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The thud of the knife hitting the cutting board was rhythmic. Quiet, repetitive, with only a hint of resistance where constant use had dulled the blade. Over and over, he sliced flat, petal shaped cacti into strips, the spines and edges scraped off and to the side of the board where a pile of feathers already lay. When he finished with one, he piled the strips into a nearby bowl and started on the next. Mindless work, he barely had to think about the motions, but very necessary.
It was only a few minutes worth of work, hardly a blip in the grand scheme of things. He finished quickly, and began separating a handful into a smaller bowl. Then he paused, and considered the second bowl. After a moment and a tilt of his head, he cut those strips into smaller pieces for tinier hands to hold.
Satisfied, he took both bowls and turned to the fireplace. A few items waited there; portions of a former vulture speared on sticks over the coals. A pot, propped up above the flames, and into it he dumped the smaller cut cacti. The sound of bubbling water filled the air the moment the lid came off, loud and faintly echoing off the stone walls. From then on it was simply a matter of waiting. Sitting cross legged, occasionally stirring with a ladle, and pulling out a piece every so often to check it and toss it back, then turn the meat over. Rinse and repeat.
After some time, he judged the cacti ready, and fished them out back into the bowl. He set it aside to cool, before tossing in the second, larger bowl. To this batch he added a few more things, herbs and various flowers that managed to grow and thrive within the desert temple he’d commandeered as home. Much of it together was just a bit too much for certain smaller stomachs, so he barely bothered beyond the small, sweet flowers that sprouted in nearly every crack in the rocks that existed mostly in shade.
He replaced the lid on the pot and left it to sit for a while. In the meantime, he stood, pausing only a moment to turn the meat once more, and left the room. Through long halls filled with more sand than dust and more stairs than he cared to count, he stepped over stacks of books and abandoned piles of children’s toys. Every time he thought he’d seen the last of them, it suddenly seemed like they multiplied. And truthfully, they did. No one set resembled another, whether it be in age, or wear and tear.
Most were blocks with letters, though not all. Some had vague recollections of plants from wetter, greener regions. Some had animals, all of them winged in some manner save for the turtles and the burrowing eels. He couldn’t even tell what the oldest were supposed to be anymore, the carvings had faded so greatly over the years.
Some were little figures. Vague four-legged things, sanded smooth and riddled with tiny teeth marks and dents where they’d been chewed and thrown. More than a couple were missing a leg.
He just didn’t have the heart to throw any of them away. So in piles and towers they remained.
He stepped over a discarded cloth doll at the top of the spiraling staircase, and ducked through the partially open door, one of perhaps three in the entire temple. The room was dim, sunlight just barely trickling in through a few holes in the window drapes that desperately needed mending. It could be saved for another day, however, he had much more important matters to tend to.
And this one? The most important matter of all.
He leaned over the cradle, slowly, a hand on the edge to steady the once constant rocking, brushing away the hint of magic causing it. A smile made itself a permanent feature in his expression at the sleepy coo that greeted him.
“Good morning to you too.” he said.
Linhardt cooed back, just as sleepily as the time before. His tiny hands rubbed his eyes, the yawn that left him almost too big for his small frame. The blanket that had once covered him now lay at the base of the crib, half hanging out somehow, Macuil wasn’t completely sure how that happened.
He chuckled, leaning close to press a kiss to his son’s forehead. His son wasn’t one to wake quickly, his gurgles meandering and almost fading out entirely when next he yawned. Still, Macuil was lazily flailed at for his troubles, little hands alarmingly close to taking out his eyes. Linhardt grabbed at his face, his giggles so loud that Macuil genuinely wondered how they could come from someone so little and so sleepy.
Macuil lifted his son from the crib, tucking his baby into his shoulder. Immediately Linhardt smacked his head into Macuil’s neck, his little squeal coming out muffled but undeniably delighted. The startled laugh that escaped him turned to a wince when tiny hands locked around his hair and yanked.
“Linhardt, please. We’ve talked about this.”
Predictably, Linhardt didn’t listen, the end of Macuil’s ponytail going straight into the boy’s mouth to be happily chewed on. He sighed, turning and ducking back through the door. He’d been getting better at timing his greetings with the moments Linhardt was waking. The boy wasn’t exactly fussy if he woke up alone, but Macuil’s heart couldn’t handle the disappointed whines even on a good day.
