Two months ago, he'd been welcomed into the world. A mother's pain and restlessness reflected in the dark hours that dragged, the veil of night drawn over the horizon thick and impenetrable, until all at last gave way to the most breathtaking sunrise ever witnessed - by the doctors, by the guards, by the king and queen in all of their long years. Heralded by a cry, his cry, the sun seeming to come out of hiding and bless them with its glory upon his command and his alone.
His arrival, dreamed of, awaited, prophesied. The dawn erupted in cheers that could be heard across the continent, carried on the wind and along the river that so dutifully cradled and guarded the royal family in their hour of need. The streets came alive with twirling footsteps and music born from beaks and mouths and instruments alike. Homes and businesses transformed into beacons of light, awash in the reverent glow of candles lit in the prince's honor. Cheesebirds gave the letters and gifts intended for the Crown a once-over before taking off for the palace; Wild Spices blended, sorted, counted every granule of spice gathered for the blessing ceremony with a delicate precision that betrayed the weight of the tradition. The world waited on the boy's doorstep, wrapped in a bow. Anything for him. Everything for him.
Two months now, of this. Days and nights and all in between filled with boundless joy. Friends and allies the world over, eager to visit and congratulate. A new adventure every day, every moment, for with a child, life and the world returned to strange and exciting mystery.
Yet still, Burning Spice hesitated to spare his son even a single word.
It was wherewithal he lacked, in its deceptive simplicity. He spoke of him easily, openly, gladly; his baby bird, his little warrior, his pride and joy. Hardly anything and anyone else deserved his acknowledgement. Speaking near him, beside him, an equally effortless task. For every one of his wife's coos over the size of their son's hands, and over the enchantment of his eyes, and over the fluff of his pale golden curls, Burning Spice made a comment of his own; loving agreement, thoughtful questioning, playful teasing. He observed with amusement as the boy calmly observed them back, utterly fascinated by each sound and movement big and small. To entice his curiosity, Burning Spice made an effort to take on a plethora of tones and cadences, as content to indirectly teach him language and the sound of his father's voice as he was simply to coax as many charming reactions out of him as he could.
But, he has not spoken to him. Truthfully, he cannot; time and again, it proved impossible. One glance into those twinkling rubies and all of their novel familiarity, and his mind unraveled. He dared to open his mouth, and naught but a soft sigh left. He has words for the boy, of course he does, hundreds and thousands and millions of them - words that all inevitably dissolve on the tongue that tied itself into knots in his presence, for beholding his beloved son always proved too much to bear. It is with pride that Burning Spice proclaims that few things in this world have ever left him awed, dumbstruck; it is with warmth in his cheeks, and a smile playing on his lips, and a certain fuzziness tickling his heart, that he confesses that Pepper Jack is one of them.
A smile he found himself offering the boy now, in lieu of his wavering tongue. Such a momentous occasion: he'd settled into his swaddling cloth. Any other time - every other time - would be a duel, a battle of wills, a test of endurance. And the tenacious little bird always won, for in truth, he'd had his parents at his beck and call from his conception. Often he echoed his back and wings' cries for freedom, for room to breathe and stretch. But for now, perhaps in finding a comfort in his father's arms that outmatched the discomfort of a blanket pressing into sensitive skin and feathers, he sat calm. Quiet.
His one and only desire seemed to be a staring contest. A desire Burning Spice granted, for there were none he would ever refuse to.
So much like his mother already. Mirrored in his tender, young face was her nose, her cheeks, the shape of her brow. Traces of his father could still be seen, in the flecks of spice littering his hair and those eyes painted scarlet. But he was Golden Cheese's son by greater visual measurement - and Burning Spice couldn't be happier for it. An imprint of his wife's memory, a living monument to her beauty and grace. To their love. Burning Spice would change nothing. Perfection envied the boy as he was.
He shifted, tucking him further into one arm to grant the other more freedom of movement. With it, he trailed his hand to the boy's face, fingertips tickling along the apple of his cheek. A giggle reminiscent of a bell chime; at its toll, Burning Spice's smile only grew. Hands emerged from the safety of the cloth and began grasping at him, wondrously small fingers that, all together, barely enclosed a single one of his own. So little, so soft, so strong; squeezing with a force none could have ever suspected, bold and unrestrained in his undisciplined naivety. In his mind's eye, Burning Spice watched the boy grow and learn to put his divine strength to good use. A hunting and sparring partner. A commander worthy of his army. A hero, like his dear mother. And together they rejoiced in all of his victories, a symphony composed of one's thunderous cheering and the other's melodious laughter.
Truly, how could Burning Spice ever say anything to this child? How could he give proper praise for his countenance, for his charm, for his spirit? What word or phrase could possibly suffice? Talk was cheap, not good enough, not yet. Not while a single giggle could still rob Burning Spice of his voice.
Still tugging on Burning Spice's fingers, Pepper Jack turned his adoring gaze all the way up to the man proper, doing his best to behold him in all of his glory. Larger than life, in both senses of the term; what a struggle it must be, for one so young to comprehend. And yet the boy tried anyway, so unyielding was he in his greed for knowledge, for connection. Already so enamored with his father, even without truly knowing who he was.
