Author's Notes: See chapter one for disclaimer.
Okay, a few words of explanation: I had originally thought to make this chapter about Riku's relationship with his son, as well as Riku contemplating a few other things he's experienced that I may or may not have touched on in previous chapters. I think I do well at the inner thought thing (I hope you all agree), so that sounded like a good thing to do before the final events of the story. However, I had a better idea. I decided to write this chapter as six scenes, each scene being the feelings and thoughts of one family member directed at one of the other two. They might be rather short, but one can only do so much of a single inner monologue without running into a wall, methinks. The scenes won't be in any particular order, but I won't have to label them, as it will be quite easy to figure out who's thinking about whom. With only three family members and no duplicate relationships (like, say, with two brothers, the phrase "his brother" wouldn't be a definite identifier), there's no need even for names, really. Anyway, sorry for this chapter being late (aren't they all?), and I hope you enjoy.
He was the very reason she lived and breathed.
She half lay on her side, propped up on one elbow, as she gazed upon her lifemate's sleeping face. He slept peacefully, silvery eyelashes resting gently on his pale cheeks, his breath coming slowly and softly. The faint, silvery light from the lamps along the walls mimicked starlight, and he was bathed in a delicate, shimmering glow. She remembered the sight of real starlight reflected in his green eyes, flickering among the sparks of light that shone from within, hinting at the incredible power he held within his soul.
Oh, he was achingly sexy…even coming home from a chase or a fight, dusty from head to foot and his hair and clothes wild. He so loved to sport with others, though he was never cruel about it. Perhaps it was the human competitiveness in him that made him so.
She had thought she had been happy before she had met him, wounded and delirious with pain. Her parents had recently passed away, but she and her brother had accepted it as best they could, determined to put it behind them after the "traditional" mourning period of one month, and get on with their lives. She found joy in nature, as well as studying the healing arts that she had been fascinated with since she was not yet full-grown. All winged creatures were dear to her, bird and insect alike. Some insects, she admitted, were ugly and lived in filth and rot, but she rarely encountered those, spending much of her time in the fields and the woods, listening to the songs of birds and sometimes coaxing them down to sit on her hand or arm, cheeping as if trying to speak to her.
Then, completely unexpected, their paths had crossed.
Moaning on the ground next to his father, who had been nearing exhaustion, his suffering had apparently drawn her immediately to him, though in retrospect, she wasn't quite sure if it was his pain alone. He had screamed in agony when she had begun to heal him, the magic searing his already tortured nerves and coming across to his stressed brain as a new pain. She hadn't realized it at the time, but her heart had thrilled at the sound of his voice. She could imagine what it sounded like when he was speaking normally, strong and smooth, the sound sending shivers down her spine when whispered softly into her ear in the dark night. When their souls had finally touched for the first time, his injuries so grievous that they required her to plunge to the very bottom of his physical being, she had begun to weep, though unable to tell those around why. Immense joy at finding him, though she hadn't fully realized it until their eyes met for the first time several hours later, mixed with grief over the agony he was in, and her eyes had stung so badly that she had had no choice but to let the tears flow.
In the years since joining with him, making his life her life and hers his, she had known true happiness. Yes, there had been sorrow, and there always will be. Even soulmates cannot live in perfect bliss, but it was the closest thing to it that she could imagine. He had been the first true test of her healing skills, and her reward for passing was a kind, loving, intelligent, strong, sensitive, thoughtful, gorgeous man who thought he was the lucky one in the relationship. She thought she was lucky to have been fated for him. He was a loving mate and nurturing father, gentle when needed and firm or even rough when not. He submitted to the wants and needs of her and their son, but also asserted his right to refuse to if he thought they were being ridiculous. Soulmates love each other more than anything, and their children are a very close second, but indiscriminately indulging people, even those you love, is folly. He understood that, and wasn't hesitant to point it out when he felt he needed to.
