Chapter Text
The wind whistling through the cracks of the old cottage stirred the man from his sleep. He lay on a simple wooden bed covered with nothing more than a straw-filled mattress, one that could hardly be trusted to keep out the biting chill of winter.
As soon as he opened his eyes, he instinctively turned toward the other side of the bed.
A tousled head of black hair rested there, rising and falling with soft, even breaths.
Oliver was still asleep. Children, people often said, spent far more time dreaming than adults ever did.
Curled on his side beneath a patchwork quilt that had been mended more times than anyone could count, the little boy still clutched a fold of his father's shirt. Even in deep sleep, his tiny fingers refused to let go.
A faint smile tugged at Enkrid's lips.
He made no move to get out of bed.
Winters in Naurilia were always harsher than people imagined. Oliver was an unusually sensitive child, and even the slightest loss of warmth beneath the blankets was enough to wake him.
Enkrid gently brushed a hand through the boy's soft black hair.
Just a little over a year ago, this tiny child had been small enough to fit within the cradle of both his hands. Now Oliver had learned to toddle across the floor, to call out simple, clumsy little "Pa..pa", to sulk, and to smile so brightly that his eyes curved into crescents.
Every tiny step of his son's growth softened Enkrid's heart.
And yet...
Oliver was still so thin.
Enkrid rested a careful hand against the child's back, feeling the delicate shoulder blades beneath the fabric. Oliver ate well and nursed eagerly, yet his body refused to fill out, remaining noticeably smaller than children his own age.
At the thought, his gaze grew even gentler.
When Oliver had first been born, the midwife had looked at him with quiet concern and said,
"This little one is frail."
More than a year had passed, but those words had never truly left Enkrid's heart.
Those words had lingered in Enkrid's heart ever since.
Oliver was his son.
He had carried the child himself, and brought him into the world with his own body.
Whether that had been a miracle or a cruel joke played by fate, Enkrid had never known.
During the pregnancy, there had been moments when he had considered giving up the baby. Yet every time the thought crossed his mind, he found himself unable to abandon the tiny life that carried his blood.
In the end, he chose to take responsibility.
He prepared to welcome the little bundle into the world and gave him the name Oliver.
Not once, since the day his son was born, had Enkrid regretted that decision.
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt when he noticed the slightest movement beside him.
Oliver, who had been sleeping peacefully only moments ago, frowned in his sleep. His tiny lips parted and moved as though searching for something.
Before Enkrid could even lean closer, the child instinctively burrowed against his chest.
"...Papa..."
The sleepy murmur was scarcely more than a whisper.
"I'm here."
Enkrid answered softly, his voice calm enough to reassure the little boy.
Oliver never opened his eyes. He simply rubbed his cheek against Enkrid's chest before naturally seeking the familiar source of comfort.
A faint smile crossed Enkrid's face.
He loosened the front of his shirt, pulled the blanket higher to shield both of them from the cold, and cradled Oliver close. His chest, heavy with milk, had long since become the place his son sought whenever he stirred from sleep.
The room remained perfectly still.
Only the quiet crackling of dying embers in the hearth and the wind sighing beyond the window disturbed the silence.
Oliver was still half-asleep.
He nursed slowly, pausing every now and then, his tiny mouth making absent-minded little movements before continuing again.
Enkrid lowered his gaze to watch him.
After everything he had already endured pregnancy, childbirth, raising the child alone, breastfeeding no longer felt unusual. Since Oliver's birth, it had simply become another ordinary part of their lives together.
There had been nights when Oliver burned with fever, crying between mouthfuls because he felt so miserable.
There had also been nights when he fell asleep in Enkrid's arms while nursing and refused to wake until morning.
Whenever circumstances allowed, Enkrid would simply remain where he was, stealing a little more rest while quietly comforting his son.
Those memories piled gently upon one another.
He sat there, holding Oliver close, lost in thought until the little boy finally had his fill.
Oliver let out a tiny yawn before releasing him.
Moments later, he drifted back into sleep.
Enkrid pressed a gentle kiss against his son's forehead.
"Sleep a little longer," he whispered.
Carefully, he laid Oliver back on the bed and tucked rolled blankets along either side of the small body to keep him from rolling over.
By the time the first rays of morning sunlight slipped through the window, Enkrid had already rekindled the fire.
He set a pot of porridge over the flames before picking up two wooden buckets and heading for the village well.
At this hour, only a handful of people were awake.
Just the way he preferred.
If he arrived any later, the queue for water would grow long enough to waste precious time.
By the time he returned home with the buckets balanced across his shoulders, the day had properly begun.
He stoked the fire once more before turning to the morning chores.
Oliver's clothes, cloth diapers, and little towels were washed separately, then hung beside the hearth to dry in the warmth.
While waiting for the porridge to finish cooking, Enkrid sat down with a tiny wool sock resting in his lap.
Needle and thread moved deftly through the worn fabric.
His hands were beautiful, long fingers, elegant joints, their skin roughened only slightly by years of hard work. The thin layer of calluses did nothing to diminish them, instead, they spoke quietly of his diligence.
Even with practiced hands, the needle occasionally pricked his finger.
A tiny bead of blood welled up.
He simply brought the finger to his lips, sucked the blood away without much thought, and continued sewing.
The little sock could still be mended.
Buying a new pair would cost money, and money was something he couldn't afford to waste.
Oliver still needed medicine.
Fortunately, the child's condition seemed to be improving little by little.
Just then, a series of soft, uneven footsteps echoed from behind him.
Enkrid turned at the sound.
There was Oliver, toddling toward him with one tiny hand braced against the wall for balance.
The little boy had only just woken up.
A stubborn tuft of black hair stuck straight up from the crown of his head, and the blanket he had dragged along was still tangled around his legs, making each wobbly step look as though he might topple over at any moment.
He managed only two... perhaps three steps.
Thump.
Just as Enkrid had expected, Oliver plopped straight down onto the floor, the innocent blanket that had followed him all the way from the bed bunching beneath him.
The child blinked in stunned silence.
Setting the sock aside, Enkrid rose to his feet and walked over.
He scooped Oliver effortlessly into his arms.
"Did that hurt?"
Oliver merely pursed his lips before wrapping both little arms tightly around his father's neck.
Enkrid couldn't help but chuckle.
He wasn't even sure how much Oliver actually understood yet, but he had always made a habit of speaking to him in short, simple sentences.
"Alright then."
"Papa's got you."
Oliver buried his face in the crook of Enkrid's neck, content to let himself be carried into the kitchen.
And so, another ordinary day quietly began.