Fatherly Talks (L 1.7)

Location: The Roost
Time: late morning

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Litch,

After finishing your tea, you head to the room your gang has dubbed "the armory". It's where you store weapons, ammo, and any armor or other defensive equipment. Merlin and Jackdaw recently procured a couple of gun cabinets and you installed them with Mynah's help. You find Javan at one of the cabinets pulling out an old bolt-action rifle that Merlin favors when he doesn't have his sniper rifle. What do you think Javan finds most fascinating about this gun, Litch?

As Javan lays it on the small table and sits to start breaking it down and clean it, what do you do?

Javan is one part historian, one part mechanic, and a third part artist. He's clearly mine and Mynah's boy. Not many folks have the time or energy to study the past, busy as they are with simply surviving and thriving. The few who do have little inclination to think about those who came before us. Those who lived before the calamitous torrential floods. J and I share that interest.

When he was small, we didn't have conventional children's books on hand. Some stories that I would tell him were tales my own folks told me as a child, passed down from our ancestors. Others were stories I made up on the spot. They weren't very good, but he seemed to enjoy them. But by far, J's favorite books were the entries I read aloud to him from the 2013 WORLD Encyclopedia set I had managed to salvage when the waters rose. He especially liked the sections warriors of the past, wielding spears, swords, and firearms. He'd likely be a professor in some fancy university if such institutions were available to us.

He also has a mind for taking apart any machine and modifying it's material components, creating something both beautiful and functional. Not so much with the weapons, though the stocks have all been customized. Each one designed for it's bearer. Firearm paint is a luxury item, but it's one I happily purchase for his use. The rifle on the table, however, isn't painted. Rather, Javan has carved a falcon in flight - just like Merlin's namesake - on the stock of the Remington Model 700. I've noticed that J relishes oiling these older weapons, polishing them to a gleaming shine like they're a trophy to look at instead of a tool to use. He takes pride in the work.

"That looks mighty fine, J. Beautiful work. Have you sharpened the blades yet?" I reach for the cabinet with the hatchets and knives, knowing full well that he often neglects the melee weapons in favor if the guns and probably has this time as well. It's caused me to give several lectures on thoroughness and him to respond with eye rolls when he thinks I'm not looking.

"Kind of you, boy." I rasp out a laugh, then start to lay out the blades, oil, and rags on a smaller table nearby. Working side-by-side like this brings me genuine pleasure. Even when there's little to no conversation and we are both concentrating on our tasks. More often, jokes and ribbing fly between us. Javan has my dry, sardonic sense of humor. It's our shared love language, I suppose.

When he asks about Kiwi's sire, I shrug in reply. "I don't. Your mother didn't seem to ever want to talk about him, so I left it be. Everybody is entitled to keep a few secrets, I suppose. And hers never brought me pain or trouble." I finish with the set of knives that Shrike used to carve up the Rafters, setting them gently in their mount on the wall. "Does it bother you that she kept Kiwi's dad a secret, son?"

I cannot help but smile at Javan's righteous indignation. I too thought in all-or-nothing terms when I was young. One either had faith and total trust or one didn't. Zero shades of gray. I don't begrudge him that. Life and experience will teach him that the world holds tension and nuance. But what if he doesn't learn or accept that? The grin dissipates. Do I instruct him otherwise now to save him from becoming too zealous, but rob him of that journey? Or is he in the right and I too have strayed from the true path?

I sigh deeply before I respond. "Perhaps. If he was your son, would you force him into the fold for his own benefit or let him be free to make the choice? Can it really be true faith if you are merely obeying your elders?"

An eyebrow arches as he addresses me by my paternal title instead of my name. Father, eh? Boy must truly be earnest now. "That's enough, Javan." I murmur gently, but with the authority of both a father and clan leader. "Your mother is allowed to mourn him, regardless of the path he chose."

I set the steel blades I've been honing down on the table and walk over to him. Clapping him on one shoulder as I stand slightly behind him and to the side. "The Gray Wing doesn't offer us only once chance. They aren't fickle and impatient like people. They reward those who respond with the strength and conviction you possess, to be sure. But even her wayward fledglings are not lost causes."

I suspect there is jealousy on his part over how she has responded to the death of her prodigal son. Perhaps he even feels neglected. "I am incredibly proud of you, son. Your mother is too. Be patient with her. The death of your own is always a source of grief, regardless of whether they are of the Faithful or not."

"You're right, son. We are a family." I don't disagree with him aloud about secrets. He may be correct that secrets can be dangerous. And yet, secrets will develop and remain hidden even if it's forbidden to have them. "What secrets do you know that I should know about, Javan?"

It doesn't bother me that Zephyr is attracted to Edmund; Sterling is a handsome man. But Javan's second reveal makes me look up sharply. I don't love the news that Jack and Plover are bedmates, but it doesn't break any personal moral code or a Talon tenet. The news that she was pregnant and "took care of it" makes me livid. No Talon gets killed without my approval. I loathe wasteful deaths. Even the decision to kill Harpy - one that I should have made easily - was too difficult.

My hand is a claw on his shoulder and I release him before I unintentionally cause pain. "Where is she?" I murmur, my voice just above a whisper.

Without a word, not even a thanks or a goodbye, I storm quickly out of the armory and head for the stairs down to the kitchen. Like an owl, I descend quickly and quietly. The peace I had been enjoying only moments before is gone, replaced by a hot fury.

Seeing Plover's bandages makes me pause in stride, the memory of her eating the hot metal so recently momentarily softens my temper to a simmering heat rather than the inferno it was only seconds before. Still, this is a conversation that needs to be had. I continue over to her and place my fingertips on the wrist of the hand holding the peeler, pushing down to make her cease the motion. "You've kept something from me, haven't you daughter?"

With my hands, I take away the peeler and the potato, setting them both to the side. Then I press both of my hands onto the tabletop surface, leaning forward slightly as though I'm a bird of prey perched and looming over her. I don't respond aloud. Instead, I simply look at her, holding that uncomfortable gaze that often makes people cave in or babble on about other things. Anything to keep uncomfortable silence away.

"I don't hate Jackdaw. He's obnoxious and has a mighty high opinion of his talents and ability to charm himself out of trouble. But he's still a Talon. I don't hate anybody that lives under my roof." I inhale and lean back. "More importantly, I could never hate you or any precious life you bring into this world, Plover."

I cross around the table to stand beside her, wrapping an arm around her and bringing her beneath my wing. My anger remains, but set to the side for the moment. "I couldn't reject an innocent child simply because of who their father is. I still grieve your sister, darling. And I would murder every last Rafter if they had taken you from me." I kiss her forehead, her messy wisps of hair clinging to my lips, but I don't brush them away as I rest my face there.

"You have hurt me by doing this in secret, though. Do you really fear me that much?"