...
... Without truly knowing who he was.
Ever so slightly, with the slow blooming of the seed of doubt already long since planted within his mind, Burning Spice's expression began to falter.
... These thoughts were not new or strange to him. Neither he nor Golden Cheese would try for a baby at all without laying out all of their cards first. Beyond a child's potential mortality, the most pressing concern had been his past, and its balance with the present. Could Destruction bear to create? Could he endure the agony and terror of his children potentially rebuking him, if and when they came to know him in his entirety? Could he once again love another wholly, in spite of himself and all of his flaws?
Back then, with long and careful thought, he believed that yes, he could, and he wished to. Thus came to be Pepper Jack, the fruit of Change's reunion. Pepper Jack, crown prince of the Golden Cheese Kingdom, young master of the Wild Spices. Pepper Jack, a baby bird with blue wings and ruby eyes and hair spun from pale gold, the apple of his family's eye.
Pepper Jack does not know who Burning Spice is. Not truly, not in his entirety. He shall not know for a long time yet. And yet, he behaved as if he did, for in his wise estimation, all he saw was all there was. He knew nothing of the world, none of its blessings, none of its cruelties. He knew not where he was, this palace, this kingdom. Too young was he still to even know his own name. But he knew Burning Spice- he thought he knew Burning Spice. Before he ever knew anything else, he knew who his father was. He was "Father", and that was all. That was enough.
How could that be enough?
... Would it still be enough, when that time came?
The scene envisioned in his mind's eye began to change, warping into a grim reflection of the past he'd labored so long and painfully to overcome. Faster, his face fell, soured, crumbled- and his grave discomfort seemed to spread like an infection, with Pepper Jack's own glee quickly twisting into confusion as he realized his father's sudden deterioration.
These thoughts were not new, they were not strange. Yet their sting proved twice as sharp now, with the babe in his arms. How many children has he slaughtered? How many parents has he robbed of their sons and daughters? The haunting cries of fathers like him and infants hardly any bigger than his own filled his ears once more, deafening and thick with anguish- and their killer dared to continue living, to carve a happy ending for himself out of the corpse of their hopes and dreams, to gently hold onto a life with the same hands once used to crush entire legacies.
He blinked, and there was fire. Embers blanketing the floor, flames licking at his heels. The tides of change that once swallowed his countless victims, once more rising around him. They bathed his son in an eerie glow, a crude halo flickering in the space behind his head.
His son. His baby bird. His little warrior. His pride and joy.
Pepper Jack, the imprint of his mother's memory, of the woman Burning Spice endlessly tormented and mercilessly brutalized in pursuit of his own sadistic amusement. Pepper Jack, a Wild Spice, heir to a culture Burning Spice had mangled and twisted into a grotesque caricature of itself, family to a people half filled with ghosts. Pepper Jack, son of Destruction, forever cursed with a Beast's blood coursing through his veins, destined to be swallowed whole by his father's shadow and buried beneath the weight of all of his sins.
"My son..." Only now, it would seem, could Burning Spice cease his cowardice and speak. And Pepper Jack, fragile, innocent creature that he was, spoke too: a babble, short and timid. As though anything greater would shatter them both.
"I..."
Burning Spice has failed him. He has failed him here and now. He failed him yesterday, and the day before that. He failed him long before he was ever born.
Another glance into those rubies, round and glistening with unshed tears. Into flames that burned an awfully familiar scarlet. Deep down into his soul, at the man captured within their sorrowful reflection.
What a horrible man he saw.
"I am unworthy of you," he finally whispered to his son in devastating confession. And all Pepper Jack could do in turn was cry.
"Ah, there you two are- what?!"
Another voice, a ways behind him. The one murmured into his ear every morning and night. Posh and proud, but warm and vivacious. An angel.
"Burning Spice? Darling, what's wrong? What happened?"
So beautiful in her desperate glide. He turned and beheld her in all of her radiance, worry clouding her eyes and expression as she caressed his shoulders in tentative reassurance. Reaching for his face, wiping at his tears. When had he started crying?
"Darling, please, you're scaring him-"
It ached to see and feel his son be pried from his grasp, no matter how gentle. But he made no move to stop her. He couldn't.
"My love, please, what has happened? What has brought you both to tears like this?"
With their wailing son cradled in one arm, she wrapped the other around Burning Spice's waist, securing them both in an embrace halved but no less true. For Pepper Jack, a flurry of coos and kisses to his temples in an attempt at consolation. For Burning Spice, the same troubled look, and the same troubled questions, over and over.
But he had fallen silent again, voice lost to his son and his cries of anguish.
I reread this post and I couldn't help but think of a pepper jack from this au which instead of spicy flakes has little flowers like his father (chai spice, ruby cheese and pepper jack obviously by @burningcheese-merchant )
HAPPY BIRTHDAY @burningcheese-merchant !!!!!!!!!! I HOPE U HAD AN AWESOME DAY SENDING YOU ALL THE GOOD VIBES also i love love LOVE your burningcheese kids and their au parent designs as well!!