Gently stroking his cheek, she leaned over him and pressed their lips together. Her soft, pink tongue flickered out, brushing against his mouth, eliciting a faint sigh from him. Without warning, a strong arm wound tightly around her waist and pulled her to him, making her gasp. He had felt her in his sleep and decided to bring her closer, never really waking at all.
Recovering from the surprise, she relaxed against him, laying her head on his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat. They had made love earlier, briefly but very deeply felt, and then he had drifted away while her musings about him had kept her awake. They were not intimate every night, nor was it always long and drawn out. Their love went far deeper than physical need, so they were many a night content to curl up against each other, perhaps engaging in a gentle, chaste touching that soothed away stress and care instead of triggering the urge for sex.
She closed her eyes, soft words reaching her ears for several minutes before she realized that he was awake and speaking to her. Before she could respond, or even fully realize what he was saying, she felt a tender hand caressing through her hair, a sudden tiredness sweeping through her with such strength that it was not to be ignored. Succumbing to his gentle yet irresistible will, she tumbled quickly into a deep, relaxing sleep, her head pillowed on his chest, just the way she had left it.
He was both an inspiration and an antagonist.
One side of him ached from an unexpected wrestling match with his father, which he chided himself that he was in fact the instigator. He had never been as physically strong as his father, nor was he likely ever to be. It didn't bother him, but he sometimes forgot…
Though he had been no pushover, his own strength and endurance putting up a good fight for a long while, he had eventually felt his body give out, and was pinned rather roughly on the hard rock that made up the edge of the canyon, most of his weight on his right side. Giving up, he had been released and playfully chidden for his momentary arrogance, and then left to make his way back home on his own. His mother, concerned, had asked if he wanted her to disperse his pain, but he politely refused. His father, though not unreasonably unsympathetic, had told him (out of his mother's hearing) that if every little hurt and illness were healed at first sign, the body would become weak, unable to withstand discomfort or mend itself. His father loved his mother dearly, but didn't exactly approve of her wish to stop any and all pain that they felt.
He sighed softly as he lay back, putting his hands behind his head. The earliest memory he had of his father was crawling up on the couch in the family room, where his father was dozing lightly, and yanking the long silver hair so hard that his mother had heard the cry of surprise and pain several rooms away. He had been carried by the back of his shirt collar to his confused mother, his father saying with a forced smile that he was lucky to be their child. He didn't seriously believe that his father would have hurt him if he hadn't been theirs, but he didn't doubt that he had hurt and angered his father, if inadvertently.
His father had never been soft on him. He had been told that his grandfather had not babied his father, and there was no reason for him to be babied in turn. During his ten-year training period, he had often come home exhausted on the days he trained with his father, but he was grateful for it. His father had said that the humans in the Many Worlds say "no pain, no gain", meaning one must push themselves past their limits in order to strengthen themselves and raise those limits. He was more adept at magic, taking to the training his mother gave him more easily, but he had many times surpassed what he believed himself capable of with his father. He was now a strong young man, as healthy and athletic as he could hope to be.
Make no mistake; he and his father did have their tender moments. When he had discovered that a friend of his had died suddenly, poisoned by an infected wound that hadn't been properly cleaned or bandaged, his father had been the first to find him and the first to comfort him. He had cried bitterly upon his father's shoulder, clutching at him as if afraid that he, too, would die if he let go. His father had lost very dear friends of his own many years ago, so he had known very well what his son had been feeling then.
He often found his father brooding, either staring into space or sunken into a half-conscious trance. He knew that his father was psychic, and sometimes experienced random visions of past, present, or future, but he had never learned to tell when his father was seeing something no one else could see, or merely immersed in his own thoughts. In truth, he wasn't sure if anyone could tell. Usually, the first sign was if his father came out of it without incident, or else jerked awake, seemingly confused about where he was. The latter was mostly caused by a vision that came and went with no warning.
