Ylvir developed a routine early on. He would assist his mother in her gardens, which eventually turned into their gardens, in the mornings, learning how to raise the plants himself and feeling pride at the thriving success they showed through his work, which in turn provided Aloris with her own warm, motherly pride.
During the other daylight hours, he could be seen conversing with and caring for the assorted animals that his parents kept for their quaint farm. He would gleefully chase the chickens, one of which he had grown attached to and even helped to raise her chicks, who showed their own adoration of him, following him around as best they could with their small, fluffy bodies and almost pitiful hops. While Reul worked the land, he would watch on in wariness and curiosity as his son had strange interactions with the cows—weaving between their bovine legs on all fours—and the horses, whose glossy coats he brushed lovingly, but always challenged to race with youthful tenacity shining in his blood red eyes, though his father always interceded before anything could happen, much to his frustration.
In the evenings, Ylvir would take his spot between his parents' chairs in front of the fireplace, deciphering his mother's book slowly, but surely. When he came across a word he couldn't understand or simply pronounce, he was quick to ask for his mother's help. He was riveted by the story it told of a poor man who, through great cunning and previous, simple acts of charity come to unimaginable fruition, slowly grew to power and riches he had never dreamed of having himself, only to be corrupted by its influence until he had the epiphany to give it away and return to his simple life. It confounded Ylvir that the man would do such a thing, but he enjoyed the story nonetheless, often finding himself asleep at the end of a spattering of scrawled black letters, just as his mother predicted.
Many days and weeks passed this way with little variation. Maybe an animal would be struck by sickness, only to recover, or Ylvir's mother would bring him a new story for his imagination to take charge of and sweep him away from his small world, but nothing significant occurred, and the days blended happily together into weeks. And slowly those weeks turned to months, and months to years, until one particular day when Ylvir's contented monotony was introduced to a brand new stimulus.
~*~
Ylvir looked at the peculiar object in his paw-like hands in fascination as it glinted in the low lamplight. After studying it for a moment, he looked up to his mother who wore an eager expression.
"What is it," he inquired, his voice changed slightly deeper from his increased age.
She gave him a warm smile that could and had warmed the coldest of winters. "It's a penny whistle, dear."
"It looks expensive," he said with some guilt, already aware of how much his mother spent on purchasing new books for him to read. He may have still been quite young, but he already understood that he and his parents were not the richest of folk.
"Nonsense," Aloris waved it off. "Besides. It's rude to look a gift horse in the mouth."
"Alright," Ylvir begrudged. "So what do you do with it?"
"You play it," his mother said as though it were the most apparent thing in the world, though to him it was anything but.
He held it out to her. "Could you show me," he asked gently. "Please?"
She gave a laugh that was almost musical to Ylvir's sharp ears, shaking her golden head. "Oh, I don't play. But your father does. Why don't you go ask him?"
Ylvir hesitated. Though his world was small, he still didn't interact so much with his father, and some days it felt they were more strangers than kin. But one look at his angelic mother's face, and he agreed.
He left the small cottage, crawling on hands and feet to his father in their fields. His father didn't notice his approach, which was in his favor as he still hadn't quite gotten the courage to speak to the gruff man.
"Dad," he spoke, and he watched as the man jumped a little, startled by his arrival.
Once he recovered, Reul looked down on his boy. "Stand up, Ylvir. Don't crawl like an animal."
"Sorry," he apologized, straightening himself up, the top of his head meeting just below father's shoulders. He was young and nowhere near fully grown, but it was quite apparent he would far outgrow his father.
"Well wot d'ya want," his father pressed.
Ylvir held out the whistle he was given. "Mother told me you could play."
He watched as a peculiar expression crossed his father's face, softening his harsh features. He recognized it as almost a mirror image of that his mother wore when she had held her book out to him the first time—a look of nostalgia as Reul's mind drifted to the past. Eventually his gaze became present once more, and he cleared his throat, his usual stern expression resuming its place. "It was a long time ago, but I prob'ly still know a tune er two. Why d'ya ask? Lookin' to play are ya?"
