers he cried for days afterward must’ve not reached the Gods.
His father had died when he was 18.
Now, he was nearing 22.
The hilt of the dagger that had caused his death was still imprinted into his hand. It would forever be. Here he was, still mourning four years later. It was evident, too. Gone was the fun loving, caring, sweet child he once was. Cheerful smiles were replaced with sharp looks if one was to catch his eye. Some said he’d died along with his father that day. They weren’t that wrong.
He tore himself from the bathroom with a heavy sigh, moving to Crepus’ old bedroom with axes as feet.
Adorning the pathway was dust. He’d instructed those who walked through the manor to never step foot in or near it, even going as far as to purchase a lock for the door.
Gently, he pulled a key out from his pocket, sliding it through the lock and walking through the doorway.
Cobwebs lined some areas. It’d been a while since Diluc could do a full clean of the room, always ending up in tears midway through. Greeting him was a picture of his father on a nearby bedside table, a tall candle sitting next to it. Resting in the drawer was a matchbox, something the red-head took a match out of and struck against the side. Briefly, he looked at it before quietly lighting the wick, a small flame dancing as it consumed the white tip to ashes.
“...I never did get over it, father.”