It didn't take long for Ylvir to recover from his wounds, but scars lingered in their place, most far deeper than his skin.
His long-held yearning to mingle and play with other children had all but disappeared, but that did nothing to diminish the young boy's wanderlust. It wasn't difficult to feel cramped and stifled within the confines of the small and humble cottage. Even his father grew tired of having him there, though his newly developed habit of chewing on the furniture may have played a large part in that.
"Git out," his father growled at him, nudging him out the door with a firm hand. "Go do somethin' productive and help yer mum."
The door slammed shut while Ylvir stumbled and looked around in confusion. He soon got his bearing, dropping his hands to the earth as he crawled much like a dog toward the garden, where he knew his mother would be.
He could hear her before he could see her, humming a pleasant tune to herself. He paused to listen, the sound soothing and beautiful to his keen hearing. As he crawled nearer, he spied her golden hair above the foliage of the garden that thrived in her attentive care. Ylvir made sure to step carefully and not harm any of the delicate plants as he approached woman, who remained oblivious to his presence in her humming state.
"Whatcha singin'?" he asked when she paused her tune.
His mother jumped slightly, her breath catching before she turned to see him and breathed out slowly.
"Ylvir, you really shouldn't sneak up on me like that," she scolded, though her smile eradicated any notion of anger she might have held.
Ylvir bowed his head, nonetheless, muttering, "Sorry."
Her shoulders dropped in a sigh as she turned more fully towards him. "That's quite alright. Just a little warning next time would be nice. What brings you out here?"
"Da' kicked me out," he pouted, sitting on his haunches.
His mother looked at him knowingly. "Well he must have had a reason."
The boy shifted in visible discomfort, averting his gaze. "I been chewin' on te furniture."
The woman surprised her son with a laugh, and the sound lightened his mood. "Now why would you do something like that?"
"'M bored, an' my teef hurt, an' te wood tastes funny," he listed.
"Ylvir, I know you're still young, but you really shouldn't get into the habit of talking like that. Enunciate your words dear," she instructed motherly. "Now tell me again, but say it properly."
Ylvir sighed. "I'm bored, my teeth hurt, and the wood tastes funny," he repeated, struggling at some points to overcome the accent that was the courtesy of his father as well as his youth.
"See? Not so hard," his mother said with a knowing smile.
He gave an involuntary half-smile. "No."
"Keep it up and you'll soon be charming all the ladies with your eloquent speech," she teased, before her expression turned a little more serious. "So your teeth hurt, do they? Come here, and let's take a look. On your feet, dear."
Ylvir complied by pushing his hands up and off the ground, walking on his feet towards his mother. As soon as he was in reach, she straightened out his trousers (his only clothing, seeing as no shirt or shoes would fit his strange body) and brushed the dirt off of them. Once finished, she brushed her hands off on her own muddied gardening skirt, immediately proceeding to put her fingers to his lips, pulling the back to examine his teeth with a determined look. He couldn't help let out a small growl in protest at the uncomfortable sensation.
"Hold still and stop your growling. You're only drawing this out," she scolded, and with great effort he suppressed his reactions. "Is it a specific tooth?"
Ylvir nodded as best he could in her hold, pointing to a sharp fang at the front. She promptly grasped it between two fingers and wiggled it. Ylvir whined in resulted pain.
"It looks like this one may be ready to pop out," she noted, grinning at him and and gratefully removing her hands from his mouth.
Ylvir's rubbed his tender mouth that now tasted slightly of dirt, but his red eyes widened as the horror of her words struck him. "But I don' want it to come out! I like it where it is."
A laugh burst from his mother, confusing him almost as much as her next words. "Oh Ylvir, sweetie. You've only got baby teeth right now. They aren't meant to last. They'll all fall out in their own time, and then bigger, stronger teeth will replace them."
"I'm goin' to lose all of them?" Ylvir was terrified.
"Yes," his mother confirmed, then reiterated, "But you'll grow new ones."
"Will they fall out, too?" he asked worriedly.
"No, no," she tapped a finger to his wet nose and winked. "Those ones should be there to stay."
"Oh." He pondered that for a moment, then asked, "Will it hurt?"
She pursed her lips. "Probably, yes. But the pain won't last forever. And I'll be right here to help. Now, why don't you help me prune these unruly flowers. I'm afraid I've let them alone far too long."
Ylvir shifted on his feet. "I dunno how."
"Don't know," his mother corrected before patting her lap in welcome. "Come here. I'll teach you."
He made short work of getting himself comfortable on her lap, facing the numerous varieties of flowers before them both, each beautiful in its own right. "They're all so pretty," he whispered in awe, reaching a paw to touch the ruby-red petals of a jewel-like rose.
His mother smiled behind him, taking her small garden shears and clipping the rose off. It was arguably the most beautiful of the bunch, and most gardeners would have thought it a shame to cut it off from the rest, but Ylvir's mother hadn't given it a second thought, thinking solely of her son.
He reveled in the velvety texture of the petals, gingerly taking the rose from his mother's soft hands to his own rough ones. He brought it closer to his keen nose, inhaling it's unique scent deeply. In his concentration, his padded fingers gripped tighter on the stem, and he felt a sharp prick. He let out a yelp as he reflexively released the rose, letting it fall to his lap where he watched it warily.
"It bit me!"
For the second time, Ylvir's mother laughed as he remained puzzled. He twisted in her lap, hoping that maybe seeing her face would offer some explanation. When the woman had calmed down enough to see her son's serious expression, she cleared her throat and sighed.
"Oh, sweetheart. You're funnier than you know. Now, give me your hand. Let's see what the damage is, shall we?"