To be honest, he feared for his father. What he had heard about his grandfather was often eerie or disconcerting. Madness, blind rages, and randomly occurring fits plagued his father's father, and he knew, but had not seen for himself, that his father had inherited the ability to go completely berserk when stressed a certain way. Thank the powers it apparently only happened when his father discovered that his loved ones were in mortal danger, or when frustrated beyond comprehension. His grandfather had had a very real reason to lose his grip on reality, but he still worried about his father. Would madness manifest itself in his father, too? The family was "normal"—except for the fact that human blood flowed in the men's veins—but sanity was never certain for anybody. Some people are fated to be mad, and no amount of "normalcy" will prevent it.
Human blood…he was one-quarter foreign, his father being a true half-breed. Never before had a child been born to an ylfe and a human, and never since has it happened again. The union between his grandparents was unnatural, and many saw it as sick and wrong, having defied the exclusive bond between soulmates, but it was not to be helped. His father had shown him the case of strange keychains that he had received from two childhood friends upon those friends' deaths, and he had heard all about the Keyblade and the upheaval in the Many Worlds that its appearance had caused. He knew the names Sora, Kairi, Ansem, Maleficent, and many others that he had no faces to identify them with. His father had described many of those people in detail, but he had only seen one with his own eyes, and it was only a painting of that person. He had seen Ansem's portrait on the wall of the library in Hollow Bastion's central castle, and he had felt a strange sense of wonder that that man had possessed his father, taking near total control, enslaving his body and nearly doing the same to his mind and soul. His father, though, had been a very young child when that had happened, not even aware that his DNA and his destiny was so very different than that of everyone around him.
He sat up when he felt his stomach grumble, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since this morning. Almost all ylfen, both males and females, knew how to cook, and his parents had made sure he knew how to prepare his own food. Not only that, but he'd feel like a spoiled child if he couldn't fend for himself, both in the kitchen and out in the world. Pushing himself up from his bed, he headed out the door and down the hall toward the outer rooms.
He was his pride and joy.
His son had grown up wonderfully, enduring the sometimes harsh training he had been put through and coming out the other side all the better for it. He had given his son the same break-the-limits training as his own father had given him, and the result was a strong, skilled young man who wasn't afraid of pain or losing. His son's stronger affinity for magic, however, made him more of a mage than a warrior, but it was no disappointment. He was just as proud as his son's magical skills as he was of his physical skills. The boy's mother had trained him well.
Ah, and such a resemblance. His son looked very much like his mate, very little visual evidence that they were father and son. It was just as well. He had received much attention, especially from the opposite sex, for his rare hair and eye colors, and he hadn't always liked it. He was beautiful, yes, but beauty could be a nuisance as much as it could be a blessing. His mate was beautiful in a different way, and their son likewise. Their brown eyes were a little strange in this canyon city, much more common in the forest communities that live nearer the sunshine.
He was sitting near the edge of the canyon, looking down upon the many balconies and verandas in the cliff face opposite him, most of them looking like tiny irregularities in the limestone. He could feel his son's spiritual signature among them, visiting friends. Well, no, not just a friend. His son had taken up with a dark-haired woman about the same age, and he could just feel the intense magnetism they had for each other. There was a strong physical attraction between them, and he believed this to be his son's first serious relationship, all his previous ones passive and casual. He had had his share of quick affairs and consuming passions before meeting his mate, so he knew what his son was feeling. Humans, with their high fertility rate and the constant threat that one's spouse may be cheating, frowned very much upon sexual promiscuity. Ylfen, however, with a very low fertility rate and the unbreakable, binding power of soulmates and spiritual joining, blithely engaged in physical love with many different partners before meeting their soulmate. Once the eyes meet and the souls are joined, there is no desire for another, no concept of adultery or divorce.
Yesterday, while searching for his son, he had reached out with his mind and scanned the area of Aerie they were in. He had found him, but his son's energy had immediately spiked, rocketing upward, synchronized with another person's energy that he hadn't known for very long. He had caught his son and the dark beauty in some sexual act, and had quickly pulled back, hoping his son hadn't noticed he was being sought after. Neither of them had said anything about it, his son perhaps because he hadn't noticed, and himself because it really wasn't his business.
