Fic: The Best Dad in the World (1/?)
TITLE: The Best Dad in the World
RATING: G
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books.
NOTES: Thanks to the readthrough that's currently ongoing, I got bit by this bunny. Possibly 2-3 chapters.
__________________________
It was strange how things could change.
Perhaps strange was the wrong word for it, given how much he’d seen the world turned on its head only years earlier. The change in emotions was a completely different thing to change in environment, though.
He remembered - vaguely - nights after the fall of the forest and the Patriarch’s sacrifice. It hadn’t been love. It probably hadn’t even been more the drink-fuelled lust. He could barely even remember the woman’s face, but he had needed that contact and he hadn’t thought anything beyond it. Contact to feel human again.
Of course, humanity was different, even then, only hours after the sacrifice.
He had found out almost exactly nine months later that those contraceptive charms the woman had insisted were in place had been snuffed out.
There was a basket, a child and a note, and he never saw her mother again.
Some part of him had been angry, so angry. He wasn’t sure what at: his own foolishness, the woman who had borne the child, the child herself. Even Tarrant, damn him. He had still been so lost, then, and it was only fuel to the fire of his confusion and grief.
Strange then, that such a small, weak person could become the force to direct his world.
For a moment, only a heartbeat, he had considered giving her into adoption, to parents who knew how to raise a child and do it well. It had lasted all of a second, then she had started to cry, a thin, weak wail, and he had picked her up carefully, as gently as he could to soothe her.
For her, his world had changed again.
For the first time in his life since his childhood, he had a home. He was unsurprised when the Church offered him funds. Hush money, he supposed. Or payment. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t deserved something out of it all.
They had settled in Jaggonath at first. It had been the closest place, and it was only meant to be temporary. All they had needed was somewhere with one room, maybe two, until she was old enough to make the journey back East, to his once home town.
Five years later, they were still there, and little Jen considered it home.
What had been a lonely existence in an unfamiliar place, all his allies dead or gone, had changed dramatically.
A child had that effect he had discovered. Her friends brought their parents to meet hers, and he was drawn into a complicated hierarchy of parenthood, in which a single father ranked highly for taking care of both a child and a livelihood.
To the children, too, he was seen as the best parent in the world.
Despite years of leisure, he still outstripped the soft city men in build and bulk, and could easily carry three or four of the children on his shoulders and back at any given time. This was counted as a very significant life skill, and little Jen took great pleasure in telling anyone who would listen that he was the strongest man in the world.
She was presently lying on the floor, drawing on a sheet of reusable vellum, prattling away about her class in the Church. “Oh, and there was a funny man there today,” she added, looking up. “He came in and looked at all the pictures of the Prophet.”
“A tourist, probably,” he replied, giving her a fond smile. There was no way he could ever deny her parentage. She had his hair and eyes, and he was starting to suspect she could match his cynicism. “Some people like to look at ancient art.”
Jen made a face, kicking her feet back and forth. “He came over by us,” she informed him gravely, “and then they had to throw him out for trying to touch some of the pictures, because they’re real old. Even older than you!”
“Are you saying your old man is old?” he growled playfully and Jen squealed, scrambling upright and racing for the door.
“Noooo!”
He gave chase, catching up in long strides and scooping her up, over his shoulder, fingers tickling along her ribs. She shrieked as if she was being murdered, arms and legs thrashing against his shoulders.
Damien stopped and sighed. “Jen, what did I tell you about fighting?”
She sat upright in his arms and looked at him solemnly. “Screaming attracts more enemies,” she recited. “Don’t flap your arms and legs. Keep them under your control and you will have more control of the situation.”
He smiled. “That’s my girl.” He hoisted her up a little higher, carrying her towards her bedroom. Her eyes were dancing with anticipation. “And what did I tell you about when fathers with plans for bath and bedtimes attack?”
She went limp as a fish, slid out of his arms, bounced once off the bed and headed back into the hall in the other direction, squealing all the way.
As usual, it took three laps of the living room, two near misses in the hall, and a shortcut through the kitchen, under the table, before he caught her and hauled her, giggling and breathless, into the bathroom.
She was happily splashing in the water, as he folded her clothes into the laundry, and looked over the side of the tub at him. “Daddy?”
“If I look up, you’re going to throw water at me, aren’t you?” he said sternly.
Jen giggled and deliberately poured out the bucket of water she had been holding. “I wanted to ask you about the funny man,” she said. “The one who came to the church. He looked at me and his face went like Mr Yonson’s when you hit him in the belly for trying to put his hand under my skirt.”
