Ewan understood what Old Mr. Thorne was saying, could understand that he had to think of his children, of his Athena, but his hands right now wanted to strangle Herbert to death, wanted to torture him until the latter pleaded for mercy, until the monster's pride broke, until his bones broke.
He wanted that feeling even though he knew it wouldn't fill the gaping hole in his chest, but he still wanted that satisfaction.
Athena squeezed his hand again, and the feeling dissipated a little. More time with her might steal this feeling off him, and he wasn't sure he wanted that. His parents had been killed by Herbert. John too.
He wanted to tear something apart. Punch a wall, walls.
Restless energy coiled within him; so much so that he was mildly surprised he hadn't combusted yet.
It was her hand, he knew, that soft slender skin in his that squeezed intermittently, that told him he wasn't alone, that he didn't have to fight the darkness, the pain, alone.
