Most days, he's tired. Tired of living the lie. Tired of hating it. Tired of waiting for it to become his reality, his eventuality, his all.
He is tired of her. Morningstar. The ache in him comes to life when he sees her, burnished, resplendent, whole. The ache bears the memory of their faces; Sablefrost; Peppermask; Oakpaw; Embertooth. All he has left is one lonely granddaughter; the children Morningstar bore him- the shining blight, the holy bane- are so tainted by her he hardly counts them as his own. Even the cowardly one (he has a name, being Littlefrost, but he hardly cares to use it) has no connection to him, no material tether.
"Thornstreak," says the bane, a croon. He lifts his heavy eyes to her. She even smells like someone else these days.
But who is he to judge, and who is left to tell?