Kellam strode down the stone hallway toward the infirmary, his footsteps echoing off the cold walls. The tightness in his chest hadn't let up since the moment he’d gotten word that his son was there. But the frustration mounted as he tried to get clear answers; every healer he passed murmured vague reassurances or averted their gaze, leaving him empty-handed and sour.
A part of him wanted to turn back. How many years had he told himself that his son was no longer his concern? And yet, here he was, because Megara had suggested it—no, urged him to try to reconcile with the boy. “Boy.” *He must stop thinking of him like that*, he reminded himself. They hadn’t spoken in so long that the distance between them had grown into something harsh, bitter, and cold. But Megara was right. It wasn’t just his own life and decisions he was upending with this bitterness. If he wanted peace—however distant that goal seemed—he knew he had to try.
When he finally reached the infirmary's low-lit interior, he scanned the room, letting his eyes adjust to the mixture of lamplight and late-afternoon shadows. He didn’t see Ruth within the infirmary, with a slight eye roll he ventured out into the gardens, perhaps his son had wandered out there. He noticed someone up in a tree and assumed it was probably his son.
A few steps in his direction and the similarities struck him hard. He hadn't expected to see his mother’s features so clearly. The resemblance opened up an ache he thought he’d long buried, a reminder of the grief he kept under the surface, held steady only by sheer will. The rage demon within him bristled to the surface, but Kellam took a deep breath and did his best to quell it.
Caught in the sharp grip of memory, Kellam stopped short of the tree, feeling suddenly out of place. He reached up, adjusting his collar, his fingers clumsy with the unfamiliar discomfort. Clearing his throat softly, he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he stood awkwardly, shuffling his feet, his gaze shifting from the floor to Ruth and back again, unsure how to begin.
The infirmary had felt like a prison since the moment Ruth woke up the second time. The first, hadn’t been long, but long enough for Megara to explain to him what the fuck had happened.
“You aren't so far gone that you can't make it out of this, but you are going to have to make some dramatic lifestyle changes, Ruth.”
He’d just stared at the ceiling, mind wrestling with the weight of everything laid out before him. Then the days after had bled together in between hazes of bitter medicinal brews, scolding's and nagging, with the skeletal ache of detox overhanging it all. Megara spoke of progress, his strength slowly returning, but all he felt was confinement, each sip of his new daily, and wholly unfun cocktail, leaving a bitter taste that lingered for hours.
Today he’d managed to slip past them, a small victory, a step forward instead of being brought to his knees in defeat. He couldn’t leave, but a measure of anarchy in his vanishing brought a glimmer of amusement to his features. Ruth watched from his perch in the tree, the gardens offering a small semblance of the freedom sought. He’d done this as a child, escaping his father’s fury and vanishing among the branches where fists and voices couldn’t reach. He could breathe here.
He was rolling a cigarette when Kellam came across him. Ruth’s ear twitched at hearing the footsteps linger around the tree’s base. His gaze dropped from teasing the stick of tobacco, meeting Kellam’s, but only offer his father a weary sigh.
Well this is... oddly familiar... He leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Megara has already beaten you to the lecture. And is far better at it. There was a whole presentation and everything, but if you're... staying. Get up here. I have no intention of sitting in bed to be gawked at.
No. Everyone had already seen enough of Ruth fucking up. He’d stolen the fucking show at the wedding.
Kellam’s lips pressed into a tight line as he gazed up at Ruth, his son’s nonchalant tone tugging at emotions he wasn’t ready to name. The casual dismissal, the way Ruth leaned against the trunk as though Kellam’s presence was as inconsequential as a passing breeze—it all stoked the embers of frustration simmering just beneath his skin. But there was also something else, something raw and jagged, hidden beneath Ruth’s words. It was a knife’s edge Kellam recognized because he had carried it himself once.