He paused to retrieve the doll, and Linhardt was fully awake by the time he returned to the sitting room. Macuil sat before the fire, his back against the large stone block that served as their table. A mountain of soft fabrics cushioned the sides, the edges and corners long since sanded away, it was actually comfortable. Son in his lap, hair traded for the doll’s patchwork wings, Macuil settled in to wait.
Linhardt chewed idly on the doll, alternating between that and hitting it against everything within reach. Mostly Macuil. Laughter accompanied each smack against his arm, each giggle closer than the last to working a chuckle out of himself. At a particularly aggressive smack and accompanying squeak, Macuil finally did laugh.
It had Linhardt blinking up at him, the doll’s tail in his mouth, not a single thought in his head. Or perhaps too many thoughts, both were equally possible for his particular baby. Then Linhardt shoved even more of the doll into his mouth to chew on, and Macuil decided that perhaps there was only one thought in his head at the moment.
And so, he carefully pried the soggy toy from his son’s mouth— which was an ordeal, and entirely heartbreaking when his son began to fuss— and placed a still warm strip of cactus into his hands instead. It took a moment for the switch to process, Linhardt’s confusion evident in the way his face scrunched and all whimpers just stopped.
Then the boy popped the end into his mouth and began to gnaw on it with all eight of his teeth, the tiniest hum escaping him. Gently, Macuil tugged the boy’s sleeves back so he could eat without accidentally swallowing thread fibers.
Linhardt’s nightgown was just a bit too big for him, the sleeves falling over his hands and the skirt just long enough that he would certainly stumble over it were he capable of walking or crawling. Perhaps thankfully, he had not even attempted to do either, instead choosing the far easier— and perhaps far more fright-inducing option— rolling. Macuil still couldn’t quite get over the memory of turning his back for two seconds and looking back to discover Linhardt had simply vanished from the rug he’d been left on.
(He’d found Linhardt a few seconds later of course, inside an overturned basket and giggling to himself but oh had that been a petrifying few seconds.)
But Macuil had nothing else for Linhardt to wear. Nothing that he wouldn’t grow out of within the next century. And truthfully, he wanted his baby to stay a baby for just a little longer. He’d already grown so much, Macuil couldn’t handle it. He’d already teared up cutting Linhardt’s hair for the first time, the tiny green curl he’d kept no longer matching the pin straight hair that his son had now. It was just too much for his heart.
He could communicate as well as any Nabatean his age, and frequently did, but had yet to actually speak his first word. It was worrying. Linhardt had yet to speak, or crawl, or even try to pull himself up to stand. Macuil had been doing all of that except speaking at a younger age, and while his circumstances had been a little different, it tended to even out regardless of the shape one was born in.
“Am I doing something wrong?” he asked.
Linhardt, in all his infinite baby wisdom, cooed with his mouth full.
Macuil tilted his head back, the thump of his skull against the stone a welcome knock of sense back into him. “I just asked a baby for advice.” he informed the high stone ceiling. It didn’t respond, the rafters and motheaten tapestries remaining thankfully silent. He wouldn’t know what to do if they had started talking to him.
Cry, perhaps. He hadn’t done that in a while. He felt he was overdue for some sort of emotional outburst, he’d been quite mellow for a long time. As mellow as a man could be while raising a child, anyway.
A tiny hand tapped his chest, and he looked down. Linhardt was watching him carefully, one hand still shoving half of a mostly chewed strip of cactus petal in his mouth. The other was curled into a fist, offering the other half that was really more a goopy, drool covered fistful of mush. Linhardt made a sound that could best be described as a musical rendition of a fawn’s squeak, waving the offering at his father’s face.
Praying to whatever was left of his Mother that Linhardt didn’t expect him to eat the offering, he managed a wavering smile. Before his hand was even fully extended, Linhardt had pressed the cactus mush into his palm and immediately tried to wipe the rest off on Macuil’s tunic.
He’d just done laundry yesterday.
