Seven year old Rufus sat on the rug, rolling the ball gently between his hands, smiling as its colours twirled over each other.
"Oops," he murmured as he misjudged the hit and it span away from him, hitting the window with a low thud. He scrambled across to it, snatching it triumphantly off the floor. Then he looked out the window.
Looking straight back at him was a strange, small creature, with large eyes, blue fur and a whiplash tail. Rufus's face lit up and he pressed his nose against the glass.
"Look! It's a lemkin! Waa-iii-kha-kha! Waa-iii-"
"Shh, Rufus!" Magda glanced up from her book towards her son, who was now watching in disappointment as the small creature scampered away from the house, "Daddy's sleeping!"
Rufus turned away from the window to look at his father. The man was lying on the sofa by the fire, pale face dirtied from the day's patrol, long chestnut hair hanging in his face. His fringe, which was resting on the end of his nose, was blown into the air slightly every time he let out a breath. His thin frame was muscley from years of flying and woodwork, broad shoulders gently undulating with every low snore. Long legs rested on the plump sequined cushions that adorned all the couches in the house and a pair of grubby hands rested beneath the man's face. His feet rested in Magda's lap, and Rufus guessed that she must love his father a whole lot to let him do that – he knew that he certainly couldn't stand the smell!
Rufus watched his parents as he made his way back over to them. He sat down next to the sofa, head cocked to one side, studying his father's face. Finally, he asked,
"Why is daddy asleep?"
"He's tired."
Rufus blinked a few times, "Why's he tired?"
"Because he's been flying around the Free Glades all day making sure we're all safe." Magda put down her book and smiled at him, "You know what he does."
"That's not so hard. Bet I could fly around all day and not get tired."
Magda laughed, "I bet you could. But you have a lot more energy than daddy does."
Rufus considered this for a little while.
"But he's always tired, even when he's not on duty. He's not old, is he?"
Magda grinned, "Your father won't be old for a long time, Rufus, love. Don't let him hear you say that."
They both turned to look at the man's face, a look of peaceful ignorance upon it, and giggled.
"So," Rufus was still laughing, "If he's not old, why's he tired?"
Magda looked down at her book, seriousness growing on her face.
The truth was, after seven years of malnourishment, Xanth's body was still recuperating. How he hadn't starved to death during those long months in the Tower, she would never know, but when he returned to the Free Glades, he was nothing more than a scarecrow. The woodtroll matrons that worked in the kitchens had done their best to feed him up, and now he was better than ever. Some days, though, because he was so dedicated to his job, he would completely overwork himself and had to spend the rest of the day resting.
As well as being physically exhausting, the job was taking an emotional toll too. At the moment the Free Glade Lancers were excavating what was left of the Tower of Night, and the Librarian Knights had been enlisted to help carry the wood back. It had been decided that, instead of continuing to chop down the Deep Woods, which was dangerous at the best of times, they could reuse old wood.
So the Knights and Lancers had ventured back to the Tower and begun to take it apart. Xanth, having extensive knowledge of the inside of it, had volunteered to help remove the wood from the cells. It filled him with dread to return to such a horrible place, which still haunted his nightmares, but he was the only one who could successfully navigate the place without the rotting beams crashing down upon them.
Magda knew that doing this job troubled her husband, but his longing to atone for what he had done in the past took priority over his own feelings.
So every day he would leave, early in the morning, and every evening just before dusk he would return, absolutely shattered and covered in dirt, and collapse on the sofa.
Magda bit her lip.
"Rufus, remember when I told you about the bad things that happened when daddy was younger?"
"Oh," the boy's eyes grew wide and he shuffled closer, "Like his scars?"
Magda's eyes followed his pointed finger. She blanched.
Where his sleeve had been rolled up, on Xanth's wrist, were four deep red lines.
When the work on the Tower had first begun, her husband would come home every day, wide-eyed and shaking. Every night he would be haunted with thoughts of those dark days he had spent there. One night, when the dreams were particularly bad and Xanth had woken up, terrified and shaking; she had comforted him and held him. He told her everything – every scrap of memory he could remember, and she held him and cried with him.
One thing he had mentioned was during those dark evenings, after he had left the Free Glades. Once more, he had no freedom, no soul, and he couldn't cope. Four times he tried to commit suicide, and four times he couldn't quite do it. He'd never told a single person.
After that night, the dreams got better. He could cope with walking through the Tower's corridors, without a huge flood of despair taking him. But it was still exhausting work.
Magda swallowed and forced a smile.
"Yes, love, like...that. You see, daddy's work is in the same place that a lot of those bad things happen. It's very hard for him to go there."
Rufus frowned, before climbing up onto the sofa beside his father. He nuzzled the man's face gently then curled up next to him.
"He must be very strong," Rufus said softly. Magda nodded.
"He is."
Rufus blinked sleepily and yawned. Magda stood up, put away her book and fetched a blanket.
Rufus yawned again as the warm cloak was draped over him and his father.
"But...but the bad people have gone now, right? Daddy's safe."
Magda smiled as the small boy's eyes flicked closed, and stroked a golden curl from his forehead.
"Yes," she whispered, "We're all safe."