Moell winces as she squeezes a drop of blood from her freshly pricked finger, holding it in front of her face as if to accuse it of treason. She’s gotten fairly good at sewing in the last seven years, in no small part thanks to her husband’s habit of wearing and tearing holes in every article of clothing he owns, but that hasn’t saved her fingers from the occasional jab. Not as occasional as she would like, though.

She sticks the fingertip between her lips, licking the wound as she peeks through the window behind her. Outside, joyful sounds of father and son playing in the yard trickle through the air, and she lets them wipe away the memories brought up by salty copper.

Ah, father and child, she reminds herself. Mrs. Daera insists every first-time parent struggles with wanting to plan out their child’s future, even if they won’t even have one until their fifth year. Colorless curls of hair catch the midmorning light as she watches them tumble about in the dirt, guaranteeing a need to bathe before bed once again.

For all that Moell is willing to uphold traditions, especially in regards to herself, it’s a wonder she can’t place that same conviction in seeing her child choose for him- themself – honestly, four years of Professor Ulesi’s vibrant and academically brutal lectures, yet this is still a problem? – what the future will bring. Well, not a wonder so much as a conundrum.

Murderers have two options, usually, when it comes to facing their crimes. The first is to approach the state, whatever noble or court is closest, and beg for mercy and leniency. Many nobles get away with a relatively gentle fine through this method while the poor tend to meet the headsman’s ax. That, and it’s not like the reputation ever really goes away.

The other option, the one Moell chose for herself, is exile. Fitting, suitable, convenient for herself and for Derran, and all the more suitable for their child. She can’t imagine her mother being remotely reasonable around a grandchild, in light of how she treated her own children.

Besides, children tend to take after the adults they spend the most time with. Moell is more than glad to leave that to Derran, and not just because she would love to see their child grow up to match his work, or his features, or his charming sense of humor. Derran is the one with a peaceful life behind and ahead of him. For all that he survived with her on the trip to this mountain village, the man’s got hair the color of hay and fortunes as bright as the sun.

That, and there’s about two hundred reasons Moell wouldn’t want their child to follow in her footsteps. Two hundred reasons she buried by hand before packing her things and leaving home, exile by choice.

The roughhousing makes its way through the back door in a tumble of dirt, dust, and giggling, and Moell watches the scene with a warm smile before clearing her throat to give her husband her most firm 'you forgot to clean up before coming inside' look. He gives a guilty smile in return and drags the four-year-old back out to the creek.

Shaking her head, Moell goes back to stitching the cloth around a leather knee pad back together. Derran claims it tore when he was gardening, but she knows he just likes to wear these ones wherever and especially while foraging for herbs. It probably caught a bush or thicket or bramble or bit of stone. Anything, it could have been anything.

It doesn’t matter. The why of a tear never affects where it ends up, in her hands, needle and thread diving in and out of the fabric’s thinning knit and sometimes taking a drop or two of crimson with it.

Moell sucks in a breath as the needle provides another such drop as if called upon. Same finger, almost the same place. She sticks it in her mouth again and frowns around the digit at her handiwork.

It’s not like it’s bad, it’s just rough. Like it has been for the past seven years. At least it stays together long enough now for something else to tear.

Derran and the happy noisemaker return, faces and hands clean and dry, hair and clothes clean and damp.

“Mom, mom! The creek is so cold!”

She barely gets her sewing project out of the way before tiny arms clamp onto her legs. She pulls the energetic child up into her lap, earning a tight and damp hug that makes her smile grow into the kind she wishes she could wear forever. Life with these two will have to be close enough, though she wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Derran starts fussing in the kitchen, starting up the stove to cook a meal for midday. Moell busies herself detangling the curly clear hair that has gone from bouncing in place to calmly and patiently sitting still to let her work.

“Mm, an important Day of Beginnings is coming up this month’s rest,” her husband says, not looking up from the counter where he starts chopping vegetables almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

“Is it important?” their child asks, and Moell pats the tiny head before pulling them into a hug.

“Your fifth Day of Beginnings is also your Naming day,” she says. “It’s a very important day, for you and for everyone you know. You’ll get to go from being ‘that kid’ to whatever you want, and you’ll also get to start learning how to use your magic, as well as what it is.”

“Whoa, that’s gonna be so soon! What else do I have to do that day?”

“Hm, I don’t know. What about you, Derran? Any thoughts or ideas on that?” Moell can’t hide the smile in her voice, and the dark little eyes staring up from her embrace don’t at all seem convinced that she needs the help.

“Ideas on what now?” he replies, dumping a well-sliced root the color of a bruise into the pot he’s heating on the stove. It lands in the broth with a small splash.

“Duties for after Naming Day. Chores, tasks, hard labor, you know what I mean, don’t you?”

Now he’s grinning and chuckling, and he nods enthusiastically. “Right! Of course, how could I forget? Should I give you the hard stuff first, or start off easy?”

He’s directed the question at their child, who seems to take it seriously for a moment before grinning impishly.

“Middle stuff first, then hard, then easy!”

All three of them laugh, and Derran takes a moment to stir the stew before giving Moell a wink.

“Well, good news for me at least, there’s only hard stuff and easy stuff, so we’ll just skip that first part and say we did it. Sound good?”

An eruption of giggling tickles Moell’s heart, and she kisses the top of that clear-haired head as agreeable nodding goes on.

“Great!” Derran says, leaving the spoon in the stew. Well, not like it’ll hurt anything. “So, the hardest thing you’ll have to do is, and I know this is a big one, but you’re gonna have to talk to the neighbors. I know, I know! Torture, but you gotta do it.”

“Derran!” Moell scolds, but she can’t quite manage a serious face to match her tone. He just grins and crouches down next to the chair, taking their child’s small hands in his.

“Don’t worry about it too much, you’ve got plenty of time to continue being adorable and free. Enjoy it, ‘cause once you’re actually five, your ma shapeshifts!”

“Whoa, really?” There’s more than a touch of doubt in the tiny voice, but Moell wonders if the flatness in it is sarcasm. That would be a sensible way to deal with Derran’s humor if a little unsettling from a child not yet old enough to hold a name.

“Yeah,” he leans in close to pretend-whisper, wearing a big shit-eating smile. “She turns into a scary work monster who never lets you rest while the sun is in the sky!”

“Oh hush,” Moell replies, affectionately swatting at his ear. He laughs, their child laughs, and Moell laughs along.

Derran kisses the tiny fingers between his own, then stands and gives that head of hair a good ruffle. The squeals and giggles that elicits reach deep into Moell’s heart and squeeze her like red-hot chains, and she pulls that bundle of joy into a tight hug, earning some more giggles and just enough writhing for the child to turn around and hug her back.

“Alright, let’s get this meal done properly,” he says, turning back to the kitchen. Just as quickly, the four-year-old in Moell’s lap slips from her grasp and disappears into the extra bedroom with some rapid-fire words about changing clothes.

The mother of the house sighs, content as can be.