He prayed for a mistake, not a miracle, for the approaching child to bear none of his details--no red, no blue, no mirroring features. A false replica had once taken Nigredo's trust and cut it open, stained the sword in his hand with his own blood. Had torn apart his mind and left him with loss, only loss, and Nigredo was not keen on repeating that night. Never again.

And that was not speaking of the original. That was not considering what he had left behind.

What he had now come back to, according to Albedo. A prayer, it seemed, held no weight on reality.

Nigredo flinched visibly and stepped back, an uncharacteristic fear overriding all else. Their brother was here. Here, and reacting to them in tangible ways, even as Nigredo recognized nothing in his greeting. Above everything, after everything, the youngest could not stand this the most. His fingers loosened from the hilt to clutch forcefully at his shirt, and he spoke the first thing that came to mind.

"Rubedo."