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“Babe? Babe, I think you better come down here. Now.”
Yasha calling for Beau isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but the now tacked on at the end sends Beau hurtling down the stairs at top speed.
She skids to a stop at the doorway, her eyes widening.
“Uh,” she says intelligently, staring at the chubby toddler holding onto one of Yasha’s fingers, his little arm stretched all the way up above his head to reach her.
The child stares right back at Beau with a face that’s all round blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. His hair is a shock of tousled orange. After a moment’s hard inspection, he takes his thumb out of his mouth and beams at her, revealing a handful of small teeth in his pink mouth.
That’s… really cute, actually. Beau can’t help but smile back despite her bewilderment. But when she meets Yasha’s gaze, she’s surprised to find barely concealed panic.
“What's wrong?” Beau asks.
In answer, Yasha turns her wrist, showing a dark patch of skin on the pale little fist clutching her finger.
The revelation punches Beau in the stomach. She knows that birthmark like the back of her own hand.
No fucking way.
“Is…” she begins, her mouth dry, “is that—”
“Yeah,” Yasha says.
Right. Okay. Holy shit. Beau’s at a complete loss. It's the middle of the afternoon on a perfectly ordinary Yulisen, and one of her best friends has gone and turned himself into a toddler.
Beau looks back down at the kid. He's staring at her, unflinching. He's also put his thumb back in his mouth.
Fucking wizards.
She gets to her knees. “Hey, man,” she says with a cheerfulness she absolutely does not feel, “what's your name?”
“Bwen,” he says, his voice soft but clear.
Damn. Beau wants to fling the nearest book straight out the window. Or maybe bite something with one hundred percent jaw strength. Gnaw on it with all her molars. Who could have known Caleb—Bren—had been this fucking cute as a little kid? Grr.
Instead, she rocks back on her heels and glances helplessly up at Yasha. “What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”
“Don't swear, babe,” Yasha says, reproachful.
Beau accepts this after a moment—it's easier than arguing, and a redheaded kid who's apparently her best friend in miniature is enough to deal with as it is—and takes the piece of tightly furled parchment Yasha holds out to her.
“Here's what he was reading right before I went to the garden. Before I came back and found him like this.”
Beau scans it quickly. It's a spell scroll, edges flaking and brown with age. That much is obvious at a glance. “I’m not sure,” she says, trying to piece together what she can understand of what she's read, “but this sounds like it's supposed to be a temporary thing? Says it ends after a few hours… what is this, a four? A seven? I’m not sure. Either way though, it's got a definite endpoint.”
“Okay,” Yasha says, relieved. “I guess we just have to keep an eye on them for a bit.”
Them? Shit. Fuck.
“Wait,” Beau says suddenly. “Babe—where's Essek?”
Yasha presses her finger to her mouth solemnly and jerks her head somewhere in the direction of the sofa. Beau's never been so confused in her life. But if Yasha says to stop talking, she stops talking.
“Hey, Bren,” Yasha says, her voice more gentle than even Beau has ever heard it. “Can you go with Beau for a bit? Do you want to maybe have some food? You look like you’re getting hungry.”
“Babe,” Beau says desperately as Bren's eyes brighten, “I don't know the last thing about kids.”
Yasha gives her a pleading look. “Just give him something easy to eat. Bread or rice or whatever. It'll be fine. He's really friendly. I have to…” Her voice trails off, and she nods toward the sofa again.
Huh. Maybe Essek’s hiding? Beau has no idea. Instead, she reaches down and takes the sticky fist in her own hand. Gods, this is one of the weirdest fucking—oh, yeah, she's not supposed to swear.
Caleb—no, not Caleb, she reminds herself, this is Bren—goes willingly enough, letting go of Yasha's finger once he's holding Beau’s hand.
“You, uh. You hungry, Bren?” Beau asks, wildly out of her depth.
Bren gazes up at her. After a long pause, he says in a quiet voice, “Ja.”
TJ was about this age the first time Beau met him, but she hadn't done much else other than look at him. And now she's supposed to provide childcare for a seriously de-aged Caleb? She's going to kick Caleb’s a—butt when he goes back to normal.
Bren goes without hesitating, trotting along beside Beau. She has to bend down to keep up with his toddling steps as they walk to the kitchen, hand in hand.
Jester and Fjord have just come by recently for their usual visit, and the counter is covered in a dizzying array of pastries and colorful fruit. Beau stares down at the assortment, feeling a little as though she's trudging through a dream.