He stood and began walking along the edge, his thoughts continuing. He wanted to protect his son from harm, yet at the same time did not want to shelter him. Protecting was just that: protecting. Sheltering was protecting to the extent that the sheltered one becomes dependent on that protection, unable to defend themselves. He had never been sheltered, sometimes cruelly exposed to the elements and brutally ravaged before cover could be found. He did not want that for his son, but he also wanted him to grow up to be a man, to be able to fight for himself and for those he loves. His son had grown up happy, and he wanted to see him continue to be that way. His son had never faced any life-changing trauma as of yet, but he knew that he must eventually. He prayed that his son would be strong enough to weather the storm and come out all the tougher for it.
He had given his son the short swords that he had once used as weapons, himself now wielding the ancient sword that had been in the family for centuries. He had told his son everything he knew about this sword, making him swear that he will one day wield it with the dignity, respect, and grace that the sword merited. When it was his time to die, his son would become the family head, and the sword had become a symbol of that position over the years, like a crown was for a monarch.
Life and death…that subject had always fascinated him, sometimes troubled him. He suspected that his father's unique position caused the interest, but it had continued since his father's death. He had seen several people die, but only one person born. His son had come into the world before his very eyes, and he would remember that day more clearly than any other.
Many times, his thoughts traveled back to the night his son had been conceived. Ylfe females, as far as he knew, did not have menstrual cycles like human females. At the same time, they had ovaries, which one must assume stored their life's supply of eggs. Perhaps ylfe women were like cats, only ovulating after the act of mating. Or, perhaps not…logic then said that many more babies would be born than actually are. He had spent a long time thinking on this, and could only come up with one solution.
His son had been conceived during a time of emotional upheaval for him and his mate. His mate had been grieving over a friend's death, and her distress had caused him pain. Their emotions had gone out of control as they had coupled that night, and he had felt the spark that heralded the beginning of a new soul at the very moment their passions, both mental and physical, had peaked. It was as if the strength of their feelings had been the cause of their son's conception. He believed it was. Perhaps the conception of ylfe children is not through the physical union of male and female sex cells, as it was in most living creatures. Maybe it was the blending of their emotions, the extension of their souls, that created new life. Ylfe spiritual dynamics were fundamentally different than with most races and peoples, and it was entirely possible that, when emotions are high enough during copulation, they coalesce inside their bodies and manifest physically, combining when the male ejaculates. The female's body would then nurture and shelter the growing life until it was time to be born, the same as all other placental animals.
That explanation had then, of course, brought up new questions. Why does the male's body produce semen even when the emotional requirements are not present? His best guess for that was that it only became virile when the requirements had been met, or that the physical substance played no role in conception anymore, merely being an evolutionary redundancy, left over from when ylfen were not unlike other races.
Even if what he had figured was true, it didn't explain how he had been born to an ylfe father and a human mother. Human females had a very high fertility rate, but then it didn't stand to reason that an ylfe male would even be able to impregnate a human woman, the methods of conception totally different and completely incompatible. However, fate had willed his birth, and fate was powerful enough to break through even the most impossible barriers. It was the only thing he could think of.
His thoughts returned to his son. They were very different in some ways and very similar in others. He knew his son was a blend of himself and his mate, and he believed that the boy exhibited their best qualities. He had his flaws, yes, but no one could be perfect. He loved his son dearly, flaws and all, and he would not trade him for the Many Worlds.
His son was approaching, drifting across the canyon on the wind. The primary emotion he felt emanating from the younger man was blissful contentment. Though pure love could only be felt between soulmates, he was very much aware that love could easily exist between two unjoined ylfen. He had loved a fair amount of his partners, and he still thought on them fondly from time to time. He had no doubt that his son was tasting for the first time the bonds of deep affection. They had no comparison to what soulmates felt for each other, but it was enough to satisfy those who had not yet laid eyes on their destined companion.
His son landed beside him, greeting him with the careless air of one in the gentle grip of happiness. Without waiting for a reply, his son began chatting gaily, recounting the events of the past several hours. He was speaking quickly, without much thought or direction.