Sitting with mostly chewed cactus mush in his palm and staining his chest, he regarded his son with fond exasperation. “Excuse me, little one, but I am not a hand towel.”
Linhardt’s giggle was infectious, the little boy shaking with the force of it. And so, Macuil repeated the question with the same tone and inflection, just to hear him laugh. And repeated it again a third time, Linhardt’s little frame wracked with hearty chuckling until he was almost falling over. If it weren’t for the hands bracing him (cactus mush wiped away on the hem of Macuil’s skirt) he absolutely would’ve.
After a good while, Macuil checked on the pot. He deemed it ready enough, took a moment to check the skewers, then ladled his own portion into a bowl. He juggled a wiggly baby in one arm and food in the other, a flurry of magic lifting the pot off the fire and transferring the meat to a platter on the table.
For the time being, he sat Linhardt down on his own little stack of cushions, his bowl of cactus strips placed before him within easy reach as well as a cup so tiny it made the heart physically hurt. Macuil sat just next to him, elbows propped on the stone and a skewer in hand to start shredding one of the portions. Meticulously, he tore the hunk of vulture into smaller than bite-sized pieces, dropping them into Linhardt’s bowl.
He hummed quietly as he worked, privately gleeful about having this particular vulture for their breakfast. It had been bothering him all year, taunting him and rooting around in his valley. Macuil would not consider himself territorial, but damn it the valley was his! He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about setting traps earlier, they worked like a charm. He certainly wouldn’t miss chasing that black-feathered buzzard out of his home.
He dropped the last strip into Linhardt’s bowl, leaving the empty skewer on the table. Linhardt had been eyeing the new additions to his bowl in suspicion for a while now, sleepy eyes narrowed. Then, as quickly as a baby’s coordination would allow, he smacked a hand into the bowl, seized a handful of meat and cacti and shoved it into his mouth.
Macuil tried to keep the alarm from his face, breathing deeply and silently watching for any sign of his son choking. He stared for several long, harrowing minutes before Linhardt gurgled and gave a happy hum. Only then did he relax, anxiety receding back into the depths of his skull where it would wait for the next time to rear its ugly head. By his predictions, it would be the next meal at the latest.
One eye still on his son just in case, he turned his attention to his own food. A bit more souplike, and certainly spicier, it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever made. But it also wasn’t the best, he decided, wincing a little at the odd soft and crunchy texture. A bit like okra, but slimier and worse.
And way too hot, he immediately burned the shit out of his tongue. Patience, a virtue of his, it was not. And the collection of swears he held back would shock even the worst of sailors, the sheer effort involved in ensuring his son’s first words were something that could be repeated in public was astronomical.
Not that Linhardt would ever be somewhere that could be considered public, of course. Linhardt would be staying right in the valley, far from civilization, where he would be safe. The valley had more than enough space for the two of them, with high canyon walls on three sides and a once wide, gentle sloping path that had served as the entrance before he himself had narrowed it with rubble that had been useless for anything else. Now the path was barely wide enough for a horse to ride through, with a gate of old, rusted spears and lances pointed outwards and alarming sigils hidden beneath the shifting sand.
There was some vegetation growing in the valley, dense around the small oasis just outside the back door to the temple and increasing in scarcity the further away the distance from the water. Dry grasses, brittle shrubbery, cacti (thankfully the edible sort, Macuil learned to identify those very quickly), aforementioned wall-crawling flowers and whatever could cling to the crevices between stones. Even a handful of trees, some leafless and spindly, others bright and green where they grew around the oasis. And one the sole, flowering tree that had been half dead when he and Linhardt first arrived in the valley. The desert willow thrived now, a spot of green and pink in the temple’s inner courtyard.
There were always things to fix and improve, of course. Fences to fix, wards to upkeep, the temple itself to clean and the occasional human to be handled when they stumbled across their home. A neverending project he wished he didn’t have, but was the result of the biggest mistake of his unending life.
That particular thought he shoved from his mind so violently it went careening into the atmosphere, a breeze brushing his hair from his shoulder. It disturbed dust, fluttered loose clothing, made the flames flicker gently. Linhardt noticed nothing, too busy making a mess of his breakfast.
Macuil blinked down at his son, absolutely flabbergasted. “How in the world did you manage this?”