"She thought I could learn," Ylvir replied quietly.
His father frowned slightly, appearing thoughtful, making Ylvir more uncomfortable as he waited for a response. Eventually, the man sighed.
"Gimme that," his father said, picking it up out of his son's paw. He held the whistle with his fingers poised over the holes familiarly, then brought it to his lips and breathed life into it. Ylvir watched in pure awe as his rough and rugged father played a beautiful, almost delicate melody. It was further proof of how little he knew of his father, but he was too absorbed by the song to feel proper remorse. He was completely and utterly entranced by the tune's smooth inflections until it came to an abrupt stop, ending far sooner than he liked.
Reul caught the look in Ylvir's red eyes. "Watcha lookin' at me like that fer?"
"That was amazing," his son whispered breathlessly.
The man was taken aback. "That was nuffin'. Ya shoulda 'eard me back in the day. I was fantastic. It's 'ow I got yer mother to even look twice at me."
"Please, teach me," Ylvir said eagerly. "I wanna learn."
"Alright, alright. I'll teach ya," his father conceded, then held a finger up. "But I got some... conditions."
"I'll do anything," Ylvir readily agreed.
Reul looked at him intently, seeming to search his eyes for something with his own dark ones. He didn't know what it was, but he assumed the man must have found it since he gave a short nod and spoke. "No more crawlin', no more eatin' with yer hands, and ya clean up yer own messes. Ya do that, and I'll teach ya everythin' I know."
Ylvir didn't hesitate to answer, bobbing his head up and down excitedly. "Yes. I'll do it. Promise."
"Good. And remember this," he spoke with a serious tone, "a man who can't keep 'is word ain't with 'is salt, so you be keepin' yer promise. I'll be makin' sure of it."
Ylvir assumed the same seriousness as his father when he copied the short nod he was given earlier. "I will."
And with that, father and son came to a new understanding of one another. Ylvir did his utmost best to keep his end of their bargain, and Reul taught him as he said he would in return.
Ylvir was quick to realize that his father was not the same kind of teacher as his mother was. When he struggled with something, Reul would let him, not giving away any answers. He taught him the minimum, and left the rest for him to figure out. It was the most frustrating thing Ylvir had ever experienced, but he also found it to be the most rewarding. When he worked and thought hard about how to get the small instrument to do as he wished and was actually able to achieve it on his own, he was left with a satisfaction and pride akin to when he was able to raise his own flowers.
Reul didn't show his own pride for the growing boy so easily as his wife, but Ylvir was still able to sense it in the littler things, like when he ruffled the fur upon his head, or patted the feathers on his shoulders, or just gave him a simple nod or even a small glimmer of a smile.
And after hours of practice and laboring to master the small instrument and make it his own, with every spare moment devoted to it, and improving every time he picked it up, Ylvir came to play the penny whistle beautifully.
~*~
Reul sat down in his chair by the fire alongside his wife, closing his eyes and letting the distant melody of the instrument he was most familiar with wash over him. He opened them again when he heard the equally musical laugh of Aloris, looking to her, only to find her blue eyes already on him.
"I dare say he plays as well as you, Reul," she spoke wistfully, and they both traveled back to the past with her words, remembering their days of youthful hopes and dreams and the naivety of inexperience, carried easily along by Ylvir's tune.
Reul shook his head. "No, I don' think so."
Aloris was taken slightly aback. "You don't? But listen to him. He's... outstanding."
Reul nodded, and Aloris was almost shocked to see a smile on his lips. "Exactly. He's better."
But the mother and father weren't the only ones to hear Ylvir's magical tune as he thoughtfully played in the forest. The wind buoyed the notes further, to the village folk. They listened to the soaring song intently, finding themselves touched by its enchanting melody and the secret stories it told like a whisper in an empty night. And every one of them that heard it all wondered the same things. Where did this song come from, and who was behind its crafted tales?