Corbin paced through the halls, the only light in the moonless twilight his golden candlelight. His face was reflected by the copper candlestick he was holding, grim determination distorted in its surface. He wore the shadows like a coat, the frost his only company in the frigid night. The letter, so carefully written, was held delicately in his right hand, as frail as the silence surrounding it and yet weighing in his hand like the purest of leads. In his soul, something throbbed, not pain or sadness. Corbin felt as if he'd been scrapped raw, all layers of protection burned away into ashes, leaving his bloody, beating heart vulnerable to any vultures to pick on it. His walls had been broken down, rubble left in its wake, a mere child left in the aftermath.

His masks worked no more. He could not force a smile any longer.

In front of him, the heavy beech there stood like an impenetrable wall, yet a faint light could be seen coming from underneath. He filled his lungs with burning air, exhaling as he carefully maneuvered the letter to his inner pocket, and opened the door to Father's study, arming himself with what few defenses remained within him. Father was there, of course. There he was, surrounded by his countless books and crushed velvet carpets, a stoked fire he never let Corbin touch behind him.

Sitting in his desk, he barely looked up from his papers, not even deeming Corbin worthy of a "hello." He merely pushed his cold, bitter tea and said, "Fetch this before you close up the kitchens. My Dove hates it when the teacups stain."

Corbin remained immobile, letting the minutes pass as he formed his scattered words.

"What do you want?" Father snapped, a fierce expression on his face. "Are you just going to wait there the entire---"

"Why didn't you ever tell me about Mother?"

"What?" Father looked up, his ocean blue eyes widening. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, Sir," he spat out the last word and, with every second that passed, cold realization filled Corbin's veins, an unwilling truth lurking in the deep and dark corners of his mind.

Why did he ignore you all these years?

A shadow fell upon Father's face, the dips and valleys of his face sinking and his skin turning dull and sickly. "There is nothing to say. It's not for me to tell you about your mo--- her."

Why is he so hateful whenever he sees you?

"So you chose for me not to know her at all, Sir?" Corbin's voice broke, a silent scream escaping through the cracks and gaps, an irreparable fissure in his heart. "To lay content with the fractions of the moments that I still remember? To be left alone like a broken, defective toy that is not so fun to play with anymore now that you have newer, shinier ones?"

When was the last time he ever spoke to you?

Father jumped up from his desk, frenetic energy in every twitch of his muscles. "How dare you tell me that? You do not know what I had to do!"

Has he ever told you he loves you?

In a moment, it was as if everything that had ever happened in Corbin's life clicked and, just like the lit fuse of a well-made bomb, exploded.

"I do not know because you never told me! Never spoke to me!" Corbin couldn't understand how one could love and hate a person so much at the exact same moment. "Even before Mother died, you never did. At every opportunity you had, you just left me to gather dust from your shadow."

Does he love you?

Father brushed a hand through his black hair, creating quite the opposite effect to what was probably intended, "What brought this on? You never act like this, you just stay quiet and do everything we say. You're always so good when you say nothing."

Did he ever love you?

"Why did you never tell me I was Fae?" Corbin looked straight into Father's eyes, a serpent coiling in his neck taking away his breath.

The cold stone walls echoed, the only sound in the room the snapping and cracking of the roaring fire.

Father straightened his back, an unreadable look in his eyes, "Who told you?"

"Who else?"

Something like hope illuminated Father's features only to be quashed in a fraction of a second. "Impossible, she never---"

Taking out the letter from his breast-pocket, Corbin could only say, "If it's so impossible, then why was this on her desk?"

"What?" Father almost ripped the letter from Corbin's hands, voraciously reading every single one of Mother's words.

There are moments in a person's life where everything you have ever known gets cast into question and uncertainty, moments where your world tumbles down and the basis of years of your life is proven false. Yet the past has been done and all the actions that occurred because of those beliefs remain even with your sudden epiphanies. All you are left to see are the remains of what might have been, seeing the torn people and broken dreams you've left in your wake. Staring into the ashes, you realize that nothing will ever fix what you've done.

At that moment, as he read through his beloved's letter, Father could only see the path of destruction behind him.

Father looked up from the letter, a lost look in his eyes, "I..."