Linhardt looked up at him with a questioning coo, bowl flipped over upon his head like a hat, cup clasped in both hands and raised to his mouth. He looked as though someone had used a slingshot to feed him, cactus mush inside his sleeves, vulture meat staining the front of his nightgown so badly it appeared almost woven into the fibers. He cooed again, blowing bubbles in his water and immediately spilling half of it down his front.
Macuil had just done laundry. Yesterday.
He sighed, a huff of laughter escaping him as he pushed back his own half finished meal and scooped up his son. Bowl and cup placed back on the table, he took a second to wipe away what he would with the hem of his skirt. Linhardt turned huffy, annoyed and grumbling.
Relatively a little cleaner, he stood, Linhardt in his arms. He doused the fire and retreated back upstairs, ducking into their shared room. He rummaged around in the old, rickety trunk used to mark the ‘foot’ of his bed, pulling a loose, faded blue dress he’d picked up from who knows where. He held it up to Linhardt, giving it a little shake.
“What do you think? Blue today?” he asked.
Linhardt kicked a little, grabbing at the dress and just running his hands along it. He ‘eeweh’-ed at the soft texture.
“Blue it is, then.”
Freshly changed, the nightgown tossed into a basket and one little boy properly cleaned up, it was time to officially start the day. For Linhardt, anyway. Macuil had been up for a while already; cooking, boiling water to drink, generally attempting to pretend he knew exactly what he was doing.
He snagged a long, wide rectangle of cloth before returning to the main room, setting Linhardt down on the rug for a brief moment. A deep green not unlike that of seaweed, made of thick wool with a fringe all along the edges, it was actually objectively terrible for living in a hot climate unless there was enough wind to be a chill.
Well, Mother hadn’t named him The Wind Caller for no reason.
He wrapped, twisted, and tied until it was secured, then tucked Linhardt into the pouch the shawl made. The boy settled happily, humming and plopping his head onto Macuil’s shoulder, tiny hands holding onto the shawl’s fringe and refusing to let go. Macuil kissed the top of his head, then placed a little hat on his head to keep the sun off of him.
A small satchel to carry items at his hip, sword on his back, and more water than he thought they needed, and he left the temple. Immediately, he ran into the goats waiting mere feet from his door. Technically wild, he hadn’t done a thing to trade for or capture them, but they milled about in his valley anyway for the water source. He didn’t mind too much, they were much better company than people any day of the week.
Currently, one of the two does was trying to take him out at the knees, bleating at him urgently. She headbutted his shin, her large curved horns catching in his clothes and pulling. He had to physically hold her still to detach his skirts before they tore. He didn’t want to have to patch them up again so soon.
“What’s wrong with you this time?” he asked.
The ibex yelled at him unhelpfully, banging her thick skull into his kneecap. “Ow fucking sh— alright! Alright, I’m going!”
Linhardt giggling at his misery, Macuil reluctantly allowed himself to be herded by a pair of little ladies and their gaggle of meandering kids of varying ages. The littlest among them stayed in their mothers’ shadows, while the oldest kids wandered further away. Prancing and bouncing among the sand and rocks, climbing to places they definitely shouldn’t be and getting scolded for it.
They led him quite a ways from the temple, further towards the uneven, rocky terrain only they could climb without fear. The goats trotted ahead as a group, a couple occasionally doubling back to check he was still following before hurrying to catch up with the rest. Together they found the other part of the herd milling around a section of rock where the crags and fissures were the deepest.
He heard rather than saw the issue, the ibex with the largest horns standing at the top of a large boulder and screaming into a gap between the rocks. And if he strained to listen, he could hear faint screaming back.
He sighed. “Hold this.” Macuil swung his bag to hang it from a goat’s horns, curled an arm over his son, and hopped up to begin climbing. Though, ‘climb’ was a very loose and generous description. He more so just simply leaped and coasted on a hint of an updraft, wings spread and sand spiraling into the air. He landed safely at the top, sword wrapped in a feathered, prehensile tail.
