The first time someone asks him about his family, he has to take a deep, forced exhale to stop himself from lashing out. It's instict, the defensive, 'leave-me-the-hell-alone' reaction that the few, simple words prompt.
It had been a peaceful, harmless conversation up until that point, Sonitus quite happily filling them all in on his rather large and rather chaotic family, comprised mostly of sisters. Nyx had been quietly distancing himself from the conversation, focusing on channeling the energy he could feel vibrantly buzzing through his veins instead. It was an odd sensation, this magic, and one he had not yet become accustomed too. It felt like a neverending adrenaline rush, or that one time he had drunk six coffees in the space of two hours on a dare, and it was a high he had not yet become accustomed to.
The question had been frame innocently enough, thrown his way without any malice to be seen, Sonitus having to repeat himself twice before Nyx broke out of the fuzzy haze he had buried himself in and refocused on the conversation at hand.
"What about you, Nyx? What's your family like?"
He had a feeling that if Libertus, or even Crowe, had been in the room, the question would have been aborted after the first time, and he would have been left to his peaceful bubble of solitude and peace. As it was, he found himself caught like a deer in the headlights, the carefully balanced cap resting over his grief rolling to the side with little effort at all.
He could feel the pinprick of a tickle at the edges of his eyes, an uncomfortable lump rising in his throat that he couldn't seem to swallow down, no matter how hard he tried. An unsure look was spreading across Sonitus' face, something beginning to tell him that maybe he had asked the wrong man the wrong question.
Nyx blinked rapidly, forcing himself to smile even as his mind screamed at him to leave the room as soon as possible. He had a feeling it was more of a grimace than a smile, if the look on Sonitus' face was anything to go by, but he didn't have the strength to put up a better show.
"My family is dead."
He answered, finally managing to find his voice around the rock settled in his chest. Silence was his answer, the only sound the scraping of wood on concrete as he slid his chair back and stood swiftly. A steady pounding was beginning to build behind his eyes, the build-up of pressure making him feel slightly light-headed as he turned away from the table and slowly strode from the room, forcing himself to take steady, calm steps.
Only once he was out of the common room and far down the hall did he allow his mask to crack, a shuddering breath leaving him as he leaned against the wall with both hands, head hanging in front of his chest. It felt like someone was crushing him, piling weight, after weight upon his chest, Every breath he drew in fluttered back out as a choked sound, somewhere between a moan and a sob.
But he wouldn't allow himself to cry, not now. He had sworn that he would not cry. He had to be stronger than that now, he had to be so much stronger, he had to stop anyone else from getting hurt.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice tried to reason with him that he couldn't possibly save everyone. There was no way one man could win an entire war, alone, without casualties. But he pushed that voice aside, he didn't need it right then, if he listened to it, he just might let himself crack, and once that crack opened up, there was no telling how far it would fracture and spread.
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he forced himself to calm down, dropping a hand from the wall to brush angrily at his eyes, flicking away the moisture that had gathered there. He wouldn't cry, not now, not ever if he could help it. Crying was a symbol of weakness, and he couldn't afford to be weak. He had too many people to protect to be weak.
It was his duty to protect, the oath he had sworn, and with the power buzzing at his fingertips, seeming all the stronger for the passion surging through his veins, he would do just that.
He would protect.