“What do you want to eat,” she sighs. Then she realizes with a start that Bren can't see what she's seeing. She's already pulling the enormous bowl of fruit closer, thinking to show it to Bren, but instead, a tug on her fingers makes her look down. Bren has his arms above his head, reaching for her.
Oh. He wants to be carried? Yeah, okay. Beau can do that. She picks him up—huh, guess he's always run a little warm—and settles him gingerly in the crook of her arm the way she's seen Yeza do with Luc.
Bren's heavier than he looks. It's a struggle getting all his chubby limbs in the right places. By the end of it, Beau's still not entirely sure she's doing it right, but it doesn't seem to bother Bren much. His tiny fist closes on a fold of her shirt as he leans over her shoulder, contemplating his choices.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Beau vaguely remembers something about how kids shouldn't be given too much sugar or whatever. What if he picks out one of those cupcakes that are more frosting than cake? But instead, his tiny fingers bat at the fruit bowl.
“Apfel?”
“You got it, man,” Beau says, relieved. Bren can't quite manage his R's and L's just yet, but he speaks with enough conviction to be understood. And he knows what he wants. That's good.
Next problem: where is she supposed to put him down? He won't be able to reach the table if she puts him on the chair, and the bar stools are out of the question. They could go back to the study, but Yasha clearly wanted them out of there so she could deal with Essek or something.
Beau hefts Bren onto her other arm, thinking hard. Maybe if she pulls out one of the chairs and uses it as a table, he’ll be able to reach it if he’s standing. Alright. That should work.
She sits him on the counter. “Just. Hang tight for a bit right here, okay? I gotta cut this up for you.”
Bren’s quiet at first, watching Beau with interest as she makes quick work of the apple. He tries just once to grab the bright green skin she’s peeling in long strips, but she shakes her head at him with alarm, holding the fruit out of reach.
“Gotta wait, Bren,” she says, trying to be stern about it, but to her surprise, he laughs instead, bright and joyous. Her heart does something odd in her chest. Caleb never laughs like that.
Then Bren grabs a strip of apple peel left discarded on the counter and puts it directly into his mouth.
“Hey, don’t do that,” Beau says, exasperated. “Nein. You have to wait, Bren.”
He's giggling again, mimicking nein, nein at her, like Beau should have known better than to tell him no. That… seems about right, actually. She sighs and pries the peel out of his chubby fingers with one hand, letting him chew blissfully on the bit he's already got in his mouth. Gods. Caleb’s gonna owe her big time when this is all over.
They're both sticky with apple juice by the time Beau marches to the table, a wriggling Bren in one arm, a plate of sliced fruit in the other hand. She hooks her foot around a chair leg and pulls it out before putting Bren down on the floor. His eyes go round as saucers when she sets the plate down in front of him on the chair seat.
He looks up at her, beaming. He’s only got, like, eight teeth so far. “Danke,” he says, unprompted, and begins wolfing down the fruit like he hasn’t eaten in days.
What a cute kid. “Slow down, dude, there’s more where that came from,” Beau says, grinning.
Caleb’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s cracking one of his dry jokes. Occasionally, he’ll smile after he’s had a drink or two. On extra special occasions, he’ll even laugh.
Beau sighs. Poor kid.
She slides down onto the floor beside Bren and leans her elbow on the chair seat, watching him eat. He's pretty coordinated, putting bites of apple neatly into his mouth with his little fingers.
“Is it good?” she asks him.
He nods, eyes still fixed on his plate. Then he starts babbling, half in lisped Zemnian, half in made-up baby words.
Beau can't help but laugh. “Oh yeah? Then what happened?”
More babbling. Like he's making conversation over a meal. He glances at her and beams, his blue eyes shining in the exact same way they do when Caleb’s just worked out a new spell he's especially excited to show off to the Nein. It takes Beau aback for a moment, before she remembers she's supposed to smile and answer.
“How'd you like that?” she asks.
Bren crams another slice of apple between his lips and puts his chubby hand over his mouth and chin, like he's thinking. Then he plucks another slice from the plate and hands it to Beau.
“Apfel,” he says, and pats his stomach. “Yummy.”
