#also i couodnt write nikolai im sorry]

[notsolittleruby]

Watching their daughter wrap her arms around this man sent shivers racing down her spine. In attempt to read her daughters features, she again fell short. Unlike the others in this family, she could not read the energy, only sense what was in the air.

With humans it was easy, pheromones and hormones danced around them, screaming for Ruby to tell them what she saw, what she felt. Sirens, they were different, Poppy had mastered her abilities from a young age, quickly finding wats to sneak under her mother’s radar. This had to be the only time she was glad of her daughters gifts.

“I erm-“ shaking her head, she brought herself back into the room, a bright smile on her face. “He’s in the other room. Perhaps you would like to wait for our other son to arrive back gone so you can meet them all together?” Ruby’s words fell on deaf ears, it seemed Nikolai had already pushed himself into the other room. “MY NAME-“ she stopped herself, hoping to grab the mans attention. “Ruby... Lucas-Arendsen.”

Poppy had come closer to her parents, her voice low, hopefully inaudible to her grandfather but no challenge to her werewolf mother. “Should I call Sam?” Ruby’s head confirmed with a small nod, keeping her eyes trained to the man stood before her.

Noah had been lingering at the door, a hand pressed firmly on the handle. A pained expression on his face as he walked into the room. He glared at his grandfather, as if he was the sole cause for all of his pain. “Noah,” he introduced himself, his voice low and head high. “Pleasure.” The words came through gritted teeth.

Ruby longed to reach for him, hold him tight like she used to when he had a particularly troubling day as a younger child, yet she could not get to him. She felt a wall had been made between her and her children, a wall named Nikolai. A force she could not reckon with.

@notsolittleruby

Nikolai. Ambrose tried not to think of the name often. It was more familiar to him than the term Father, at least. So much so that when the latter was used in conversation nothing sprung to mind. Like a blank canvas his thoughts lacked shape or form. It proved difficult to completely wipe Nikolai from his memory, however. The once scorched skin that had healed over many years before was the final, and sole, reminder of his Father’s existence. A three-pronged spear of the god Poseidon — a Trident. The Siren’s mark. Avoiding mirrors at all costs only done so much. The slight brush against his scar when his wife touched his chest, the glances and questions from his children (namely a certain daughter of his) — it was hard for Ambrose not to regard it. The scar was placed perfectly over his heart, and that had been no mistake.

It had been given to him as a result of the worst night of his life, or perhaps it had been the opposite. Ambrose was a Siren unleashed upon the world for the first year of his adult life, and with that came silent and ravaging devastation in the shadows of his town. His thirst for energy, life, had grown more and more and though Ambrose had been the highly perceptive type (even more so than other Siren’s) he was bound to run into trouble sooner or later. The addiction to this ecstasy caused him to drop his guard for the smallest of moments. A screaming child, when met with the sight of their dying mother being feasted upon, broke the crazed Siren’s hold and humanity (that which would later be criticised as his Mother’s genetics) seeped it’s way into the boy’s darkened heart. Horrified with himself he fled. His very essence was covered in guilt, his body quickly turning gaunt from his new-found lack of appetite. It didn’t take long for Nikolai to catch on and when he did chaos ensued.

Confronted with his Father’s forceful and overly traditional Sirenic beliefs, Ambrose experienced his old reality breaking away — one he could now hardly understand, much less comprehend. To his Father’s utter disgust, his son vehemently denied to partake in their way of life from then on. It was at that moment he lunged at his boy, pinning Ambrose to the floor  and — with much struggle — seared the sigil from his signet ring onto his son’s chest. Ambrose could never deny his lineage now, and though he screamed in pain Nikolai had not finished with him yet. As a result of a Siren’s bloodthirsty rage his eyes turned black, the veins dark and creeping from his eyes. His hand pressed firmly to Ambrose’s skin as he attempted to leech life from him. How could he insult his Father like this? After all he had taught him. Nikolai’s frustration grew as his son clung on to life. The gasps escaping his mouth had been quickly choked out by his Father’s persistent hand as it clutched around his throat. In a final effort Ambrose tried with all his might to bat off Nikolai’s energy as it attempted to consume him, and as he finally let go the light from his redeeming heart was no match for his dark and hollowed Father’s. When Nikolai’s drained body fell against him all Ambrose could do was weep.

As he went about his life from then on he couldn’t help but remember the feeling of, what some would call, his Father trying to kill him. A confusing concoction of ease and guilt arose in him all too often — the regret of what he had done to these women, the relief of breaking free from his father, the difficult feelings of murdering him. And it was the same that morning as it always had been. Looking into the mirror and seeing his scar.