#thomas abbot

[hamishabbot]

A Baby in Theory

It wasn’t as if Hamish Abbot had never seen a baby before.  Some of the Priory people housed their families close, and he’d seen babes at their mothers’ breasts in settlements across all the known lands.  But this babe, this one had Hamish’s eyes and his father’s eyes, his hair, Magda’s chin.  Magda’s nose, which was her own father’s nose, and to see all of it combined in one infant’s face was enough to suck the breath from his lungs.

He’d paused at the Priory to look though child-rearing books as an additional delay on his way to the Settlement.  At a year, the book said, Desmond would be standing, perhaps even walking.  He’d mimic the sounds around him, he’d hold on to spoons and fingers and food.  He’d be three times his birth weight. All of it had sounded fascinating and abstract and a bit terrifying, but manageable in theory.  In theory.

“He’s ready to walk,” said Magda in her silvery voice as Desmond clung to the top of Hamish’s tall boot.  The baby wobbled back and forth, staring either at his father’s face or into the middle distance.  It was impossible to tell.  Hamish kept entirely still, not wanting to kick his only progeny onto the rag rug.  In the meantime, Magda and Hamish’s father and Hamish’s father’s housekeeper all watched as if certain that paternal feelings would - by instinct and sight alone - bloom in Hamish’s heart.

Instead he thought of Aia, and Elona, and an unrolled, unused parchment just waiting to be filled.  Reports of Kourna were drifting back through Pact channels.  Kourna.  But instead he sat in Thomas Abbot’s least comfortable chair with a baby tromping on his foot and the massive weight of expectations pressing down on the rest of him.

“We’re returning to Lornar’s soon,” said Magda when the silence had stretched on too long.  “Thomas thought -”

“Of course he’ll go with you,” said Thomas.  “He wouldn’t miss the chance to support his son.”

“Thomas.”  Magda’s voice held the soft, barely discernible chiding note Hamish had grown so used to hearing before the end.  “He sees another woman, he says.  And I don’t need coin.  If that’s why Hamish would-”

“He wants to know his boy,” said Thomas.  “He can visit the other woman.  And if he doesn’t want to know his own baby, then I don’t know who he is.”

And with that so baldly stated, Hamish reluctantly let Kourna drift into the distance for someone else to explore  For now.  “...I’ll come,” he said.  In the rejoicing that followed, little Desmond Baer took his first step, tripped, fell on his head, and spent the next quarter-hour shrieking in his mother’s consoling embrace.

[many-voices]

Situation: Hamish goes to tell Aia about being a baby daddy and she admits she is also pregnant (*soap opera music*)

(( Haha, I’ve put off this one because I couldn’t figure out exactly how he’d react besides saying, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and then disappearing into the desert forever.  But! ))

“I’ll do my duty,” Hamish said to his father while rubbing his face with both hands.  He stood by the hearth, where he’d always stood to receive his father’s scoldings.  Six or forty-three, it made little difference.

Thomas Abbot’s pipe billowed its foulest smoke into the small sitting room. “The woman attempting to not weep in the kitchen seems to think otherwise.  In our kitchen.  What’s a Krytan baroness doing in our kitchen with your babe in her belly?”

“Judging our selection of tea,” said Hamish weakly, only for the mother of Hamish’s first surprise child to let out an angry huff of breath from her seat on the worn leather couch.

“Glibness has never done you credit,” said Magda, and Thomas pointed the bowl of his pipe at her as if to say, see?  See?

Hamish took a deep breath before speaking.  “I will see to Desmond’s care and schooling.  I will see to Aia’s child’s care and–”

“With what?” Thomas exclaimed.  “Magda’s a sensible girl.  This noblewoman – she could buy and sell you for what she wears on her fingers.  What do you have to offer her?”

“Very little,” said Hamish before squaring his shoulders and walking slowly toward the kitchen.

[hamishabbot]

The Surprise

“I’m getting it,” called Thomas Abbot back to his housekeeper when she let the person at the door knock for a third time.  “You just keep doing as you do, Mildred.  Don’t bestir yourself.”  The woman let out a crack of laughter at the older man’s sarcasm.

Thomas’ bemusement faded into a polite smile as he opened the door.  Lovely young woman, came the first thought, though from his estimation, the lady had seen thirty some few years ago.  Young to me, at least. She was dressed too warmly for the season, in garb that looked almost Nornish in its design. The babe in a sling at her chest slept soundly.   “May I help you?” he asked.

“My name is Magda,” the woman said.  She extended one pale hand, and around it, chill shimmered the air.  “Magda Baer.”

The name sounded familiar -- ah!  “Arthur Baer any relation?  He was one of my son’s old mentors.  A brilliant man from all accounts, though I’m certainly not learned enough to judge.”  After a magic-chilled handshake, he waved woman and baby into the tiny house.

“My father.  And I’m not learned enough for that either.”  She looked around the sitting room curiously.  Evidence of Hamish’s travels filled shelves and display cases:  a tusk here, a Dwarven gear there.  “He’s traveled so widely,” she said.  “Do you hear from him often?”

“No.  Not these days.  Mildred?  Tea for our guest.  And, ah...a napkin soaked in milk, if you please.”  Almost immediately, he heard the clank of the kettle settling on its hook over the kitchen fire.  To Magda he said, “Will you sit, my dear?”

Magda Baer did so, and as she settled, the flap covering the baby’s face fell back.  Handsome lad, Thomas thought.  The slope of the boy’s nose reminded him of when his own son had been such a tender age.  A tuft of red peeked out from beneath a fur-lined cap. 

