'He's my son.'
How did that happen? Why did he say this?
In times like these his heavy cloak seems to be dragging him down. Wearily, he sits down under a chimney and leans his back against the cold brick column.
It was a ruse, a well conceived trick to make the guards let him in.
Apart from the fact that he could have used a dozen other pretexts, excuses, explanations.
And what he had been fearing for all those years he had left Ziio behind had come true within an instant. The guard, this scrawny little son of a bitch, had looked down on him. Had dared to mock him for producing a bastard child, a savage.
He should have killed him.
Instead, he remembered this moment not as one of shame and humiliation.
His head was raised in pride, in defiance. His son was there, by his side, and everyone could see that he was indeed...ah well. He could have turned out worse. So much of Ziio in him. But a lot of himself, too. He leans his head against the chimney to look up at the darkening sky. His mouth falls open as a result, slack and tired, and he wonders why he lets himself go like this. Why he allows these thoughts.
The boy makes him weak. He touches his heart. Makes him question everything all over again. He knows he will never come to any other conclusion, that his path is right and Connor is wrong. But the pain of the doubts is nonetheless there. Doubts that are increased by the youth and vigor that is Connor. By the way his back stays straight and strong through all of this. By the way his eyes hold his gaze calmly and seriously.
He sighs and looks back at the roofs before him. His hands cross over his knees, the two bracers making a little noise when they touch. For a moment he remains puzzled over why you have to lose so much to gain something, and before he finishes this thought it makes him angry. His hands ball into fists and his body regains its tension. When he looks up at the sky again his eyes flash.
He should have killed him. Long ago.