She held his furry hand in her own, turning it over, examining it. They both watched as a small bead of liquid as red as the rose that drew it formed on the end of his finger, slowly swelling in size.
"Does it still hurt?"
Ylvir hesitated, then answered bravely, "Not anymore."
His mother removed a handkerchief from a pocket, dabbing at the small spot of blood, then brought the finger to her lips and kissed it, making an exaggerated "mwah" sound as she did so. Ylvir giggled at the brief sensation of his mother's lips on his finger, forgetting the small pain at her silliness.
She replaced the handkerchief, grinning at him. "All better." He readily nodded his agreement.
Ylvir twisted back around, catching sight of the offending rose again. His mother watched curiously as the boy in her lap cautiously brought a hand to the flower, then stroked the petals, gently whispering to it, "'M not scary. I won't hurt you."
Her heart squeezed at his actions, so she wrapped her arms forward to squeeze him. "Ylvir, you silly goose," she teased lovingly. "It's not an animal. It didn't bite you."
He paused, his face turning towards hers. "It didn't?"
"No, it didn't," she chuckled.
His features fell in adorable befuddlement. "Then how'd my finger get hurt?"
She released her grip, picking up the dark rose and turning it in front of the both of them so that the stem was more visible, including the thorns dotted along its length. She gently prodded one with a finger. "Do you see them? The thorns?"
Ylvir nodded, the soft fur and feathers along his head brushing gently across her cheek as he did. "Why does it have 'em?"
His ear flicked as she hummed thoughtfully next to it. "You said the rose was pretty, did you not?"
"Yeah."
"Well, sometimes pretty things grow thorns for protection. Too many times their beauty is seen as an opportunity, or even a threat. But sometimes thorny things grow pretty flowers as a trick, luring others into the thorns."
"How d'ya tell the diff'rence?" Ylvir asked eagerly. She had begun to speak with her enchanting storytelling voice.
"There's no sure way. Most of the time, deep down, you just know. Other times, all you can do is wait until its true nature is revealed," she said, then smiled sadly. "But sometimes it doesn't matter, because either way you get pricked."
Ylvir didn't quite understand why, but he felt those words were important. He suddenly felt very heavy, and very sad.
"'M I just a thorn?" he wondered aloud as he remembered what his mother had told him about metaphors.
She was taken aback by her child's question, not only by its maturity, but how close it struck to the truth. She gently turned him to face her so she could give him her a proper hug, one filled with all the warmth and motherly love she could muster.
"Oh, Ylvir. You're much, much more," she whispered against his dark, warm fur. When she pulled slightly away from him, she gave him a smile bright enough to lighten the dark mood that had settled over them. But when Ylvir looked into her eyes, he could still see rain and storms in her sky-blue eyes.
"I'm sorry, mum," Ylvir said, though he didn't know what he was apologizing for. "Please don't cry."
"Oh, never mind me," she sniffed, waving it off. "You did nothing wrong. This is all just my silly emotions getting the better of me."
"Certain?"
She nodded speechlessly, touched by her young son's concern for her. "Ylvir, I'd like to show you something."
Ylvir watched silently as his mother reached a hand to her neck, pulling on a thin metal chain he hadn't noticed before until a small object popped out from the neckline of her dress. When her fingers opened, Ylvir was amazed to see a small, faceted red stone, the suns rays dancing playfully along its many sides and edges as it rested in her palm.
"It's beautiful, isn't it," she asked her son quietly, watching his reaction intently. He nodded, but said nothing, still content to simply look. "You can touch it, if you like."
Ylvir wordlessly picked the jewel up, taking it into his own hands reverently, careful not to pull the chain too taught against his mother's neck.
"Your father gave that to me," she told him.
Ylvir looked away to his mother in surprise. "Really?"
"Yes, really," she confirmed. "He didn't have the money for a ring. Or any jewelry, for that matter. But he desperately wanted something to give to ask for my hand, to prove that he loved me and could take care of me, that silly, stubborn man. I told him I didn't need such petty symbols, but he insisted."
"He took a job at the mines, to save up money. It was hard and dangerous work, and that made the pay good, but it also made me fear for his life. Every day he came back, I would insist he quit, and then he would give me a rock from those blasted mines and say how one day those rocks were going to help make him worthy of me. I almost threw them out, but I loved those stupid, ugly rocks more than anything he could have bought me, and I kept every single one, because he was the one that gave them to me, and they were the work of his hands."
"Then my father—the whole reason Reul took that foolish job—found the rocks. We got into an argument. He was adamant that your father would never have his consent to marry me, and I said he didn't need it. He didn't like that, and so he took my rocks and he threw them out, hard enough that they broke. We were both surprised to find that what was inside those rocks was far more precious than either of us had initially thought. That little stone right there is but a small part of what those rocks held. Turns out your father had been right all along."
Ylvir looked between his mother's twinkling eyes and the similarly twinkling ruby. All he could manage to utter was a wonder-filled, "Wow."
"I like to think you're a lot like those rocks, Ylvir," his mother thought aloud, gazing at him fondly. "You might not be much to look at, but you're beautiful on the inside and much more precious than others or even you might think."
Ylvir contemplated those words, then asked, "This one of those meter-fours?"
"Metaphors. And yes. I suppose it is."
They both were abruptly roused from their thoughts when they heard the raucous squawking of wrathful chickens, over which could faintly be heard the call, "Aloris!"
"We better help your father," she laughed. "He's never gotten along with those chickens. Come along, dear. Up you go."
They both stood, Ylvir placing his small, pawish hand in his mother's offered one as they each made steps towards the chicken coop. Ylvir hadn't felt better then since the incident with the children, and he knew he owed it to his benevolent mother and her unfathomable love for him.