He has no fear facing his grandfather, but he wonders why he has decided to see him at all. There is no tight-knit familial sense between them. There is distance, curiosity, uncertainty. They've spoken once, maybe twice, but Tiphon hardly remembers it at all. Where he has his own sense of duty and passion for family Eight is more languid; he has numerous children, but how many grandchildren can remind the magician of his old fling, Moose?
He is an image of her, but stronger, larger, and of course male. Even the same fire is in his molten eyes.
The trek to the Valley is brief. At times Tiphon takes to the skies to soar among the clouds while other moments he decides to walk among the mortals. His mind, his memories, have sent him into turmoil. The loss of his son was detrimental and tore him into pieces. Even with years having passed his heart still aches. "Tiberios," he tastes his son's name for the first time since his demise and it brings a rush of images flashing to the forefront of his mind. There, on the bloodied sand, lied one of his first children, but he was hardly recognizable. Murdered. Destroyed. He had to have been surprised because how could he fall so easily when fire burned in his veins? Tiphon's stomach tightens. Perhaps the boy never learned to master his abilities. Maybe somewhere he failed as a father in raising the boy.
When Tiphon's thoughts flicker away it is because Eight's scent has permeated the air. It's a wall that he walks into and realizes that this must be the Valley. A breath catches in his throat, it chokes him, and then he takes another step forward. He second guesses his reasoning to be here, but he doesn't turn and leave. "Eight," his voice is stone, his eyes gleaming. There is no need to venture further because the magician always seems to know when he is wanted.
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