Linhardt sneezed immediately upon the dust settling, his ‘eeh!’ afterwards coming out more upset about the whole ordeal than his expression seemed to. Macuil readjusted the boy's hat, sent the tiniest little flurry to keep him cool, and sunk talons into the boulder to anchor them as he peered into the gap.
A baby goat blinked up at him, tinier than the rest and the exact color of the rocky sand around it. Its screaming ceased immediately, the tiny nub of its tail wagging fast enough to blur.
Unable to climb in with a curious baby strapped to his chest, he put the sword down and instead looped his long tail around the little creature and pulled it out. The screaming started up again upon being handled, and stopped once more the second Macuil released it back into the early morning sunshine. The baby goat threw itself from the rocky stack, hopping down and sending pebbles tumbling along with it as it sped back to its mother.
“Stop getting yourselves trapped. You’re all a terrible influence on my son.”
He predicted this would happen again within the next week. And so he retrieved his sword, wrangled himself back into shape, climbed back down and took back his bag from the ibex. They parted, somewhat. Macuil went about his business as usual, Linhardt dozing against his shoulder and a horde of little goat ladies and their children following him from a distance.
He checked traps, resetting some and rebaiting the rest. He came away with a fox and several small birds for his troubles. One trap near the water he found had been eaten through, the string frayed and unraveling and pawprints larger than a fox’s mimicking a panicked tap dance across the moist soil. He studied it for a moment, crouched and running the string through his fingers. Then he gathered the remains of the trap and with the sun nearing its highest point, retreated inside.
The goats taking refuge in the shade of the tree in the temple courtyard, he himself set about handling the indoor tasks for the rest of the day. Feeding Linhardt the leftovers from breakfast, dusting and sweeping all the sand back from whence it came, skinning and cleaning the game he’d caught, and collecting all the insects his other traps had snared.
A small breeze kept them cool, and Macuil paused frequently in his tasks to check on his son. He didn’t necessarily need to, Linhardt could keep himself thoroughly entertained so long as he had his toys and books, but Macuil couldn’t bring himself to ignore the itch in the back of his skull telling him to go. It was like trying to ignore a mosquito that kept flying at your face.
He cleaned the game as quickly as possible, keeping the bloodied mess confined to the chilled room adjacent to the space he’d dubbed the kitchen. More of a pantry really, as he did all the cooking at the hearth. But with a sink. He wasn’t entirely certain what that technically qualified the room as.
Taking the carcases to another room meant he’d left Linhardt alone for a bit, but it was a very necessary sacrifice. Blood did not belong anywhere near his little boy, not red, nor green, nor any other shade. It also meant that he couldn’t check on him until the task was over with and Macuil had cleaned himself up as well.
He did so as quickly as possible, dumping the bloody apron in the corner on his way out. He dumped out the pink tinted water outside, a flat plane of air solidified shoveling sand overtop the area. He left the bucket in the sun to dry and returned to the main room.
“Linhardt? I’m back.” he said. He tilted his head when he didn’t hear any answering babbles. He peeked around the table, and relaxed.
Linhardt was still curled up on the floor where Macuil had left him— though he had admittedly migrated to the little patch of sunlight streaming in— fast asleep amongst a sea of pillows. He’d bundled himself up in the shawl used to carry him, head resting on an open book and the sole corner with embroidery clutched in his tiny hands. The tiny golden lettering had yet to fade, and Macuil would mourn the day the shawl eventually turned to rags.
Quietly, he dipped to kiss his son’s forehead. Then he carefully tucked the shawl around his shoulders a little better, rearranged a few of the pillows so he was using them instead of the book and left Linhardt to his nap. He sat back, leaning against the stone table, head down and just watched his son for a while.
Little by little, the energy he had drained away. Like a drip from a hole in a bucket, gradual and steady. He wasn’t tired, not really. But he couldn’t bring himself to get back up. A weight pressed down on his back, heavy and piercing. His shoulders slumped, his form loose and frustratingly disobedient.
Idle, he scratched a half formed talon against the table. It left short pale lines, the tip of his talon dulling with each absentminded scratch. Other ‘scratches’ adorned the sides of the table too, where the padding had slipped and exposed the stone underneath. Little charcoal scribbles and smudges, a couple of faint baby handprints he couldn’t bring himself to clean off. They were just so little. It made his chest squeeze hard enough he worried he may suffer a heart attack.