For a moment, he hesitated, debating whether to let the boy—*no, the man*—see how the sharpness of his tongue cut deeper than he likely intended. Instead, he rolled his shoulders, forcing the tension in his body to disperse. Ruth wasn’t wrong. There *was* something familiar about this, wasn’t there? The boy in the tree, always just out of reach. The man in the tree, trying to be even further away.
With a quiet sigh, Kellam stepped closer to the trunk, his voice calm but laced with just enough steel to remind Ruth who he was. It seems some things never change, do they? He hesitated, the idea of climbing up into a tree just to talk to the son who probably, didn’t want to talk to him, seemed silly, and the demon in him bristled at the idea, but then Kellam thought about Meg.
So he began climbing, his movements deliberate and steady, though there was a slight stiffness to his stride. It had been years since he’d done something like this—his pride would’ve scoffed at the very idea—but Ruth had always been a stubborn creature. When he reached the branch below Ruth’s perch, Kellam settled in with surprising ease, one arm draped over the trunk for balance as his boots found their place.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the soft chirp of a bird nearby. Kellam studied Ruth, his sharp features softened only slightly by the dappled sunlight breaking through the canopy.
You look like her, he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost wistful. Your mother. Every time I see you, it’s like a slap to the face, you know that? He let out a low chuckle, devoid of humor. I’ve never been good at this... at us. And Maker knows I’ve given you plenty of reasons to keep climbing higher. But here I am. So, what now? A moment of vulnerability despite what the demon inside him wanted to say or do.
He leaned against the trunk because despite the weak facade, Ruth was out of what little energy he had. Frankly, if his Father had told him to get down he’d have had to fall out the tree and he doubted anyone would be happy with this, himself included. Ruth exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. The climb up had felt like a herculean task, his limbs still leaden from the events of the wedding. He tried to mask his fatigue as Kellam settled below him, though his trembling hand betrayed the effort it took to keep holding the half-rolled cigarette steady.
When his father began his climb, Ruth’s eyes flickered with surprise, a ghost of his younger self surfacing at the sight. Had Kellam ever done this before? Followed him, instead of hauling him out of a tree by force. It seemed wrong, like seeing a fish trying to climb a mountain instead of standing proudly at its base. Ruth had spent his youth seeing Kellam as unmovable, a fixture in his life as solid as the ground beneath his feet. Yet here he was, swaying slightly on a branch, looking for all the world like a man trying something unfamiliar and maybe a little foolish.
Ruth bit back the reflexive urge to tell him not to bother, but what would’ve been the point? Instead, he let the sarcasm that rose to his lips fall flat. Mythal’s Balls, if you fall and break your neck, I’ll have to listen to Megara say it’s my fault. Like always. He didn’t bother inflecting humor, the words slipping out with as much energy as it took to roll his tired eyes.
His shoulders slumped. Maybe it wasn’t worth trying to keep the edge up anymore. It wasn’t useful to waste what little energy he had trying to. Tugging the edges of his coat closer, as though the weight of it might shield him from the expected intensity of Kellam’s gaze.
The words his father finally spoke cut through the silence, “You look like her.” Ruth flinched, his first real reaction since Kellam arrived, but said nothing at first. His eyes darted to some point beyond the garden, far past the edge of the tree and the quiet that followed was heavy. Ruth felt his father’s unspoken emotions pressing against him, tangible and raw in a way he wasn’t used to, causing the younger Yoesif to shift uncomfortably. It's not like I can help, how I look.
“What now?”
Ruth shrugged, his response slow and deliberate. Hell if I know. I’m not allowed to make any decisions until she gets back from her honeymoon. I apparently make too many bad ones. His voice cracked halfway through, the strength behind it faltering like his legs after the seizure that had left him in this state. He glanced at his father, wary and tired. There were no quips this time, no sly remarks. The exhaustion was too deep, too rooted in his bones to muster the energy for more than the truth.
He sighed, resting his head back against the trunk, his cigarette forgotten in his lap. You came all the way here for a reason. You’ve got the floor. Go ahead and say what you need to say.