Damien’s jaw clenched at that memory. Yonson had apparently been a respectable teacher at the school he had enrolled Jen in, but it turned out the truth was more sordid than that, and Jen was a bright child and didn’t believe that her father shouldn’t know, no matter what Mr Yonson had promised in return. Turned out that the fae wasn’t the only source of unpleasantness in the world.
“Did he try and come near you?” he said, looking at his daughter’s innocent face.
Jen shook her head happily, pushing a little wooden boat around on the water. “He just stared for a minute, then touched the pictures and they threw him out.” She looked up at him, damp dark curls clinging to her cheeks. “Do you think they actually threw him? Because Brother Tomas doesn’t look very strong, even if the man was all thin.”
“I hope they did,” Damien said, his voice quiet and low.
Water splashed the top of his head. “Daddy, you’re being all grumpy again,” Jen informed him sternly. “I told you you can only be grumpy when I’m not here. When you’re grumpy, it looks like you want to break things.”
He laughed ruefully. “And everyone knows you’re the boss,” he said, leaning over the side of the tub to scoop water over her hair, making her squeal, clenching her fists and squeezing her eyes shut.
The hair-washing usually signified the end of bathtime, and she was growing sleepy as he rinsed her down and lifted her out of the tub. Wrapping her up in a towel, he carried her back through to the living room, where there was a small fire in the grate.
“So what does the boss want to do tomorrow?” he asked, his knees aching in protest as he knelt down on the rug in front of the fireplace.
“Can we have sweet cream?” she asked sleepily, as she rubbed her eyes with her fists and yawned, stepping closer to him.
“If you promise not to wake your old dad before sunrise again,” he offered diplomatically, as he towelled her dry, then reached for her nightdress. He smoothed it into place, then gently dried her dark curls. “Okay?”
She nodded, putting her arms around his neck. “Love you, daddy.”
He smiled briefly, quietly. “Yeah,” he murmured, “love you too, Jen.”
She was light as a feather in his arms, as he carried her to her room. The sheets were pink. She had insisted that she wanted pink, so she got pink, and there were frills. If anyone had told him he would be buying a frilly pink blanket for his daughter, he knew he would have laughed in their faces.
“Story?” she asked plaintively, as he laid her down.
“Which one tonight?” he asked, stroking her hair back from her cheeks.
“The one about the other Jen?” she said sleepily, curling up on her side.
He nodded, turning the light down low. “The bravest girl I ever knew,” he began softly, knowing she would be asleep before he even got halfway through.
RATING: G
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books.
NOTES: Thanks to the readthrough that's currently ongoing, I got bit by this bunny. Possibly 2-3 chapters.
__________________________
It was strange how things could change.
Perhaps strange was the wrong word for it, given how much he’d seen the world turned on its head only years earlier. The change in emotions was a completely different thing to change in environment, though.
He remembered - vaguely - nights after the fall of the forest and the Patriarch’s sacrifice. It hadn’t been love. It probably hadn’t even been more the drink-fuelled lust. He could barely even remember the woman’s face, but he had needed that contact and he hadn’t thought anything beyond it. Contact to feel human again.
Of course, humanity was different, even then, only hours after the sacrifice.
He had found out almost exactly nine months later that those contraceptive charms the woman had insisted were in place had been snuffed out.
There was a basket, a child and a note, and he never saw her mother again.
Some part of him had been angry, so angry. He wasn’t sure what at: his own foolishness, the woman who had borne the child, the child herself. Even Tarrant, damn him. He had still been so lost, then, and it was only fuel to the fire of his confusion and grief.
Strange then, that such a small, weak person could become the force to direct his world.
For a moment, only a heartbeat, he had considered giving her into adoption, to parents who knew how to raise a child and do it well. It had lasted all of a second, then she had started to cry, a thin, weak wail, and he had picked her up carefully, as gently as he could to soothe her.
For her, his world had changed again.
For the first time in his life since his childhood, he had a home. He was unsurprised when the Church offered him funds. Hush money, he supposed. Or payment. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t deserved something out of it all.
They had settled in Jaggonath at first. It had been the closest place, and it was only meant to be temporary. All they had needed was somewhere with one room, maybe two, until she was old enough to make the journey back East, to his once home town.
Five years later, they were still there, and little Jen considered it home.
What had been a lonely existence in an unfamiliar place, all his allies dead or gone, had changed dramatically.
A child had that effect he had discovered. Her friends brought their parents to meet hers, and he was drawn into a complicated hierarchy of parenthood, in which a single father ranked highly for taking care of both a child and a livelihood.
To the children, too, he was seen as the best parent in the world.
Despite years of leisure, he still outstripped the soft city men in build and bulk, and could easily carry three or four of the children on his shoulders and back at any given time. This was counted as a very significant life skill, and little Jen took great pleasure in telling anyone who would listen that he was the strongest man in the world.