....Whatever that was.
Linhardt laughed in his sleep. A short, tiny huff that barely could be considered a laugh. More of a cooing giggle really. Macuil kind of wanted to cry about it.
He could see why people had more than one, now. He’d never understood the appeal before. Children were messy, with sticky hands and needed constant supervision lest they cause some sort of natural disaster. Agents of chaos, they were. How many times had Linhardt spit his food into Macuil’s hands, or thrown up on him, or just flat out dumped out a bowl or a cup onto himself? More than he could count, to the point that laundry was perhaps the single chore he did the most besides dusting and sweeping. Those times, Macuil had never been so exhausted and fed up with a single being before in his life.
And then.... there were these times. Quiet instances, where nothing of importance happened. Sometimes nothing at all happened. Where he could just sit and watch and marvel at this tiny little being that didn’t know any better. That needed him and trusted him so completely that Macuil didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. A little being that didn’t know anything else but that he was safe and loved, loved in return, and that was all that mattered.
It made everything a little more bearable. He could’ve imagined having another, once upon a time.
His tail (when did that happen? Macuil wasn’t sure) began to flick back and forth as he watched his little boy, feathers fluffed up and rustling. Linhardt made no other sounds, only shifting occasionally within his soft little cocoon. He couldn’t bring himself to wake him, though he knew there were still tasks to complete. There were always things to do, and he felt no desire to do any of them at the moment.
He picked up the book Linhardt had been so fascinated with lately, flipping through the pages. The cover was only faintly familiar, not one of the ones he recalled bringing with them on the journey to the desert. One of the ones he’d picked off a trespasser then. The cover was simple, red-brown leather with very little decoration. He reopened it, frowning down at the text. There were very few illustrations; a cursed island, familiar winged beings purely reptilian in nature, and a band of adventurers where one possessed long pointed ears.
He flipped a few more pages, occasionally pausing to read a few lines. It seemed that was where the similarities ended. A woman with pointed ears, five ancient beings, and a continent plagued by war. A fairytale of some kind, he gleaned from the repeated goings on about curses, captured priestesses, and evil sorcerers. Personally, he felt very offended. His ears were not that long and neither did he sleep in a ruined temple guarding an ancient treasure.
Well. He hummed, reconsidering the statement. He didn’t have long to consider, a quiet, sleepy tone catching his attention. He looked up, noting that much time had passed. The patch of sunlight had shifted, beaming directly into Linhardt’s eyes. His son had turned over, fussy and burying his face in the pillows to escape the light.
Macuil put the book aside, getting up and moving to his side. He extended a wing to shield him from the worst of the light, crouching low to rest the end of his wing against the ground. Linhardt yawned, burrowing a little further into the shawl with a happy sigh. Crisis averted, he found himself with a new problem of his own design.
With no other choice he was willing to take, he settled down to rest for a while. Partially laying on his stomach, chin propped on folded arms and a wing curled over his son, he gusted a book over to occupy himself for the time being. With magic to hold the book and turn the pages, half laying in a patch of sunlight steaming in from a window high above, it was decently comfortable.
Tail swaying, the weight in his chest a touch lighter than it had been before, he read for a while. The sun's rays traced a path across the rugs and carpets covering nearly every inch of the room, inevitably leaving him and Linhardt entirely. He adjusted his wing to cover more of his son in the light’s absence, tail coming up to coil around him on instinct. It wasn’t until the golden patch reached the wall that Linhardt began to stir.
Macuil felt the hands in his feathers first, little squeals muffled underneath the bulk of his wing. He glanced from his book, wing tilted to see underneath. Linhardt was petting the underside of his wing, kicking happily and squealing in utter delight at every little shift in the dusty green plumage.
Macuil fluffed his feathers, smiling at the much faster flailing, Linhardt’s screech happier than he had ever heard it. Those little hands immediately returned to his wing, more slapping than petting in his excitement. The long flight feathers he grabbed, bending them uncomfortably to try and gnaw on them.
The disappointed whine as he pried his feathers from Linhardt’s mouth was heartbreaking, but also, it hurt to have them bend that way and he really didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of one breaking.