"It's been so lonely," Corbin choked out, his words stilted, "these past few years. Could you really not even bear looking at me? Did you even want to try?"

"I am..."

"Everything I did wasn't enough, every time I fell short in your eyes, I couldn't even be worthy of you celebrating my bloody birthday!" Tears were falling freely down Corbin's eyes, burning and blazing through his skin. His shoulders slumped with the weight of nearly seven years of endless neglect, his thin and brittle bones not enough to carry the weight of the world.

Father took a step closer, his hand forward, ready for the taking, a sign of comfort, "I'm sorry."

Corbin flinched, shrinking up. "Sorry just doesn't cut it anymore."

"I am truly sorry, please understand that---" Father's voice was earnest, clear and striking.

"If you had said this," Corbin said, "a year, a month, a week, a day before, I probably would have accepted it. I would have smiled and shined and been so insufferably happy that I would have outshone the Northern Star. But now? Those words just ring hollow, and I cannot feel anything while you say them but loss."

"Is there any way I could ever make it up to you?" Father breathed out.

"Give me Mother's ring."

"I cannot give it to you even if I wanted to, it cannot be worn by anyone anymore. Anytime I try to wear it, it just shrinks into a tight circle," Father said, a wry and bittersweet smile on his face, his crow's feet deepening, the marks of age showing even more prominent.

"Is that so, sir?" Corbin asked.

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Son," Father replied, "I am still your father, no matter what has happened between us."

"Is it just now that you decide that I should call you 'Father'?" Corbin said, "When I was younger you forbid me from saying such things, why would I do something that I know I cannot do? Let's do this quickly so you can return to your precious family and I return to my rightful place, in the attic."

Deep pain etched its way through Father's face, and Corbin couldn't help but feel a sort of sick pleasure at the sight.

"I don't deserve this," Father said, his lips tight and knuckles white.

Corbin pulled his chin up, narrowing his eyes in determination, "And I didn't deserve to be abandoned and treated more like a servant rather than your own son, and yet here we are, aren't we? Stuck in this endless cycle with no way out."

"And what do you expect me to do to break this cycle, then?" Father massaged his temples.

In his heart, it was clear what Corbin's only answer could ever be, "Give me Mother's ring. I don't care if I can't wear it, give me the only thing I have left of her, please."

"And what if I don't give it to you?" Father asked. "What would you do?"

"I would never forgive you, no matter how hard you tried. And, one day, when you least expect it, I would vanish and you would never see me again," Something set in the air, and Corbin felt something in his very blood lock in place.

Father's face fell, but grim determination filled the empty space, "Is that so?"

"That's so."

Father approached the old ornate desk, opening the top drawer with an iron moon for its handle, "Then I have no other option."

Father held in his hands a golden ring, with dark, etched marks all around it, none of them even resembling any language Corbin knew, and yet he felt as if he could understand what it said, if only he got closer.

"Does this mean you'll stay?" Father's eyes were wide, hopeful, something Corbin had rarely seen before in his direction.

"I promise that I'll stay here as long as I'm needed."

"May it be so," Father pressed the ring on Corbin's palm, and everything---the entire world---shifted.

Just as Corbin grasped it, slid it on his finger, the frigid emptiness he felt in his veins was suddenly replaced by warm, gilded light, thawing his bones and firing up his brain. Corbin felt as if he could finally breathe, the air in his lungs moving freely instead of stilting and stuttering. He was lighter than air, more gas than solid. His senses sharpened, tiny pricks and tingles in his hands, as he put the ring on, a perfect fit for his finger. Shock and awe flooded him, and he could never turn back anymore. The pull of magic tugged at his bones, pulling them apart and back together. He was out of control, he couldn't coordinate the blaze inside of him, and yet it was the most natural thing he had ever felt in all his years. Even as it lashed out, as gales blew in the office, as precious parchments and papers flapped around the room like birds of prey, as the fire roared with a never-ending hunger, Corbin felt right.

In the chaos, he felt at home.

And, thumbing in the inscription, feeling the valleys of the engraving, he could finally read what it said.

For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Corbin's breath was caught in a tangle of cobwebs and silk strings, his heart beating at double-time, "I..."

"It fits you?" Father gasped, his face frozen in shock. "How---?"

