Work Text:
If an outsider were to look at the hillside at this current moment, they would surely think the grass and bracken had been set ablaze. Red streams down the hillside of the small village, a cacophony of shouting voices quickly joining in the fray, shrieks piercing the air in tandem. Wiping her hands on a thread-bare cloth from where she had been washing clothes in the sultry summer air, a certain first-class mage lifts her head to witness the sheer chaos that is overtaking the otherwise calm countryside. Her purple eyes crinkle in amusement as she takes in the sight before her, a soft smile spreading across her features.
Stark, now a dashing, strong, renowned warrior in his third decade of life, shouts with such untamed ferocity as he rushes down the hillside, branches scratching against his bare forearms.
“First one to get to Mommy is the winner!” Stark smirks, his voice carrying all the way to the family’s cozy cottage below.
Volker, their eldest and a young warrior in the making, picks up speed, his eyes narrowed in concentration in his haste.
Bastian, their middle son, revered by all those he meets due to the kindness inherited no doubt from Stark, pumps his shorter legs as fast as he can in hopes he can catch up to his elder brother and father.
Finnick, their youngest at six months, sits atop Stark’s broad shoulders, squealing happily as he shoves a hand in his mouth.
Fern spends her days surrounded by a sea of red and she would not have it any other way, collapsing under the weight of her four boys as they pile atop her, kisses coating her cheeks, forehead, and lips from all angles.
Her husband and their trio of redheads…
Fern’s genes were surely in there somewhere.