“I know, I know. I’m a cruel monster. But please stop trying to put everything in your mouth.” he said, trading his wing for the curled, downy end of his tail. Linhardt took to it immediately, cooing and smacking his face straight into the densest fluff with a laugh. It drew a chuckle out of Macuil.
He let Linhardt play with his tail for a while, shifting to lay on his side and watch him, eyelids heavy. Linhardt was content to be tucked against his father, playing with the dense feathery fluff and babbling quietly.
Macuil must’ve dozed off, because he didn’t quite recall the passing of time. It seemed as though he had only blinked, and then he was waking up to a dim room with Linhardt sitting up and bapping him in the face with his own tail. And looking quite frustrated with him at that.
Groggy, regretting the impromptu nap on the floor, he stumbled upright with little Linhardt in his arms. He yawned, shuffled to peek outside to check the sun’s position in the sky, and tried not to rush back inside.
He was so late to start dinner. It was dark! He’d slept for far too long, he was the worst parent in the world. Linhardt was starving and what was he doing? Sleeping! Like an idiot!
He plopped Linhardt down at the table, quickly bestowing a kiss to the top of his head before falling over himself to light a fire to get at least something started. In the meantime, he put a few toys before his son to keep him entertained.
After a minute, he decided fuck it, and just speared a handful of things to roast over the flames. The last of the vulture meat, scorpions he’d removed the tail and pincers from, and a particularly large lizard he’d found poking around his son’s crib while cleaning.
He crouched before the magicked fire, turning the spit every so often and only taking his attention off them to check Linhardt. He worried, for the boy appeared a little more bored each time he looked, and a bored Linhardt was a very mischievous Linhardt. He could even see a thought forming in real time, the boy’s gaze roaming everywhere except the toys he’d been handed.
There was not much he could do but keep an eye on him, shifting to sit so his back wasn’t entirely to the table at which his son sat. Though, surprisingly, nothing happened in the time between whatever mischief Linhardt had thought up in his little head and the moment Macuil finished cooking. It seemed the presence of food was enough to distract him for the time being.
Not the most filling dinner, a lizard, scorpions, and bird meat, but it would do. Linhardt was still little anyway, it would be fine. Miraculously, his plate stayed on the table this time, instead of inexplicably becoming a hat when Macuil wasn’t looking. He still wasn’t at all certain how that had happened.
He took the dishes to the sink while Linhardt was finishing the last scorpion. For a moment he just stood and stared at the pile, head tilted and considering whether it was worth doing them. He would need to, eventually, he’d already ignored them for the past two days but….
He was just so tired.
He sighed, and went to retrieve a bucket. Conjured ice melting in said bucket, he scrounged around for a rag. When the melted water was hot enough to be a little painful, he set about finally washing the dishes. Mostly plates and bowls, he only had the one cooking pot he had made thus far. It was all they had needed, just the two of them living there. And actually, if he were to think about it, they had more cups than anything else.
Scrubbing the tenth cup he’d come across, he frowned. Why did I make so many? How do we go through so many?
Linhardt’s yell startled him from his thoughts, the cup landing with a splash in the water. He whipped around, hackles raised, talons out, feathers so puffed out his wings had damn near doubled in size. And he froze.
Clinging to the table for support, wobbling and almost tipping over, Linhardt was standing. His baby was standing. His baby! Standing! Macuil stood shocked still, shoulders hunched and wide eyed, watching his little boy find his balance.
And then— and Macuil really did believe he could cry— Linhardt left the table to take shaking steps towards him.
As quickly as he dared, Macuil shook away the talons and scales, short of breath and kneeling. Hands out for Linhardt and waiting, excitement running through him like a tremor ran through the earth.
“Come on, you can do it.” he urged, grinning like a fool. “Just a little farther.”
Each step trembling and almost sending him tumbling to the floor, his expression one of the utmost focus and arms out like a bird’s wings, Linhardt carefully walked all the way to his father. He tripped over his dress on the last couple of steps, falling safely into Macuil’s hold with a squeak. Macuil quickly stood him back up, holding him steady and trying to hold back his tears.
