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Carving had always given Vander a sense of quiet.
Back when shifts at the mine were too long and his fingers grew numb from being forced into the gauntlets for hours, giving them something to do afterwards - something small to hold and move around and feel - eased the tension and made him feel the blood in his veins again.
Sometimes the carvings were worth selling. Smoothened at the edges or cut into extravagant shapes, worthless stones found while digging a tunnel could look like precious jewels in the eyes of unknowing Pilties. Throw in a trinket made of polished sea glass and some fool's gold and you got a couple extra meals covered, or an hour or two of fun at Babette’s.
It didn't bother him that people teased him for his big hands, that everyone who crossed paths with him in the mines thought they were only good for smashing rocks and, occasionally, faces (only when the owners of said faces were foolish enough to instigate him or come at his friends).
He wasn't bothered by the occasional flirty remark about how rough those hands must have been in bed - the only person who needed to know how gentle and practiced they could be knew it well enough.
He had carved him into pliancy so many times before.
Now years had trickled by and his hands had been empty for a long time, itching for something to carve. Cleaning glasses and uncorking bottles wasn't enough to soothe the nerves that took hold of his hands some nights, risking to cause them curling up in fists and smacking against the counter at unexpected moments.
That night, after he closes off, he ushers the kids to bed. Luckily they don't protest, given that their evening shenanigans had left them feeling dozier than usual (and thank Janna for that).
He sweeps ledgers and notes he never looks at away from his desk and takes out his old tools, left sitting in a box under a floorboard. The lid opens with a click and a puff of dust.
There are still some unfinished pieces inside, abandoned when taking care of the kids got more demanding and time to indulge in his hobby grew scarcer. A stone half-cut into a gem shape. A headless wolf. A lumpy shark with no tail that would make a nice gift for Powder's upcoming 12th birthday.
He takes the shark delicately between his fingers, lights the old mine lamp on his desk and sets to work, his fingers handling the tools nimbly, the cold stone warming up to his touch like it's greeting an old friend.
As teeth and fins emerge from the stone, another reason why he had stopped carving resurfaces, like a pin tickling the back of his head and then easing its way through his skull.
Every time he had held those little objects, those precious things, his mind had gone back to the way his hands had held the most precious thing of all. Holding him firm. Leaving a scar. Until nothing was left.
And every time he had cast the carving aside, forcing the memory back. Sealing it into the box under the floorboards.
He doesn't even feel the tears run down his cheeks until one of them falls in the shark’s open mouth.
He sets the carving down and rubs his eyes, pinching the root of his nose. He takes a deep breath and glances down at his handiwork: the shark is now sporting an irregular stump that almost looks like a tail. Finish that up, add a couple tweaks here and there, smoothen it and it could be considered done. Powder will probably find a cute but menacing name for it - like Chomper, or Bullfin - and keep it on the shelf with her makeshift bombs and knick-knacks.
Vander's shoulders slump, and if the burden he is carrying will never stop weighing on him, perhaps it feels less heavy tonight.
Perhaps this time he could really carve his love into something beautiful.