He smiled softly as he listened to his son chatter, not interrupting or stopping him. He remembering being young and in love for the first time, and he would be damned if he spoiled it for his only son.
She was his focus, his drive in life.
If they had not met, he was sure he would have gone wild. His passions and drives would have gone out of control and possibly consumed him. With no real focus in life, he would have spread out so thin that he wouldn't be able to keep a hold of himself. Perhaps thither lay the paths to madness
However, she gave him something to anchor to. He could live his life for her, as well as for their son, so much of his energy was occupied with them. Loving and caring for them gave him a purpose, a reason to do what he does. He suspected that Cloud's unquenchable wanderlust was partly due to the fact that he really had nobody to live for but himself. He had no focus or goal, so escapism had been his only option. Eventually, he had needed an escape from escapism, but no such retreat was available. The blond warrior's life must have been hard indeed, yet he had managed well, considering.
People were not meant to be alone, especially not those whose real love is predestined from birth. One never realizes how truly lonely they are until they meet their soulmate, but if a soulmate is never met, their spirit soon wastes, starved for love and affection. Cloud had lived a long time, but what kind of life had he lived? His heart ached for his cousin's suffering.
He was eternally grateful to fate that he had been destined for the woman he now gazed at fondly. She was writing in a small book, recording her feelings and experiences of the day. She did not make an entry every single day, but she wrote in it frequently enough. It was actually one of several small books that looked the same. Each one had a number inside the front cover, denoting what its place in the series was. He probably would have no patience for a journal, but he knew it was something she enjoyed doing.
Moving closer to her, he leaned toward her and slipped his arms around her waist from behind. Pressing his face against her neck, he inhaled slowly, savoring her sweet scent. A smile spread across his face at her startled gasp, followed by a kittenish purr. He could spend hours like this, content to just be near her.
He laid his head on her shoulder as she resumed her writing, sighing through his nose. He loved her, he loved living with her, and he loved interacting with her. They teased and flirted, supported and criticized, indulged and nurtured, comforted and worried. Their relationship was a swirl of emotions, both good and bad, and he cherished it more than any other. Thoughts of losing her chilled him to the bone, and every day he was afraid that it would be their last. He tried not to let it hinder their happiness together, but one of them must die first, and he didn't know who it would be.
He had thought he knew what it was like to lose a soulmate, having experienced his father's memories of losing Wenna, but the more he thought about losing his own mate, the more fear and dread he felt about it. His father's memories had become like his own, but there was no way to convey the full force of the grief and anguish one feels when losing half their soul, even through memories and thoughts. The thought of feeling it himself terrified him, but he wished not that his mate would be the one left behind.
Squeezing her waist softly, he wondered if they would live to see their grandchildren. Many ylfen did not; his father hadn't, and he got the feeling that his father's parents hadn't lived to see his half-siblings. They certainly hadn't been alive when he himself had been born, but that was of little matter. Many ylfen only saw their children, not their grandchildren, which he thought very unfair in a race that lived for so long. Ylfen reproduce so slowly that most of them die before their children have children of their own. Ylfen lived an incredibly long time, but no one may live forever.
He didn't want to lose her, but he also didn't want her to lose him. One of them must suffer greatly, and he dreaded that moment terribly.
A sudden urge to cry came over him, and he squeezed her tightly, hiding his face in her hair, trying to restrain the tears that stung his eyes and blurred his vision. His mate's gentle voice came to him, and he felt her consciousness prodding his gently, asking permission to help him. She could not heal mental illnesses or close emotional wounds, but she could comfort a person, soothe away their worries and fears, albeit temporarily. He nodded against her shoulder, and sighed shakily as a cool, consoling sensation filled him.
He was unaware how long they stayed like that. Indeed, he wasn't exactly sure what was going on, for when he "woke up" when she was finished, he found himself lying down on the loveseat they were in, his head on her lap, her kind and loving face hovering over him. He was willing to both die and kill for her, and her eyes told him that she felt just the same.
