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.
Kellam’s fingers gripped the bark beneath him, the coarse texture grounding him against the flood of emotions Ruth’s words stirred. The quiet acceptance in his son’s tone wasn’t the defiance he was used to—it was something worse. Resignation. That heavy, soul-deep kind of weariness Kellam had once believed he owned the patent for. He leaned forward slightly, his jaw tightening, trying to temper the fury bubbling in his chest. Not at Ruth, but at himself, at everything that had led them here.
*Say what you need to say.* Ruth's voice echoed in Kellam’s mind like a taunt, daring him to reach beyond the barriers they'd both built over the years. But what was there to say that wouldn’t sound like a hollow platitude? What could he say that wouldn’t crack open the unrelenting anger he felt toward himself, toward the world, toward the demon raging inside him?
Kellam exhaled slowly, a sound that was almost a growl. The demon, Malakar, stirred, whispering sharp and caustic suggestions in the back of his mind: *This is a waste of time. He doesn’t want you here. He doesn’t need you. Turn around and walk away before you make it worse.*
But Kellam stayed. For once, he shoved Malakar’s voice aside.
You’re not wrong, he said. About Megara. She’s got a talent for saying what I need to hear, even when I’d rather not listen.
He paused, leaning back slightly against the trunk, letting his gaze drift to the canopy above. I’m not going to pretend I’ve earned the right to be here. That I suddenly know how to... He trailed off, his fingers flexing against the bark as if grasping for the right words. How to do this.
Another pause, longer this time. Kellam wasn’t good at this kind of thing, and it showed in the deliberate way he chose his words, trying to tread carefully without losing the core of what he needed to say.
I didn’t come to lecture, he continued, his tone quieter now, almost contemplative. Maker knows you’ve had your fill of that. And I’m not here to... fix anything. I’m not that naïve.
His gaze shifted to Ruth again, hesitant, as though unsure of how his words would be received. But maybe, just this once, I could... listen. If you wanted me to. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. I’m told that’s where people like me usually start.
Ruth snorted, a short, dry sound that didn’t quite match the tension in his body. For someone who smokes so much elfroot, she is remarkably wise. He rolled his eyes upward, as though Megara’s knack for having the right words at the worst times were a cosmic joke. The attempt at humor barely carried, but it was something.
His gaze flickered back to Kellam, scrutinizing him for a moment before he spoke again.
How to… he hesitated, the word sticking like a splinter in his throat. Parent? The hollow laugh that followed was sharp, bitter, and self-deprecating. If he dwelt on it, Megara had stepped into that role… but there had been someone before her. Amara. She was always better at it. At least from what I remember.
Ruth shifted uncomfortably, the bark digging into his back as he leaned further against the trunk, using it for support. The idea of Kellam parenting felt foreign, alien, almost. Not wrong, but like something out of place, a picture tilted just slightly off-center. His memories of his father were a collection of sharp edges, harsh words and beatings, not soft corners and gentle words.
The surprise of not being immediately scolded or dragged back to the infirmary was... unsettling. Ruth studied Kellam’s face again, searching for a crack, a tell, a reason to pull back before something inevitably blew up in his face. So... what are you here for? His voice carried an edge, suspicion curling around the question like barbed wire. Whatever this was, Ruth doubted it was about him. It was easier to assume it wasn’t, to brace for disappointment rather than risk hope.
He let the question hang in the air, watching Kellam carefully, his narrowed gaze a shield as much as a challenge. Not here to lecture, not here to fix anything... What’s left?
Ruth’s gaze dropped, his fingers toying absently with the forgotten cigarette in his lap. The suspicion softened for a moment, overtaken by something rawer, something he rarely let surface. You know what’s funny? I’ve gotten pretty good at knowing when someone’s about to leave. Or fuck me over. There’s a look, or a tone, or just... something in the way they breathe. And it always comes. Like clockwork. He let out a shaky exhale, his voice quieter now, stripped of its usual sharpness. I stopped asking why a long time ago. Stopped trying to figure out if it was something I did, or just... who I am. It’s just easier to expect it, you know? That way, it doesn’t hurt so much when it happens. He gave a hollow chuckle, but there was no humor in it, only a brittle sort of acceptance. So, yeah... forgive me if I’m a little suspicious of what you’re doing here.
Kellam absorbed Ruth’s words in silence, his hands tightening into fists against the bark of the tree. Not because he was angry at his son—no, this was anger at himself, at the years of mistakes that had built this wall between them. Ruth’s bitterness wasn’t misplaced, and the sadness threaded through his voice hit Kellam harder than any blade ever had.
For a moment, Kellam let the tension sit in the air, his gaze dropping to the ground below. He wrestled with Malakar’s voice, the demon sneering from the corners of his mind. *He’s right to doubt you. What are you even doing here? He’s just going to fail you again.*
But Kellam ignored it. He was here because walking away again would make him the very thing Ruth expected him to be, and ever since the conversation with Megara, he couldn’t help but pause and think about what Amara would say if she found out how things had transpired over the years between himself and their son.
He let out a slow, deliberate breath and looked up at Ruth, his expression unusually raw. There was no fire, no sternness, just the weight of a man trying to carry too many things at once.
You’re not wrong to ask that, Kellam said, his voice quieter now, rougher around the edges. I’ve given you every reason to doubt me. Every reason to think this is just another passing moment, that I’ll climb out of this tree and be gone again before you know it, or worse.
He paused, the words coming slower now, as if each one was dragged out of a pit of self-loathing. The bark dug into his palm as he gripped the trunk tighter, forcing himself to keep going.
I didn’t come here to fix you, Ruth. Maker knows I’ve broken enough things in my life to know you don’t ‘fix’ people. I won’t lie to you, Meg asked me to take some steps towards reconciliation. At first I thought she was crazy, but the more I thought about it, the more I tried to see you through her eyes.
