The boy isn’t crying. He did so when Iohmar first lifted him from his crib but soon grew tired of the screaming. Small hiccupping whimpers persist, and Iohmar doesn’t know if there is actual fear in the infant’s constant gaze or if his mind is playing a cruel trick.
But as he exits the path, passing the grave, the little thing screams.
Iohmar winces. They are still close enough to his lands that some passing fae might hear, especially with the echo off the stone cliffsides.
“Shh,” he whispers, extending a shred of his magic once more, this time trying to impart a calm sensation over the child.
He doesn’t know what’s wrong. Even Galen hasn’t been able to offer advice, as many children as he’s cared for in the past. The babe never cries at Galen’s presence.
All the more reason finding some humans is wise, he tells himself. His own determination sounds weak to his ears. He should not be acting in such a way. No one else in his position would. His parents would never have brought the child. Certainly, they would have no qualms about returning it to lands in which it belongs. Queen Rúnda would never act so irresponsibly.
This is the correct course of action, he thinks again, then stops himself from stomping as he walks. He does not throw tantrums, even alone.
No sun shines in the human lands for him to utilize, but Látwill still had its occasional beams breaking the twilight. Iohmar didn’t use them and recognizes the wish to walk the entire way as another hesitation, another excuse.
Well, it is too late to correct such behavior. Rain and storm clouds dominate the human lands.
The more Látwill fades to the human woods, the more the babe squirms and cries, even with Iohmar’s soothing magic. Stopping under cover of a large pine giving off scent in the damp, somewhere near the path where he found the humans, Iohmar removes his hand from the tiny face, staring down at it.
Flailing two fists, the babe scrunches his face in a scream, feet kicking the swaddle. Iohmar’s own face bunches in a frown. His presence may frighten the boy, but he’s been quiet for a while.
What has upset him further?
Drawing his fingers down the boy’s soft cheek, then his neck and chest, Iohmar searches for the brittle threads of magic even humans maintain. They existed when first he found the child and every time he’s checked since, but now he struggles to locate them. The boy, sickly as he is, hasn’t been deteriorating in the Fair Halls. Látwill’s magic is a warm kind, a healing kind, even if all humans do not take well to it.
The boy’s life force is so weak that Iohmar nearly loses it. Panic locks a fist around his chest. He refuses to acknowledge such an unreasonable rush of emotion. He steps from under the branches of the pine, continuing a few yards into the human lands, toward the nearest village, leaving the magic of his woods behind near completely.
More crying. What little magic Iohmar grasps nearly disappears.
Iohmar assumed the boy was thin and small because of the murderer’s neglect. Perhaps that was only part of it. Sickness does not exist in the Fair Halls. In the back of his mind, he knows humans are often ill and die even sooner than what short lives they would’ve lived.
But a child? Do little babes die in the human world?
Iohmar runs in his return to the mountain pass, finding the first beam of sun in his own lands and bringing them both to the base of his mountain. The spark of magic returns, weaker but surviving. The babe does not cease his crying, but it fades to the whimpering level Iohmar is accustomed to at his presence.
“Oh dear,” he whispers, and kisses the boy’s cheek despite his crying.
When Iohmar returns to his chambers, he sets the babe in his crib. As soon as he backs out of view, the crying ceases.
What should I do with it?
Tossing aside his heavy robe, damp from the rain, he relaxes into the seat of his writing desk, sifting papers rather than dwelling on the new discovery. Letters sit from the neighboring kingdom and his own folk dwelling far from the mountain, but no letter from Queen Rúnda, and his mood darkens further. Soon it will be time to visit, but he feels the distance between her lands and his as a physical weight.
The child wails.
Parchment slips from Iohmar’s hold, tearing on his long-clawed finger. He squints at the crib, at the continuing outburst of emotion. Rising, he edges into sight, gazing over the crib’s edge. Whimpering turns to a squall.
What does the little grub want? Is the trip to the human lands still present in him? He lifts the boy from the crib by his down blanket. Moss and infant ferns cling to half his desk, eating at the wood, and it’s on this soft space Iohmar deposits the bundle.
“What?” he hisses without venom, slipping back to his seat and leaning over the child.
The boy continues to sob, fists flinging about. Was the babe ever named? Names hold power in the hearts of the fair folk, so much so many choose never to speak theirs even among their kin, and Iohmar does not sense the presence of a name in the child.
“What to name you?” he muses, regretting the words as they leave his lips. Even suggesting such a thing is unwise. Because it may not be able to live in the human world does not mean he should be considering fae names.
“I do not believe I can return you,” he says, to himself rather than the child, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.
Wailing fills the edges of his chambers. Iohmar offers his knuckle, ensuring his talons are not in danger of cutting fragile skin. Suckling his finger, the boy still doesn’t cease his crying. Iohmar leans closer, inspecting the color returning to the pale skin with time and care. At least he has done this for the child, even if the boy is frightened by his presence.
All his progress was threatened when Iohmar took him to the realm above.
He runs the backs of his fingers along the babe’s soft cheek. The boy blinks wet eyes, the sobs fading. The beginnings of a smile crinkle his plump face.
For the first time, the boy giggles.
Both hands stop flailing, instead reaching for Iohmar’s jaw. Iohmar blinks. Lowering his head, he lets the boy’s chubby hands pat his cheeks, thump against his horns, and tug the locks of autumn hair spilling over his shoulders. Soft cooing begins. Iohmar blinks again, his eyes hot.
Ridiculous. Fae kings do not cry for a human babe. Delicate as possible, he slips his hands beneath the tiny wriggling body, aware of his claws. He should file them. The thin fabric of his tunic is little barrier. Many scars are hidden within his clothing, ones he is loath to let others touch, but the warm weight of the child is soothing rather than troubling. He checks his magic and finds it clinging to life.
The boy gums Iohmar’s shoulder, still making soft nonsensical noises. Drool drips down his collarbone. Iohmar can’t bring himself to care.
Leaning back in the large chair, he props his feet against the edge of the desk, hoping Galen won’t take this moment to invade his privacy. He could never be caught by his folk acting in such a way. The babe’s soft face nuzzles into Iohmar’s neck, and he falls into a gurgling sleep.
“Oh dear,” he mumbles again. “Galen will be quite unhappy.”
He lets the child sleep against his heartbeat.