Pushing his fears aside, he leaned up and kissed her, pressing their lips chastely together. Worrying about tomorrow never did anything for him, except perhaps cause anxiety and sometimes headaches. If one was destined to be left behind for a while before they join their mate in death, then it stood to reason that they must enjoy every minute they had together before that happened.
She responded to his kiss, pressing back softly. His emotions welled up at the same time he touched hers, and the sudden mixture was so sweet, the tears he had been holding back slipped free. Oh, how he loved her so much…
She was the center of his fondest childhood memories.
He dearly loved his father, but his mother had a special place in his heart. Her training had been closer, more personal, and he knew a closer bond had grown between them than between him and his father.
His mother had been the softness where his father had been the hardness. During those ten years, he had taken to the magic his mother sought to unlock for him much easier than anything else, and he had felt most satisfied and confident after being with her. He didn't know if he wanted to be a healer, but he knew that he would seek to develop his magical skills further, while his physical skills had pretty much reached their limit. Perhaps he would experiment with different types of magic before he settled on a kind he wanted to master.
Though she was sometimes too soft on him, she encouraged him to seek his own path, to use her instruction as only a guide, not a rule. A bird does its best when allowed to fly free, she had said, and she would lay no bonds on him purposely, and would try to lift any she placed on him accidentally.
Magic came easily to him, but it still thrilled him to feel it flowing through him. It could feel like so many different things. Healing magic felt cool and smooth, coalescing in his fingertips and flowing outward with a delicate tingle. Defensive magic felt warm and all-encompassing, radiating from his center, like his entire being was slowly consumed by the spell. Attack magic felt hot and invigorating, concentrating not just in his hands but also well up his arms, bursting forth with pulse-pounding furor.
There was one type of magic that his mother refused to touch, and he had in fact learned about it from his father. The older man had warned—almost threatened—that he should never use such skills unless his life were in desperate danger. The magic had been a form of attack magic, yet it targeted the mind, the closest to psychic powers that magic could ever come. Mental states such as confusion, fear, uncontrollable anger, and temporary madness could be inflicted, as well as all-out psychological warfare. Such spells felt ice-cold, creeping through every fiber in his body until he had felt like he was going to freeze, shivering visibly. He loathed the feel of it, and swore never to use it. His father had nodded slowly, a look of pity in his eyes for the discomfort he was feeling.
His mother had gotten angry that his father had dared to show him such things. It was the first and only time he had seen his parents fight, and to see soulmates in a clash like that had made his chest tighten, and he had quickly left the room. His mother had been positively incensed that her son had been exposed to such evil, horrible things, and his father had been adamant that it was better for him to have experienced it and chosen not to learn more, than if he had never had the opportunity to choose for himself. It had hurt terribly to hear his parents fight like that because of him, and he was extremely thankful that their love for each other prevented it from coming to blows. Even if they became as angry as they possibly could, his mother and father would never strike one another.
He yawned and stretched where he sat at his desk. He was in his bedroom, which had once been his father's, and it was getting late. He had been reading a book his mother had returned home one day with and given to him. He liked it, but no matter how much he liked what he was reading, he would always have a hard time keeping his eyes open if he was sleepy. More than once already, he had almost fallen asleep on the open page.
Putting a marker in the book and setting it down, he stood, changed for bed, and climbed in between the sheets. Willing the lamps along the walls to dim, he settled in, lying on his back and staring at the white ceiling through the darkness. His mother had told him about when she first met his father. It had been in this bed that their eyes had first met, in this bed that their souls had joined, and in this bed that they had first made love. His mother had had a dreamy, far-off expression in her eyes as she had told him of their first meeting. Her voice had dropped to a sigh, and a giddy, girlish trill had crept in. He could tell that she was remembering that day, what it was like to gaze into his deep green eyes for the first time, to finally find her true happiness. Watching and listening to her had made him want to find his destined mate right away, but his meeting with her was left entirely up to fate and chance, of course.