Linhardt did not seem too pleased to be standing, staring down at his feet with a frown. Then he looked up at Macuil as though the fact he was walking at all was his father’s fault. Macuil ruffled his hair, chuckling as he pressed kisses to his little forehead. It earned him a huffy breath, Linhardt pouting at the affection.
Only his son would bypass the crawling stage entirely to go straight to walking. Of course Linhardt would do that, why had he ever been worried? Macuil wiped his eyes, letting out a slow breath and wrangling himself back into a proper mortal facade. The dishes could wait another day.
He stood carefully, Linhardt’s hands in his, letting his son lead the way. The boy whined and grumped about it, but lit up over the discovery that he could go places. And go he did. Hands locked around Macuil’s fingers, Linhardt toddled as quickly as his little legs would carry him right over to the shelves. The piles of books waiting to be shelved held his attention for only a moment before he was waddling off, his father in tow.
Taking a handful of steps for every one of his, Linhardt bumbled about unsteadily to all the books that had yet to gain a spot on a shelf. Macuil hadn’t had the time to organize what they had, nor actually build the shelves needed to house most of them. It worked in his favor in this instance, Linhardt cooing excitedly about all the tomes he was able to reach.
He bounced in place, making grabbing motions at the highest shelves. The ones that Macuil set aside for books he specifically didn’t want Linhardt reaching until later. But he supposed he could make an exception just this once, and looked through them for a minute. He pulled one down he deemed somewhat appropriate, one he considered a very basic tome on magic, and presented it to the boy.
Linhardt’s excitement left him trembling like a leaf in the wind, grabbing at the tome and almost falling from the weight of it. He stayed standing with a little help, both arms wrapped tightly around the book and smiling. He didn’t wait for Macuil before he tried to waddle away with his prize, only a little put out at being caught.
Together, they sat by the hearth, Linhardt in his father’s lap and the book opened before them. Snuggled to his chest, bundled up in the shawl, Linhardt’s head propped on his father’s shoulder, they read for a while. In a manner of speaking. Macuil was sure his boy wasn’t truly reading, but there were times he wondered.
The fire burned low in the hearth, the heat slowly trickling away. Linhardt snuggled closer, burrowing as far into the shawl as the cloth would allow. The embroidered corner found its way into his mouth. Macuil slowly turned pages in the tome, quietly reciting formulas and describing the spell seals inscribed within. He found several mistakes in the process, resolving to correct them when he next had the chance.
When the flames began to flicker out, and Linhardt began to yawn more and more, he decided it was time for bed. He closed the book and left it on the table. His son tucked in his arms, he doused the fire, made sure the doors were locked, and headed for the stairs.
He ducked inside their room, and shut the door. He contemplated the crib for a moment, glancing between it and the boy dozing lightly in his hold. He hummed, and though it hurt his heart, decided it was probably time the crib went into storage.
He set Linhardt down in his own bed, a haphazard tangle of pillows, blankets, and other soft fabrics he’d been able to gather in their years living in the temple. He dressed for bed, then went about arranging the mess for the both of them. Linhardt closest to the wall, Macuil on the side with his back facing the door and a wing and tail curled around his boy, it would do until he had enough to make another bed.
The second he lay down, Linhardt migrated to him and planted his face directly into his chest with a sleepy hum. Macuil looped an arm around him, hand on his back and the covers tucked around his shoulders. It didn’t take long for his son to settle, tiny hands loosely gripping his tunic.
“Goodnight, Linhardt.”
“Night.”
Macuil’s eyes snapped open. Linhardt’s drowsy little voice was enough to bring him completely to tears. He tried so very hard to be silent, holding his sleeping son in the darkness. He wanted to sob, the tremors shivering his feathers the only outward sign of anything at all.
He sucked in a breath, held it for as long as his lungs and hollow bones would allow, and exhaled as slow and quiet as possible. It took several attempts to calm down, eyes wet with tears and his breathing left shuddering. His son noticed nothing, slumbering content within the safety of Macuil’s hold.
He wiped his eyes for the millionth time, his breathing evening out. He curled a little more around Linhardt, pulling the blankets up to cover them both a little more. Steadily, he relaxed, and was finally able to close his eyes.
Sleep came easily for the first time in a long, long time.