7
Crona's curiosity is nearly suppressed by the time he turns seven years old. Some queries, however, are too recurring to fade from his mind, and he finally summons up the nerve to ask about his father.
"Don't ask such senseless questions," Medusa replies without looking at him, and if it were any other issue at all, that would be the end of it.
Five months go by before he even thinks of asking again, and another three before he tries one last time. This time, to his unimaginable surprise, Medusa gives him an answer.
"Well," she considers, head leaning on her fingers as she looks him up and down, surveying, until he wonders who it is she might be seeing. "We held a lot of the same ideals. The same goals."
She doesn't provide answers to questions he doesn't ask, and likely wouldn't even if he did. There's no reason he should know where it is this nameless person went, what he looked like or what his favorite food was, whether or not he was pleased to learn he would be a parent, and certainly not how hard he tried to pull the vector arrows from his ruined torso, squirming like an insect impaled on a roasting spit as he died, surrounded by the black blood he'd spent his life studying.
So Medusa doesn't tell him any of this. She simply smiles.
"You could say he was a lot like me."
Crona never asks again.