His mother told him many stories, some true and some imagined, and his favorite activity as a small child had been curling up on her lap and listening to her soft, gentle voice speak of whatever he had wanted to hear about at that particular time. Now, he was about the same size as his father, so curling up on her lap like he had as a boy was now quite out of the question. Despite size, however, he still liked to spend time with her every once in a while and hear what she has to say. Even if she was just chatting and not telling a story at all, it was relaxing to hear her talk. His relationship with his mother was close-knit, and she understood him more than perhaps anyone else did. He suspected that only his soulmate would come closer to him.
Yawning again, his thoughts drifted over to Nyenori, the dark-haired woman he was currently involved with. His mother had been the first to discover that they were together, and she had smiled brightly at the thought of her son in his first serious relationship. She wanted him to be happy, and she could tell that he adored Nyenori. She and the girl had instantly liked each other, and his mother had given them her full blessing. Since then, their relationship had deepened, and he almost felt sorry that he would eventually find someone he loved even more than her. He supposed most ylfen felt this way at one time or another, but still…
He recalled his mother's words to him, that true love cannot be broken or overcome, but it was perfectly all right and even expected that he follow lesser feelings of love until that fateful day arrived. Ylfen, to many races from the Many Worlds, he had heard, where very promiscuous and hedonistic creatures, but he was glad of it. What is life if you cannot seek to get pleasure and enjoyment out of it? Sex was by far not their only definition of a good time, and he resented the fact that most Many World societies would look upon their habits with disgust. His parents, however, had taught him not to judge people before meeting them, so he tried not to dislike the Many Worlds natives. He supposed ylfen had as many stereotypes about them as they had about ylfen, or at least the ones who believed ylfen to be real.
Tomorrow, he and his mother would go out into the Stretch to search for wildlife. He had discovered that he held a great interest in animals, and she had agreed to acquaint him with the local animal population as far as she was familiar with it. He was looking forward to tomorrow, and as his eyes slipped shut for the night, he made a mental note to ask her about the wildlife around Melyrn, her native city in the trees. With that thought lingering in the back of his mind, his consciousness retreated, and his body settled into sleep.
He was her baby, her little boy.
Her son, next to her soulmate, was the most important thing to her in the world. She wanted to protect him from the dangers in the world, but he was a young man now. He would resent being shielded like a defenseless child. Still, her maternal instincts never fully turned off.
While he had been growing inside of her, she had felt the mother-child link always growing in the back of her mind, getting stronger every day. Her mate had a bond with the unborn child as well, tentatively touching minds with it, but this was something different. It was as if their minds had been in contact since the moment of his conception, and she cherished that special link. She supposed all ylfe mothers have this connection with their children.
Her son had been a wonderful student, eager to learn and quick to catch onto things. She often worried over the bumps and bruises he often came home with after a day training with his father, but her mate had once literally blocked her from going to him, not letting her pass until she had agreed not to heal all his hurts away. He had said that he did not want the boy to grow up depending on his mother to succor him whenever he was hurt or in some way uncomfortable. It was hard to see her son in pain, and she often asked him if he wanted her help, but the boy had the same attitude as his father, more often opting out than accepting. Sometimes, that made her unhappy, but she had learned to accept it. Her desire to stop pain was not lessened any, but she did see her mate's point.
From the first day of training, her son had eagerly latched onto magic, taking to it much quicker than other training aspects. She hoped he would pick a type of magic to specialize in. If it had been left up to her, she would have chosen defensive or healing magic, since she hated the idea of hurting others, but she wouldn't be able to stop him if he chose attack magic instead. However, she would absolutely not stand her son choosing that thoroughly evil kind of psychological magic that his father had had the gall to show to him, and was glad that the boy had sworn not to touch it. If there was one thing she hated about her soulmate, it was his ability to twist and contort the mind's conception of reality, and she suspected it was a skill left over from his time spent as a thrall of darkness, brief but nearly fatal to his free will and self-awareness. She had seen that her son had been badly frightened by the experience, and that was the only time she had lashed out against her soulmate, fiercely reproaching him for doing such a thing. He had retaliated with the same ferocity, and they had fought bitterly. Though they both forgave each other for it, neither said so out loud. Both were ashamed of their conduct toward each other.