She was presently lying on the floor, drawing on a sheet of reusable vellum, prattling away about her class in the Church. “Oh, and there was a funny man there today,” she added, looking up. “He came in and looked at all the pictures of the Prophet.”
“A tourist, probably,” he replied, giving her a fond smile. There was no way he could ever deny her parentage. She had his hair and eyes, and he was starting to suspect she could match his cynicism. “Some people like to look at ancient art.”
Jen made a face, kicking her feet back and forth. “He came over by us,” she informed him gravely, “and then they had to throw him out for trying to touch some of the pictures, because they’re real old. Even older than you!”
“Are you saying your old man is old?” he growled playfully and Jen squealed, scrambling upright and racing for the door.
“Noooo!”
He gave chase, catching up in long strides and scooping her up, over his shoulder, fingers tickling along her ribs. She shrieked as if she was being murdered, arms and legs thrashing against his shoulders.
Damien stopped and sighed. “Jen, what did I tell you about fighting?”
She sat upright in his arms and looked at him solemnly. “Screaming attracts more enemies,” she recited. “Don’t flap your arms and legs. Keep them under your control and you will have more control of the situation.”
He smiled. “That’s my girl.” He hoisted her up a little higher, carrying her towards her bedroom. Her eyes were dancing with anticipation. “And what did I tell you about when fathers with plans for bath and bedtimes attack?”
She went limp as a fish, slid out of his arms, bounced once off the bed and headed back into the hall in the other direction, squealing all the way.
As usual, it took three laps of the living room, two near misses in the hall, and a shortcut through the kitchen, under the table, before he caught her and hauled her, giggling and breathless, into the bathroom.
She was happily splashing in the water, as he folded her clothes into the laundry, and looked over the side of the tub at him. “Daddy?”
“If I look up, you’re going to throw water at me, aren’t you?” he said sternly.
Jen giggled and deliberately poured out the bucket of water she had been holding. “I wanted to ask you about the funny man,” she said. “The one who came to the church. He looked at me and his face went like Mr Yonson’s when you hit him in the belly for trying to put his hand under my skirt.”
Damien’s jaw clenched at that memory. Yonson had apparently been a respectable teacher at the school he had enrolled Jen in, but it turned out the truth was more sordid than that, and Jen was a bright child and didn’t believe that her father shouldn’t know, no matter what Mr Yonson had promised in return. Turned out that the fae wasn’t the only source of unpleasantness in the world.
“Did he try and come near you?” he said, looking at his daughter’s innocent face.
Jen shook her head happily, pushing a little wooden boat around on the water. “He just stared for a minute, then touched the pictures and they threw him out.” She looked up at him, damp dark curls clinging to her cheeks. “Do you think they actually threw him? Because Brother Tomas doesn’t look very strong, even if the man was all thin.”
“I hope they did,” Damien said, his voice quiet and low.
Water splashed the top of his head. “Daddy, you’re being all grumpy again,” Jen informed him sternly. “I told you you can only be grumpy when I’m not here. When you’re grumpy, it looks like you want to break things.”
He laughed ruefully. “And everyone knows you’re the boss,” he said, leaning over the side of the tub to scoop water over her hair, making her squeal, clenching her fists and squeezing her eyes shut.
The hair-washing usually signified the end of bathtime, and she was growing sleepy as he rinsed her down and lifted her out of the tub. Wrapping her up in a towel, he carried her back through to the living room, where there was a small fire in the grate.
“So what does the boss want to do tomorrow?” he asked, his knees aching in protest as he knelt down on the rug in front of the fireplace.
“Can we have sweet cream?” she asked sleepily, as she rubbed her eyes with her fists and yawned, stepping closer to him.
“If you promise not to wake your old dad before sunrise again,” he offered diplomatically, as he towelled her dry, then reached for her nightdress. He smoothed it into place, then gently dried her dark curls. “Okay?”
She nodded, putting her arms around his neck. “Love you, daddy.”
He smiled briefly, quietly. “Yeah,” he murmured, “love you too, Jen.”
She was light as a feather in his arms, as he carried her to her room. The sheets were pink. She had insisted that she wanted pink, so she got pink, and there were frills. If anyone had told him he would be buying a frilly pink blanket for his daughter, he knew he would have laughed in their faces.
“Story?” she asked plaintively, as he laid her down.
“Which one tonight?” he asked, stroking her hair back from her cheeks.
“The one about the other Jen?” she said sleepily, curling up on her side.
He nodded, turning the light down low. “The bravest girl I ever knew,” he began softly, knowing she would be asleep before he even got halfway through.