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The Joxter was not cut out for fatherhood, and his lover certainly not for the traditional sense of family. He could not hold an obligation to one single place, nor the Mymble to one single person, they had that understanding even before the moment their son was born. The Joxter delighted in travel– as Joxters would– and going where he wasn't expected was the highlight of it all. Tearing down signs as he trekked through the forest, bearing sharp teeth and bright glaring eyes at those who would dare to block his path with warnings and demands, the Joxter found travel to be his steadfast companion. He was not cut out for standing in one place too long, not content to settle down somewhere when his feet longed to move.
The Joxter was not content to find a home, but he gained enough satisfaction from lying in the tree behind the Mymble's home and eating the fruit as it fell. He was certainly also content to let her continue caring for her many children and the other parents that came with them. The Mymble had a heart three sizes too big for either of her sleeves, and a memory that he wouldn't wish upon any mother of just above thirty children and counting. The Joxter was satisfied to lounge in the high branches of the fruit tree, away from prying fingers and the ruckus such a full home brought with it.
The Joxter was satisfied until he was not. A small pawed hand patting at his face in the high branches of his safety from the noise of children woke him quickly enough. He cracked one eye open, before very suddenly sitting up, his tail curling around the branch below him as he recognised his son's face, staring up at him with wide brown eyes.
“What are you doing up here, little one?” he sighed fondly, something aching deep in his chest. The Joxter was not cut out for fatherhood, but something about little Snufkin's presence made him softer. The boy shook his head gently, putting his hands over his pointed ears and huffed, drawing a laugh from his father as he pulled them both back to rest against the trunk of the tree, his son tucked against his arm. “It is rather noisy I agree,” he hummed, carding his own clawed fingers through unruly locks, frowning against the urge to groom his son's dirt scuffed appearance, “There's no good place to sleep down there, and I much prefer some time alone, don't you think, Snufkin?”
Snufkin was very much like his father in his discomfort around too much noise. He'd found his son sitting by the creek often enough, just out of earshot from the chaos of the Mymble's home, his father's hat tugged over his head to try and block anything else out. Snufkin was as much a Mumrik as he was Mymble, and Snufkin delighted in peace– as Snufkins were bound to do. Every now and then, Snufkin needed some time to himself. He sat and watched the forest around him, a wicked grin for such a small child catching his lips whenever he caught sight of his father carrying stolen signs. The forest belonged to everyone– and not even the Joxter had to teach his son that lesson.
The Joxter sighed, taking off his crimson hat to rest in his lap, his son's paws finding the rope looped around its peak in easy movements, his tail flicking back and forth under the branches with childlike innocence. He had not yet learned the lessons of falling from branches, or of sneaking up in the interlocked hands of trees behind park rangers as they dared to make their rounds. The little Snufkin had not yet had to face the challenges that would make his tail move on instinct, or bare his remarkably shorter claws in defense. The Joxter, on the other hand, knew them intimately.
He knew when to pounce and hiss, and when to crawl into shadows because other small beasts would do his job for him. The Joxter knew where to hide bows in his tail, and he knew when to keep his claws safely tucked away. Snufkin was always different from him in that regard at least. Afterall, Snufkin was just as Mymble as some of his siblings. Where the Joxter knew how to hide his claws behind fuzzy paws, Snufkin could not. Where his tail was muscled and whipped back and forth in his fouler moods, Snufkin's curled happily at the sight of butterflies and other small ones he could cherish. Snufkin had a place for other creatures and family that the Joxter never thought was possible for himself.
“Say, little one,” the Joxter mumbled, warm and tired from his previous nap, “Why don't you play that mouth organ Mama gave you? The song we taught you and your siblings?” He cooed, and his son beamed, dextrous fingers finding his treasured instrument in a heartbeat, the first shaky notes of All Small Beasts rising as easily as breathing. The Joxter certainly could not do that, not with how his paws lay in shape. He grinned, resting his head back against the tree, and listened to his son playing, faintly hearing the Mymble clatter about in the kitchen after he caught her smiling up out the window. No doubt Snufkin's half-siblings would be hungry soon, but that didn't matter too much to the wanderers in the branches of the Mymble's fruit tree. They were content to lounge in her arms and eat the fruit as it grew. Father and son delighted in each other's company– as they were both bound to do– and the call of a dozen mouths to tease and play were not ones they would fall prey to so high in their branches.
Still, the Joxter was not cut out for fatherhood, and he needed to travel as much as the winter needed to sweep across the hills. Snufkin was far too young to bring with as far as the Joxter's feet wished to take him, but he would be warmer and safer in the Mymble's care than wandering with a trouble maker. The Joxter bid his son farewell, pressing a green hat over his head with an easy grin, and said goodbye to the Mymble, pulling her down to press her a gentle kiss before he bid perhaps the hastiest farewell to the children crowding his lover's feet.
“Where will you be headed?” The Mymble asked as he clasped his coat around his neck, the other children having run back into their home even as Snufkin stood close to his mother's side.
“I'll be following the river, dearest Mymble, and I shall follow where the fish travel for as long as they please and then some more,” he chuckled, crouching to ruffle his son's hair as he clutched the hat his father had earlier put onto his head, hair much more tamed now he had grown into it. He was still quiet, and still preferred silence over his siblings' noise. He was still the Joxter's son, but the Mymble in him made his features sweeter and pupils round, tail gentle and paws soft.
“Perhaps I will send a gift by your way if the river carries well,” she hummed, neither of them noticing Snufkin's eyes darting over to the moving waters close to their home as they conversed. The Joxter huffed out a quick laugh,
“Mymble your forgetfulness will be the end of you one day, the river freezes by winter, and the lady of the cold shall be on your doorstep in but a few weeks!” He shivered to himself, grasping his hat as a gust of cold brushed past them. “Such a horrible thing, this weather. I think I shall be travelling south with the birds rather than the fish if it keeps up,” he grinned and the Mymble laughed along, pressing one last kiss to the Joxter's forehead before he went on his way.
“Then may you find your travels safe and free of park rangers my dear, for their sake if not your own!” She called after him, and he waved over his shoulder, ice blue eyes bright with mischief,
“A horrid fate to wish upon me! No danger at all? What would be the point in travelling if people wanted me about?” He laughed, his voice echoing as he went into the forest by the river, disappearing from view after a solid moment of silence.
The Mymble sighed, turning Snufkin to return indoors. “Come now little one, we'll send something your father's way later. I'm sure he'll appreciate the thought, even if he'd never say such things.”
Snufkin's eyes darted over his shoulder, towards the forest before their home, nodding silently as he was herded back into the noise, pulling his hat on with slowly fading hands as his mother disappeared into the chaos of her children. His feet itched to walk the paths of the forest, but he found himself high in the branches of the fruit tree, mouth organ sturdy under his silent grasp, a melody catching the wind and carrying it to the forest, over fuzzy ears and into the valley beyond.
The Joxter was not cut out for fatherhood, but Snufkin had not been cut from the same cloth as his siblings either, and finding himself in a basket floating down the river would be easier than the Mymble forgetting she had ever lost sight of him.