Thomas stared at that tuft of familiar, coppery red for several seconds before peering at Magda’s silvery-blonde braids.  Then back to the child.  “Ah,” he said at last.

“Ah,” she echoed.  “I named him Desmond, after his father’s friend.  And my father’s friend as well.  I hope he’ll be pleased.”

“Hamish will be --”  Absent, Thomas almost said, but love and loyalty kept the word unspoken.  Silence hung in the air until Thomas finally asked, “Has he any idea?”

“None.  We last spent time together when, well.  When Desmond was made."  The babe slept on, even when she smoothed that red hair back under his little cap.  “A bit more than a year ago.  After he last visited you, after Maguuma.”

“Ah.” 

“Ah,” she repeated again. Her lips curved in a wry smile.  “I have no expectations, no demands.  Hamish has made his lack of sentiment perfectly clear, and I have my own full life.  But..I thought his grandfather might want to know him.”  She looked up as the housekeeper entered the room, tray in hand.  “So,” Magda said.  “What shall we do now?”

[hamishabbot]

The Long-Delayed Post

“Ahai, Mr. Abbot.  Welcome back.” Hamish gave the post-master a grin.  He hadn’t visited the little building and its sorted stacks of mail since Aia’s last letter, and the memory of it, and her, still glowed.  A breeze across his face could conjure the slide of her thick black hair against his neck, and he already composed new letters in his head, ones to send her, ones to receive.

He offered the post-master his latest letter to Aia.  In exchange, the Amnoon man brought a stack of mail up from beneath a nearby table.  “Here you are, Mr. Abbot.  This from the Priory, these from Mrs. Lionsbane, a few local invoices...”  Hamish began to flip through the stacked papers and envelopes. As he did so, the post-master offered him an apologetic look.  “And these, also. Forgive me, sir.  They were addressed wrongly, to the wrong guest-house, and while I should have seen it, I did not.” 

Hamish tucked the first bunch of papers under his arm so he could receive the second.  “Ah, thank you.  And it’s fine.  Quite all right.  Happens.”  A few coins and seconds of small talk later, he strode out into the brilliant day while peering at the overdue letters -- all from his father, it seemed.

...Desmond seems ready to take his first steps any day, though I may be biased.  My grandson will undoubtedly be brilliant.  Magda says she must return to her guest-house soon, but I prevail upon her with all my charm and wit.  Were Desmond’s father here, perhaps the effort would be more successful...

And the next letter:

...I suppose if I cared to write sentimental pap, I would say Magda reminds me of your mother.  She doesn’t.  She’s a self-contained lady, your Magda, with little of your mother’s softness. I admit, I hope you will give the relationship (is that what it was?) another chance, though Magda thinks it impossible.  But you share a child, and that should count for much...

And before that: 

...I suppose my disappointment is equal to my lack of surprise...

Hamish sat down hard on a crate outside the post-house, then stood up when a dockworker hollered curses from aboard a nearby ship.  He walked on numb legs to the shade of a towering palm tree.  Desmond.  A child.  His child.

He shoved the letters in his pack and stared out at the water.  Three ships seemed ready to sail -- one of them had to be sailing away from Kryta, rather than toward it.  He took two steps forward before the unworthy thought melted away.  Magda...she knew what he was.  Aia would learn soon enough.  The babe deserved better, and already had it in his mother.  But Hamish’s father...

“Damnation,” he muttered, and went to see a ship with Lionguard at the gangplank and a massive lion on the sail.

[many-voices]

☹ Name one person they would kill for. (Hamish)

His father, traditionally.  They’re close, and Hamish still writes his father as often as he can, no matter where he is in the world.  Hamish calls his father “his conscience,” and that’s not far from the truth.  Thomas Abbot sees the world with a bit more compassion and a lot more connection than Hamish seems capable of doing, and Hamish has grown to trust his father’s judgment.

These days, he’d add Joan to the list, at least while they’re traveling.  The far younger woman has assumed the importance of a sort of surrogate daughter, and Hamish would certainly kill to keep his young friend safe.

[hamishabbot]

My Son

Dear Hamish,

Well, my boy, you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a pickle.  We’ll get there soon enough, but first, news.  Gods only know when you’ll read this, but so you don’t worry when you do:  we’re fine.  Mildred and I, both fine, and our whole block.

The Settlement was ravaged by an attack by some group, some cult with ‘Faceless’ as its name.  I will not provide details of our fear or our hiding; they’re irrelevant now.  Our survival has to do with both brave warriors who fought for us and pure dumb chance:  the half of the town that burned was not ours.  Still, a hundred are dead now, and among them many names you would recognize. Should you return home soon, we will go to the shrines and the graves together.

We’re further beleaguered by the near-regular appearance now of ghouls from Elona -- the dead men of the lich, sent through portals to harry our patrols and traders’ wagons at every turn.  So far, we are not overrun, but our defenders are weary and the ghouls, too many to count.  

Should that not be enough to lure you home, I’ll pass along this final bit of news.  I have made the acquaintance recently of one Magda Baer, who I trust I won’t have to describe for you to remember.  She is a well-spoken, intelligent young woman -- all I would expect given her parentage -- and the mother of your infant child, called Desmond.

If you read disappointment in my words, you are correct.  Miss Baer asks nothing of you, but I demand better for her and your child than that.  When a man enjoys a liaison, he takes responsibilities for the fruit of his pleasure.  She did not tell you; I cannot fault you there.  But I do and will fault you if you do not return to see to the welfare of this child and his mother.

For now, she resides in our household while I get to know my babe grandson. Ms. Baer sleeps in your old room, and should that cause you momentary pique, please remember that you’ve made her no stranger to your bed on previous occasions.  Live with it.

Father