(tw: mentions of old injuries)
Grandloves thought he had put all the Mistral Jamboree gifts away when he heard a crash next door. From his father’s room.
The guardian’s stomach dropped. Lofticries--their clan’s patriarch--could have fallen out of bed. The fae seldom moved around on his own due to his blindness and weakened state. Did he hurt himself? Grand hurried to his father’s room, making sure to knock first.
“Everything ok in there, Pa? It’s Grand. I’m coming in.”
Grand opened the door and found his father seated cross-legged on the floor. He surveyed the scene quickly: thick red blanket to keep old aches and scars warm--check. Bandages over the fae’s right eye, freshly changed--check. Arms and feet glowing with runes--check. Didn’t look like anything unusual.
Lofticries smiled toward the sound of his son’s voice. He had lost most of his voice before Grandloves was born, and so he preferred signing. His fingers gestured a greeting--stained with paint.
Paint? A dish lay in a puddle of water not too far from Lofticries’ folded legs.
“Have...have you been painting, Pa?”
The fae nodded carefully, pulling his blanket close. He turned and picked up a nearby small earthenware piece. His hands were trembling as he lifted it towards the guardian, as if holding something holy.
Grandloves stared.
Lofticries had painted one of the Mistral Jamboree bowls--a humble vessel shaped like a spiral--in a most beautiful array of colors. By some magic or artistry that ignored blindness, the fae had painted a rainbow. The spiral even had a splotch of white on his chest, like the Windsinger’s favorite corgis.
Grandloves had never seen his father--once a prolific painter--work. If the clan’s stories still held true, this was the first thing Lofticries had painted since his injuries were inflicted.
It happened not long before Grandloves was hatched. His brother, Zaza, was barely grown when they had escaped. Clan Cloud Brush, in many ways, was still healing from the attack that had driven them away from the cliffs of their old home. Only Lofticries and a select few elders knew what the whole story was, and chose to rebuild and hide first.
Grandloves still didn’t know everything. Only that few survived, even fewer chose to stay. And Lofticries the painter never painted again.
Until now.
Looking at the brightly colored bowl in his father’s hands, Grandloves could only think of miracles.
“It’s beautiful, Pa,” Grand whispered, voice pitchy. He couldn’t help but gather Lofticries in his arms with a sob--his father was always small, and stronger than anyone else. He heard a raspy chuckle rumble from his father’s scarred throat. Thin arms, glowing with healing runes, wrapped around his neck.
Later, there would be ruckus and celebration when the bowl is presented to the clan, and to the harpy artisans that shared their wares. There will be tears of joy, and exclamations. But for now there was quiet, and a father and son, and a colorful little bowl, and something deep and painful knitting itself closed.
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