Amends

Chapter 2: Adapt

Another day in the Barrier Mountains of Northwind. Another day to show for Ingressus' survival; but they were so rarely anything more

But like this day, Ingressus finds himself weaker than normal, and his everlasting tiredness quickly caught him off-guard, leaving Nakiri calling for someone else to help her bring him round from his paramnesia; and like all things in the last seven years, the solution was rarely as simple as words

Author's note: something to note that I forgot in the last is that *technically* you don't need to read this to continue "Unbroken" as this doesn't further the plot, per se. it's more of a spin-off, add-on, 'what happened next?' kind of thing that just allowed me to explore the effects in the aftermath of the previous plot; and indulge myself a little later on with something a little different XD

anyway, starts of wholesome, gets angsty - you know the drill by now XD

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The snow fell blissfully in the midday shine as the lake glistened with the sun and the light clouds blanketed the sky in a cotton white, allowing subtle beams to slip through with ease, softening the harshness of the bitter cold that came with the mid-winter temperatures. It was on days like this that the Voltaris were grateful for their peace, their quiet and their silence. It had been almost five years since they'd had any contact with the other clans and, despite their knowledge of the danger and risk that came with complacency, they relaxed, believing the worst to be over. The Sendaris Ghost had not haunted them in close to seven years and they had not heard of the Tidesinger in just as long. Every year, they celebrated Ingressus and his success in killing Thalleous Sendaris, and while Ingressus, himself, enjoyed his heroic victory for his clan, he felt nothing for it since he had escaped his predicament. To him, it was just another day to lull into nothingness; numb like most of that time.

Ingressus couldn't relax as the rest of what remained of his clan, however. Along with his markings, the label still stuck to him. He was still the Deathsinger. He was still a target. He was still wanted by the other clans. Since he had very little contact with the other clans and sightings of them around Northwind dwindled into none, he had begun to wonder if they were more occupied hunting the Tidesinger than they were himself. He wasn't any more at ease with that prospect than he was had they continued relentlessly hunting him, for that was still his brother on the run, if not already captured and killed.

While he stood in the open, watching the clan children run riot in the snow, throwing snowballs at one another and their parents, rolling in the frozen blanket beneath their feet, and as he let the soft, gentle flakes tickle his skin as they landed, he half-leant onto Voltar by his side and a rush of warm air escaped his lungs as he sighed, fogging the area in front of him. He found that his grip on Voltar was fierce, even when he was simply holding it. It had been taken from him for too long, used against him, used against a body of his own clan. He would never forget those days – a symbol of Voltaris hope used to dwindle what little he clung to with what little he could hold. The thought still sickened him, even this long after; and he held the polearm of the Master staff with everything he had in him, almost afraid that it would be taken from him again.

He leant his head against the wooden pole and closed his eyes, feeling the connection of his father deep within the staff against his horns. Thinking of Dominus had helped him when he felt most alone, despite the many that surrounded him, cared for him, and supported him. He knew that his clan were there for him, but it didn't aid the void-like ache inside of him that he was alone – that he was only allowed to suffer alone; that he couldn't tell a soul a single thing.

Perhaps that scar across his neck would mean more than its intended purpose, after all.

Silenced as he once was.