She checked herself, taking a few deep breaths through her nose, calming herself. Even the memory was enough to make her heart speed up.
Her thoughts returned to her son, and she felt her anxiety slipping away. No more than a week after he had been born, and only a day or so after she had stopped feeling weak and drained from the birth, she had walked into the front living room to find her mate in a chair, their son snuggled up in his lap, the tiny body lying upright against his abdomen. Both were asleep, and she had wondered about what they had been doing when they had nodded off. She hadn't the heart to disturb them, however, so had left them to wake up on their own. It was without a doubt the most adorable sight she had ever seen, and she knew that the image would stay with her forever.
The boy had grown up so quickly, both physically and mentally, and it didn't seem long at all before he was taller than her and beginning to get the same firm, toned build as his father. His hair was the same color as hers, but a little straighter, and he had grown it long like both of his parents. Most of the time, he had it tied back in a loose ponytail, but he sometimes let it fly loose, wild and fiery red.
Brushing her own hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ears, she concentrated on the stitches she was sewing. She had caught the skirt of this dress in the doorway of her and her mate's closet, and it had torn. It wasn't a favorite dress, but it was worth saving. It did go well with her eyes, she thought.
Her son was across the room from her, idly playing with little sparks of light he kept flicking from his fingertips. She could tell he was bored, and he often engaged in small, useless magic tricks to practice his control when he could find nothing else to do. The light he was playing with moved not unlike sparks from a wood fire, but they also obeyed his silent commands whenever he issued them. He made them follow his fingers, twirling them in a circle and then any which way, and he sometimes sent them streaking away from him and then back, a few even zipping around her, all the way across the room.
A particularly large spark suddenly imposed itself between her and her needle, making her pause. It just hovered there, seeming to stare at her. It was like a tiny fairy was in front of her, wreathed in its own light. Looking up, her eyes met her son's, and he was grinning cheekily at her. She gave him a mock scowl and shooed the spark away. It rejoined the others as they flocked around his fingers. She didn't look back to her sewing, instead continuing to watch him, for he suddenly made all the sparks combine into a ball of light, its edges so defined that it almost looked solid. To her wonder, he actually took a hold of the light and began to mold it like clay, manipulating it with his fingers as if it were indeed a tangible object. He experimented with it for a few minutes, mostly kneading and stretching it, but then let it dissipate completely, the light spreading out until it disappeared into the light of the room.
She smiled softly as she looked back to her needle and resumed her mending. Perhaps he wouldn't specialize in attack, defense, or healing magic at all, but light. Light was the most beautiful of natural phenomena, for without light, sight would be impossible, let alone the unlimited number of colors. It would be a noble thing indeed if he chose to both master and serve such a wonderful part of nature.
Author's Notes: Phew…took a few days for me to write all this. It's been hotter than Hades lately, and my brain had practically melted, so I only got a little bit done each time I worked on this. Today was the first cool day in a while, so I decided to take advantage of the reprieve and finish this chapter. Despite the difficulties, it was fun to write this. Some parts were a little difficult, as I had never really thought about one of the characters from one of the other characters' point of view before, but I think I managed it rather well. Some parts took on lives of their own, like the miniature sex-ed lesson in one of the scenes, but that's what I like about writing. You can plan something as much as you want, but it's almost stupid to expect that nothing new will come up and be written before you realize what direction your thoughts have taken. Sometimes, it's like my fingers are typing without really consulting my brain about what they're typing. I've actually surprised myself when editing my fics, coming across parts that I remember writing but unable to figure out how my mind came up with the ideas. I think my Muse lives as much in my fingertips as she does in my mind.
Anyway, I like this chapter, so I hope you do, too. Let me know in a review or an email, onegai shimasu! I just got the Trigun DVD boxed set that I recently ordered from TRSI, so you can guess what I'll be busy with this weekend…
