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Angus sat in the bureau’s hospital, listening to the thunder outside and trying not to cry. The room was white, and smelled like herbs and vinegar. It would be nice if it were Taako’s cooking, but the bitter medicine that fogged the air was anything but. Sheets of rain rattled the small window pain above his bed, and Angus was cold. Why was it cold in the hospital? Shouldn’t patients be kept comfortable? Somewhere in his mind, he knew the temperature was to combat bacterial growth, but the knowledge was stuck behind magical prison bars. Angus’ mind at this moment was very, very small. He knew it, too. The doctors had said his high intellect had spared a lot of his brain function, granting him advantage on the saving throw. He knew that he was sick and recovering, he knew that it could have been astronomically worse, he knew that he would be fine and that thunder couldn’t hurt him inside. A boom rang outside the metal walls, the window shuddered, and Angus felt tears roll down his face. He was fine, he knew he was fine, everything was fine fine fine fine.
Crack!
He didn’t scream. It wasn’t loud enough to be a scream. But deep in his throat, a terrified cry bubbled up and out, erupting from his mouth in a halting sob. Somewhere in the moon base, through hallways and down stairs, long ears twitched with sensitivity, and a door opened. Angus couldn’t hear this, human hearing not nearly acute enough to catch sounds from stories away. He cowered under the papery sheets, pressing his hands to his ears, curling his knees into his chest, pleading for this to Gods please stop! He could see through the pathetic excuse for a blanket covering him, and watched as the door to his hospital room opened. Light filtered in from it, the soft orange of arcane conjuration haloed a figure stepping inside. A buried part of Angus’ brain whispered Dimension Door, 4th level conjuration, teleportation but his thoughts were too muddy to hear it.
The door closed, and Angus mourned the loss of light, before another arcane brightness dimly lit the room. He peered through the 150 thread count sheets at Taako, who had summoned a small sphere of candle light, deep red glowing at the centre emanating yellows, oranges, and pinks, casting the dreary hospital room in warm colours. Light, Cantrip evocation, creation said the whispering part of his mind, this time drowned out by the sob of immense relief and lingering fear. Angus uncovered his face to see Taako properly, standing haggard just inside the doorway. The usual ice in his eyes was melted with exhaustion, and what a properly minded Angus would recognise as concern.
“Hey kiddo, what’s all the yelling about? Some of us are trying to sleep.”
Elves don’t sleep, they trance. Taako padded lightly to the dinky hospital bed, and bent at the waist to match his eye level. Angus reached his arms out, too short to grab onto Taako’s shoulders, just long enough to look laughably childish, like a little kid asking to be picked up. If his mind was just a bit clearer, he would think to be embarrassed. Instead he hiccuped when Taako leaned in so he could reach, and ignored the awkward position needed to cry into his shoulder. It was a weird, stretched, arm’s length hug. Angus didn’t care.
“Feeble Mind’s an awful trip, huh? It’s alright, pumpkin, Taako’s gotcha.”
Warm arms wrapped around his waist and hoisted him out from under the covers, off of the bed. He clung to Taako’s shoulders, crossing his ankles behind his back, fully koala-ed onto his wizarding mentor. Taako’s embrace was far more comfortable than the draft falling on him from the window. He sat them down on the bed, and began to rock Angus like the child that he was. And it felt nice. The parts of Angus’ mind that screamed at him to pull away, he was not a baby anymore, he could do this himself, were muffled by the magic that amplified his feelings. Right now he knew he was scared, he knew Taako felt safe, and he knew he hadn’t been held like this in a long, long time. One of Taako’s hands krept from his shoulder and into his hair, slowly combing out the tangles from horrible hospital pillows and no bonnet.
Softly, Taako’s chest began to rumble, in a uniquely elven way. In Common, calling it a “purr” is the closest translation. But it wasn’t a purr in the animalistic sense, the closed off part of Angus’ mind would tell you, this elven phenomenon evolved from the Feywilds, designed to sooth children who wandered there. With his ear pressed to Taako’s diaphragm, it would have drowned out the thunder entirely, if they were on the ground. But storms on the moon were different, and despite now slowly calming down, he flinched when lightning flashed outside the window. Taako hushed him, voice more tender than Angus thought it could ever be.
“Lythi sehan mestar, noaruninal enialaith”
Melodic words in Elvish, Children walk alone, far from home
“Adoe usal nehel’feer, teshuel nae Tel’ Syol”
Stealing them away, and bringing them to the wilds
The way he sang sounded like two or three voices, blended together into a perfect, sad song. He sang the lore of the elves, and the beauty of the Feywilds. He weaved the story of many children who stumbled around the bend.
“Quessir n’avae ent reloseer, sar quarlani’har Tel’ lythi, teshuel daquin enailaith”
These are rumours humans spread, we care for the children, and save them from dangerous homes
“Faer aul sienen alusfaen, lor nehel’feel aegis, sen varis eath’she aul Adon”
Magic flows in their blood, keeping them safe, granting them an eternal life of peace
A song of the safety children feel surrounded by magic, all underlined by that sylvan purr. Taako continued to pet Angus’ hair as he hummed, voice dripping like the honey he used in Beltane pastries. His nightgown was soft under his cheek, chest rumbling evenly, lulling the room into a sleepy haze. Ancient magic seemed to fill the air, bringing visions of rolling fields and laughing forests. Maybe it’s because Taako was a transmutation specialist, but Angus swore he could smell sweet flowers and baking bread.
In the morning, the sedated part of Angus’ brain would wake up, and he would die of embarrassment. Taako would pretend none of this ever happened, and rebury the soft part of him that had come to light the night before. He would ponder the fragment of culture that was shared with him, write down what he could remember of the song, and attempt to identify foliage just by scent. But right now, he was calm. He could listen to the spatterring rain outside, and know that as long as he was held in Taako’s warmth nothing could touch him.