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In moments, his call was answered in tones familiar — shaking, stuttering, cowardly Claudius. Attila breathed relief: Good, he's still here. For his weak, fragile brother to be caught up in their mother's strategies for vengeance made potential for disaster. Claudius couldn't handle revenge, couldn't muster the strength to kill another living being, even if it was for justice of their long-lost sister. His brother was simply too soft for that — not in a bad way, but to picture Claudius raising a knife with shaking fingers, his eyes wide like moons, his mouth dry — well, Attila had every right to cringe and scold the sudden sickness ni his stomach. He never wanted one as gentle as Claudius to, well, kill.
Perhaps that was why fate had deemed at least one bastard in their litter, and it certainly wasn't Oceane. Attila would do it. He was best suited to, in the end.
His older brother — though half his size — shook and stuttered something awful upon reaching him, even despite the peace in Attila's icy eyes. The Aston did not smile, did not raise his head in a false confidence, did not move to bully or scold or discourage; Attila only lowered his head and frowned, a darkness in his features that hinted at shame and anger alike deep within his heart.
"Claudius," he said, "I'm so sorry." For what, exactly? For the years of torment the younger brother had forced upon the older? For the loss of Noir, or the separation of their mother and himself? For whatever had happened in these god-forsaken lands that stank of hate and impurity?
His eyes dipped. "Tell me what's happened here," he began. He couldn't bear to discuss Noir with his brother just yet — not when Claudius still resembled the little foolish girl so in big bully Attila's cold eyes.