Oh, so he does speak Common. A word or two, at least. Beau wasn't sure if he could. She takes the bit of apple from his little fingers, charmed despite herself. Full of mischief he might be, but he's obviously a good kid. He knows to say thank you. To ask for what he wants. To smile at a stranger with complete and utter trust.
It shakes Beau to the core.
“Apfel,” Bren says, more insistently this time, and pats his little round tummy again.
Beau puts the bite of apple in her mouth. It is good, tart and bursting with juice in her mouth.
“Can I have another?” she asks, holding out her hand. He glances at her, a solemn look on his face, then at the plate. Then after a moment’s consideration, he picks up another slice and puts it on her palm.
“Thanks, man,” Beau says, inordinately gratified. Bren beams and resumes his prattling.
The fruit is just about gone when Yasha pokes her head into the kitchen.
“Babe,” she says. “Caleb doing okay?”
“Yeah. He wanted some fruit. Bren, say hi to Yasha.”
Bren looks up obediently from his last apple slice and waves. Yasha waves back, her eyes softening.
“Any luck with floaty hot boi?” Beau asks.
The furrow in Yasha’s brow deepens. “He won't come out. He's just like this—” she crosses her arms over her head, face hidden against the crease of her elbow. “He won't talk to me. Or even look at me. Can you try?”
“Yeah, why not,” Beau says, grimacing at her sticky fingers. “Bren, Yasha's gonna keep an eye on you for a bit, alright? Can you say Yasha?”
“Ya-sha,” Bren repeats solemnly. When he sees Beau rinsing her hands, he lifts his arms toward Yasha, little fists opening and closing.
“Okay, big boy. You wanna wash your hands too?” Yasha says, picking him up with one arm and settling him on her hip in a single movement. Beau's momentarily entranced by how naturally it comes to Yasha—but then she remembers she's got another tiny mage in the making to pry out of the study.
“Behave,” Beau says sternly to Bren, who giggles and throws his arms around Yasha, burying his little face in her hair as though to hide from Beau.
“Keep a close eye on him, okay?” Beau adds. “He’s a real handful.”
“No, he's very good,” Yasha says loyally, patting Bren on the back. She doesn't even seem to mind that he's playing with one of her beaded braids with juice-stained fingers. Beau grins.
Alright. Now the other one.
Beau knocks before she enters the study. She tries to make her footsteps a little louder than usual. Making sure she’s heard. The last thing she wants is to send a baby wizard into a panic. Can they even cast spells this young? Beau doesn’t actually know.
Oh. There he is. In the corner, wedged in the tight juncture of a bookshelf and the sofa, is a small heap of limbs crowned by a head of disheveled white curls. Wrapped from throat to toe in navy blue and violet, he looks even skinnier than he actually is.
“Hey, man,” Beau says quietly. “You doing alright over there?”
When she crouches down to put herself at eye level, Essek makes a muffled sound and tries to make himself even smaller.
He’s clearly frightened. It's disconcerting to see the guy who was once the Shadowhand of the Dynasty scared of anything. Even when the Nein had had Essek in chains below deck—even when Essek himself had admitted to being afraid—he had shown no sign of fear. Only resignation.
“Essek?” Beau tries again. “Essek, you okay?”
He doesn't move a muscle, not even at the mention of his own name.
A thought occurs to Beau: maybe he hasn't learned Common yet. Even someone with Essek’s education would have only learned it in the Dynasty once they were old enough to start school. Come to think of it, Beau can't actually tell how old Essek or Bren are. Hard enough with human kids. She doesn't think she's ever even interacted with an elven child before. Essek definitely looks like he’s a little older than Bren, if only because his limbs are longer and have lost their baby fat. Funny to imagine Essek taller than baby Bren when Caleb stands an entire head above Essek when they’ve both got their feet on the ground.
Beau gets down on the rug, back against the bookshelf, and sits cross-legged on the floor where Essek can see her. She switches to Undercommon this time. Never mind that she's a bit rusty. What she's learned is likely still a few inches to the right of whatever fancy Undercommon the members of den Thelyss probably speak at home.
“Are you feeling alright?” she asks.
The slightest twitch of one pointed ear in response.
Okay. That works.
“Do you want to get something to eat?”
A red-rimmed violet eye peeks at her through the mop of curls. Just for a second, then he ducks his head again.
Oh. He's a shy kid. Beau looks away. Might be better if he doesn't think she's watching him. “If you are getting hungry, we have some food in the kitchen,” she says to the ceiling. “We can go there now. If you want.”