But Corbin could not pay attention to what Father said. From the corner of his eye, a silvery light shone on. Whipping his head to the side, he saw there, playfully floating and bouncing mid-air, there was a glowing, fiery wisp in the air. It was utterly enchanting, a sort of lost childishness laying there. Stretching his hand out, fingers spread wide, he slowly approached the orb. Seemingly noticing this, the orb... butted its head to Corbin's palm. In the palm of his hand, it snuggled and rubbed itself against Corbin, the touch as soft as the fur of a newborn kitten and as warm as a cozy blanket on a rainy day.

Suddenly, the orb jumped up, rushing towards the enormous beech door, leaving glittering stardust in its wake. Corbin turned back, looking at Father, but the answer was clear. He had to follow the orb.

That would be the last time Corbin ever saw Father alive ever again.

Stumbling through the dark halls and rushing down the stairs, Corbin followed the orb through the expanse of the mansion. No matter how far he ran, how many corners he clipped, and how many times he slipped, he was magnetized by the orb, galvanized by pure explosive curiosity. From the office to the kitchen to the solarium to the dining hall, the orb twirled and looped, leaving silver crystals in its wake. Corbin crashed into several pots and pans, leaving them in his wake. He closely avoided destroying the glass structure of the solarium and almost destroyed one of the finest pieces of china in the dining hall. As Corbin was making his way through the grand staircase, the orb gave a sharp turn, bounding towards the main door.

With no hesitation, Corbin followed.

Through brush and through briar, Corbin flew across the forest, magic thrumming stronger and stronger in his veins. The brilliant light played hide and seek through the pale oaks and birches, past icy rivers and thornbushes. As the soft, driven snow muffled his footsteps, as the wind swept his wild, black curls, as his heart beat faster and faster, harder and harder, he couldn't stop following the mysterious light.

The faint taste of happiness permeated the roof of his mouth at the fire's sight, the faint sound of whispers and forgotten melodies in its wake. In the darkness, the orb was a guide, a connection to the soul he'd been lacking. All the creatures in the forest were asleep, everything was quiet, but with the light's presence, everything felt alive, everything seemed malleable in Corbin's hands. He couldn't notice how, at his feet, heathers and asters sprung at his wake, untouched by the frost. He couldn't notice how, in the fierce bitter gales of the nights, irises and daisies bloomed from his fingertips, floating gently in the wrathful wind. He couldn't notice how not a single branch was out of place, how branches never seemed to drag their sharp claws across his skin, how the ground seemed to move itself to aid him in his path, how the river grew gentler as he crossed its path, how the wind seemed more prone to push him towards the light than drag him back.

How could he notice, when that was as simple and unconscious as breathing?

His windswept hair was crowned with flowers and snowflakes, his eyes cat-like, glowing in the night. Even across the maze of trees and bushes, those very same eyes never lost sight of his goal. No matter how many pirouettes it did in the air, how many false leads it gave, Corbin was always two steps behind it.

Until the glowing light crossed suddenly, leading to a much-too-familiar place.

Corbin was there, in the clearing of a thousand bluebells, in the rolling hills of a thousand stars. He was there, in the boy's meadow. The orb had seemingly disappeared, and Corbin, breathless and confused, did not know what to do. The song of a thousand voices could be heard with every blade of grass, the magic in his veins overflowing. His steps softened the hard snow, his breath giving life to the blooming bluebells. With no purpose, Corbin decided to rest in the soft pillow of winter, covered by the frosted blades of grass. The air was sharp and sweet and unimaginably familiar, like a precious tale just before one fell asleep, like a childhood doll one refuses to part from in memory, even if you've not seen it in decades. Corbin closed his eyes, connecting himself to power he could not even begin to understand.

But, just as his heart was calming down, just as his breathing quieted and his muscles began to ache, the crunch and crack of rushing footsteps sparked his attention much too late. With only that as his warning, he felt a heavy figure crash on top of him, the only thing he could see being amber eyes and cool, smooth, black skin, his wintergreen breath warm on Corbin's cheek.

They really ought to meet differently.

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AN: Yeah... so I couldn't publish this chapter yesterday, it was just too short, and so I chose to combine it with a portion of the next chapter. Anyways, what did you think? Please comment, I would love to know your opinions!