A home without people is a collection of cold stones. Whether they are assembled or come to be over years and years, at some point they are emptied. Lilia thinks about how some would wither away with the people that loved them, returning to the dirt from which they were formed. Grass and mildew and all sorts of things would rot into their foundations, gnawing away until there was nothing left of what was once there. He remembers; memories of those places fade but the feelings never do.
He feels cruel, interrupting the cycle. There are many things he could use to distract himself: he can’t refuse royal command, if he doesn’t do it then someone worse would gladly take the dagger in his place, mere humans shouldn’t make enemies of the court in the first place… but he’s not someone who turns away from the truth, not anymore. A recent change in character that has humored his comrades at best and turned their blades against him at most. Hardly a new experience for one of his age and experiences.
A flick of the hand and the last person disappears in a slash of magic. A woman, he thinks, going by human standards. As her body disappears his ears pick up the sound of something small but hard hitting the wooden floorboards.
Look closer, ask the dark to move aside… A key? There’s a door with a lock just to her right. More people hiding?
Lilia isn’t sure how he feels about the idea. Questioning himself is still something he’s getting used to but he knows the twisting in his stomach doesn’t come from happiness.
The floorboards stay silent as he moves. Their agreement was that they make not a sound until all life within the house was vanquished. Inanimate objects have funny specifications, so they might be including him. Or he’s choosing to think that until he’s inevitably proven wrong.
“Is this what the hopeful feel?” He wonders as he lifts the key. “The telling self-awareness that life will fail them?”
Hope doesn’t come naturally to the fae. It’s for the future, for something yet to be seen. Humans seem to think that they have their futures figured out. After all, they’ve all the time in the world to giggle and plot together. Humans rhyme and whimsy about what’s going through the fae’s heads, if there’s anything there at all.
They don’t understand how eternity isn’t forever; it is now.
The key fits easily into the lock. Lilia wishes it was old and rusty, then he would have to waste time bartering with it. Perhaps he could have considered it not worth it and threw the key to the ground in frustration. And then that action would have thrown the key just beneath the door, enough for whoever was on the other side to grab it and make their way out after he’d left.
The longer Lilia entertains these fantasies then the harder it will be. With unexpected anger he grabs the door handle and wrenches the damned thing open. The magic shoots through his body as his red eyes scour the room. He raises his hand towards movement in the far corner- something or someone or both hiding away.
The child in the crib stares at him. Lilia halts. Caregiving knowledge invades his thoughts- they’re holding on to the oaken bars but the confidence in their stance suggests that doing so is a failsafe rather than a crutch. The green light of Lilia’s magic is caught in shimmering locks which curls around the child’s face like swirling seafoam. A rumpled old sleepdress hangs over their body in a way that suggests it's made for an older child.
Yes, this is what humans would call a “toddler”.
...Toddlers are not a threat, so Lilia apologizes to the unused magic and disperses it along with his killing intent. The child blinks blearily as the green aura fades away, returning the room to the dominion of the moon. Their hair shines an almost startling silver.
They continue watching him.
He feels unnerved. What child simply stands in their crib, waiting for someone to come? Surely they would cry. Every child cries, human or fae or anything else. It’s how they survive. They’re weak so they call out when they need help. Lilia narrows his eyes. Did this child, in all their limited understanding, believe they didn’t need help? As they were locked in a strange room while people screamed throughout the house?
Hazarding a step closer, Lilia takes a better look at the child. Their eyes are an enchanting blue. “No tears.” He remarks to himself. Then, giving attention to the child. “You weren’t scared?”
It sounds like a question but, given his company, Lilia intends it to be a statement. The child burbles aimlessly in reply. Lilia exhales.
He doesn’t want to do it. Not to this child. It’s true what everyone said: caring for the young Prince has made him soft. His heart responds: who wouldn’t? The only thing to make one tread lightly is a child. It is the young Prince’s presence that makes him truly understand the idea of “future”, or at least begin to.
Lilia steps away from the child, still murmuring about something, and looks around the room. It’s surprisingly sparse for what he would imagine for a young child’s room. Then again, it might not be fair to compare the room of a random human child to that of the fae Prince of Thorns.
What is similar between the two is the presence of paintings. Portraits, groups, even scenery. Did they hope for their child to be a painter?
“I’ve been sent to punish this family.” He mumbles. He stops browsing when a group of familiar faces stare back at him. The family of the house. The offending mother, father, grandmothers, a cousin, and two children. “This means, as a member of this family, I must do the same to you. I should reunite you with them.”
He squints at the painting. Two children? Tonight was chosen because all the people concerned would be gathered here. They all looked very similar to how they do in the painting. So why...
“Unless...” Lilia looks closely at the woman in the portrait, with her dark hair and golden eyes. He turns to the infant. “She wasn’t your mother.”
Saying that word was a mistake. The child’s eyes light up and they reach out towards Lilia, grabbing at nothing. “Ma! Mmma-uh!” They call out helplessly.
Lilia sighs but the heaviness in his chest remains. How such little things can bring terrible aches. He glides away from the painting. “Did you consider her that, even so? Perhaps there is a little fae in your blood.” Adoption is so common among the fae that all the peoples of the world know of it. To the fae the idea of considering an adoptee illegitimate is the work of fantasy. Something impossible that is made up to cause conflict in a tale. Naturally this causes real conflict between the fae and… well, every other culture in their world.
When he looks up Lilia is surprised to see the child still watching him. Not just that but reaching out a small, soft hand him. Lilia pushes away the longing inside him to reach back and instead points to the other side of the room. “Your mother’s over there.”
The child gurgles and oh, how he sounds just like the young Prince once did. His little hands grab just like his, too. “Ah. Ah! Amm ah!”
Lilia can’t help but laugh. “You’re not really calling me that, are you?” He only realizes his slip to a softer tone once the words have left his mouth.
The child smiles in response to his apparent joy. They stamp their feet in succession, finding this odd game very entertaining. But they won’t for long, Lilia knows. A child’s patience wears thin quickly, like an old thread on a spinning wheel. If Lilia doesn’t change things up then he might see the tears he was expecting after all. His arms move easily, wrapping under the child’s shoulders and lifting them like a leaf in the wind. Their little legs hook around his waist when he rests them on his hip and their hands grip his shadowhide raiment tight, like he could slip away as easily as the night. He could. For knowing that, Lilia feels an odd pang of guilt. As if merely thinking it is a betrayal of something.
He leans his head forward when the child does, gently bumping together. This dark, empty room has done nothing to allay the warmth of their body. But Lilia knows that isn’t what makes his heart feel like it’s glowing, or his eyes threaten to well.
“Mm-mah.” The child slurs.
“Tired now?” Lilia sighs with a shakiness he’s glad nobody else can hear. True to words, the child tucks their head into the crook of Lilia’s neck.
He had compared the child to the young Prince before but this isn’t the case. He loved the young Prince as a ward, as his charge to protect and teach. He was proud of him. This child… he doesn’t know what to say, what to expect. It was as if, in the unknown, they knew to wait for him. That they chose him.
Impatient flames spark. Lilia casts his cloak over himself and the child with the calm ease of brushing his hair, and the two are whisked out of the building before the fire touches them. The child doesn’t even stir.
Lilia brushes his fingers through the child’s hair. Before, he’d been too young and unwise to realize the poison of the fae court was too much for a child. A nice cottage, somewhere bright and safe and built for a child, would be best. Is he capable of creating such a thing?
The child’s grip loosens as sleep takes hold. Lilia holds them in his arms.
He must try.