Essek makes a small sound. Like he’s spoken aloud, but stopped halfway through.
“Could you say that again?” Beau tries.
Out of the corner of her eye, Essek lifts his head an inch. In the tiniest voice imaginable, he whispers, “Umavi.”
Beau blinks, startled. She didn't take Essek to be the kind of kid who'd be looking for his mom. He barely even talks about Verin, who he'd seemed pretty close to at one point, let alone his own mother.
“The umavi is not here right now. You will have to wait a while. Is that alright?”
Essek doesn't say anything else.
After a few seconds, Beau hears the quiet, but unmistakable sound of weeping coming from the corner.
Oh, man. Beau leans her head back against the shelf, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She and Yasha had invited the wizards over for dinner, not to be babysat—
Hey, that's it. Jester and Fjord had brought some picture books over that Beau's supposed to give Veth the next time they see each other. They're in Common, but they'll be easy enough to translate for a little kid. And it seems reasonable to assume that Essek would've liked reading even as a child. Beau certainly did.
She reaches up for the books on the shelf without getting up and starts paging through one of them. This story's recognizable at a glance—Der Katzenprinz, translated into The Cat Prince for Luc and illustrated in a riot of color by Jester herself.
Beau clears her throat. Tries not to think about how bizarre it is to be translating a Zemnian children’s story on the fly to calm a crying baby Essek.
“Once upon a time, in a little house on the edge of a great wide wood lived a young boy with his mother…”
She goes on reading aloud, one eye on the page, one on Essek still huddled in the corner. It's slow going; she keeps getting distracted by the pictures Jester's drawn. Beau marvels at the details of the garments, the precision of the lines in the cat fur. She's gotta hand it to Jester—she really brought the story to life, fairy tale imagery and all—
Beau nearly jumps out of her skin at the brush of silk against her elbow. Essek skitters back like a startled wild animal, arms over his head like she might hit him. An unaccountable wave of guilt washes over Beau—she wouldn't hit a child, but his obvious fear makes something in her gut twist hard.
She clears her throat, holding up the book sideways so he can see the pages from where he is, and forces herself to keep going. “The boy knew that his mother loved him,” she says gruffly, “and that her time away was all for his sake. He was grateful to her and loved her in return, but it was a lonely life…”
After a few more pages, Essek creeps closer and sits with his little gloved hands clasped together in his lap. An image of a perfect child, just as silent and just as unmoving. Only the bright spark of interest in his swollen eyes betrays him. He's clearly hanging on to Beau’s every word. His face is still streaked with tears, but he's finally stopped crying. Not a single word crosses his lips, but at one point, he manages to summon up enough courage to reach out and touch the page with a tentative finger, tracing over Jester's lines with fascination.
Essek sits back on his haunches when Beau finishes reading. He peers up at her bashfully—he's at least lost the frightened look in his eyes, to Beau’s immense relief—and puts his hands together, pressing them together at the palms and opening them like a book being laid flat.
Oh. Does he want to read the story himself? Can he? Beau hands him the book, but it becomes clear after a few moments that he's only interested in looking at the picture of the little boy dancing with the cat prince.
“Essek,” Beau says.
He makes no response.
“Essek,” Beau says again, but to no avail. It's almost as though he doesn't recognize his own name. Even though she knows he can hear her, and that he understands what she's saying. Kids are beyond all comprehension.
She tries another tack. “Do you like dancing?”
Essek makes a movement like a half-aborted nod, then shakes his head. Then he puts the book down in the space between them and makes an odd gesture, moving his fingers in a circle above his right palm. When she just stares at him, puzzled, he repeats the gesture. This time, his fingers circle his palm, then his heart.
The pieces fall together in Beau’s head, ki flowing through her as she watches Essek’s gloved hands.
Again, he's saying. Again, please.
“Okay,” Beau says, relenting. “One more time.”
She flips back to the first page and starts over. This time, she doesn't flinch when Essek moves closer. It takes longer the second time around because he keeps stopping to look at the pictures, which is fair enough. Jester did a fantastic job.
By the time the story ends, Essek’s rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. Elves this young still sleep instead of trancing, Beau recalls. And he must be worn out from the stress of the afternoon.
“Do you want to sleep now?” she asks.
Essek shakes his head at first, but the yawn he makes nearly splits his head in two. Upon closer inspection, he's not much bigger than Bren, but he’s already got all his teeth. Essek’s older by a couple of years or so, maybe. Beau hasn't the faintest clue how elves age when they're this young, but they can't be all that different from humans.
Either way, baby hot boi clearly needs a nap.
“You can sleep right here,” Beau says, patting the sofa across them. “I can get you a blanket. How does that sound?”
Essek considers this for a moment, the expression on his little baby-cheeked face eerily similar to his usual austerity. At last, he nods.
It takes him a couple of tries to get to his feet, and he has to steady himself with both hands on the sofa's backrest before he can make it all the way to the plush seat, but Beau thinks even this version of Essek wouldn't take kindly to being carried.
True enough, his chin is tipped up proudly by the time he's seated, as though he’s perched himself on a royal throne instead of Beau and Yasha’s old couch. It takes a considerable amount of self-control to keep from laughing at him when he’s being so stern, but Beau stuffs her knuckles in her mouth and manages it in the end.
He's frowning in disapproval by the time Beau manages to coax his head down onto a cushion, but he lets her tuck the blanket around his stockinged feet where he can't quite reach. He’s shivering somewhat, his face pinched like he’s in pain. Beau’s conscience twinges when she thinks of her trick with the ball bearings long ago in Rosohna—she hadn’t known any better than to tease him about his floating back then, but the memory of it still makes her feel bad.
Beau motions to Essek’s feet, then rubs her palms together. He’d mentioned a couple of times before that the application of heat helped when the pain was bad, and she had seen Caleb doing something similar for Essek’s hands now and then when they would come to visit.
“Are you cold?” she asks. “I can help make it warmer. Would that be alright?”
Essek stares at her. Even after she asks again, and he finally nods his assent, his wariness only increases. Beau is careful, so careful, when she begins to rub his feet and ankles. He’s so tiny, like a little bird. His bones so fragile in her hands. She keeps her touch light, her hands on top of the blanket. Essek is stiff at first, but then he relaxes in increments, his eyelashes fluttering drowsily. Seems like it’s helping. That’s a relief. Beau makes a mental note to find him a hot water bottle for later.
He's still trying to stay awake even after she gets to her feet, watching her moving around the room through slitted eyes. But when she settles into a chair where he can see her, his eyes slide all the way shut. Before long, little baby snores are issuing from the sofa.
Imagine the Shadowhand snoring. Beau has to stuff her knuckles in her mouth again. Essek’s never going to forgive her for this.
Yasha peers in through the doorway. Bren's fast asleep on her shoulder, one tiny fist grasping a white braid tightly.
“Out like a light,” Yasha mouths.
“Same,” Beau whispers, nodding at Essek.
Bren makes a snuffling noise when Yasha puts him down on the other end of the sofa from Essek, pulling up the blanket around Bren and tugging her braid carefully out of his adamant grasp. He fusses only a little, but a minute of patting him on the back with two fingers sends him right back to sleep.
“You were right. Bren is a menace,” Yasha says in an undertone. “Had to keep him occupied with some more fruit just so I could finish chopping up the rest of the vegetables for dinner.”
“Thanks so much, babe,” Beau says, sighing.
“He really, really likes the apple peel for some reason,” Yasha adds reflectively. “I just let him eat it in the end. Can’t be that bad, right? Not the orange rind though. That seemed. Not okay.”
Beau grimaces in sympathy. “Sorry I couldn't help—took me nearly half an hour to get Essek to even crawl out of his hiding spot.”
“Good job,” Yasha whispers. She leans down, brushing a curl from Essek’s forehead. “He looks exhausted, poor thing.”
“Yeah,” Beau says heavily. “He was so scared for a while, I think.”
Yasha nods, a pensive wrinkle in her brow. “Well. Anyway, they'll be back to normal once they wake up from that nap. Hopefully.”
A beat. “But what if they’re still babies by then?”
“I dunno. I’ll mash up some potatoes and squash for them, I guess,” Yasha says. She takes Beau's hand. Squeezes lightly. “We did what we could.”
“Yeah,” Beau says. “Yeah, we did.”
She and Beau stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment, just watching the two of them. Feels weird to have a couple of kids conked out on their sofa. Not bad weird, but still weird. Maybe there's a conversation to be had about all this with Yasha. Not now. Not tonight. But maybe someday soon.
In the meantime, there's still dinner to finish getting ready, and two soon-to-be wizards to feed.