Faoladh and Fatherhood

 An addendum to the story posted HERE:

Aodhgan deserved to have children happen to him, and god, hearing his petition, thought he particularly deserved to have a girl happen. Daughters do not always happen to those who merit them most, but they must naturally belong to those who think they could never say no to them.

                They returned to the abbey and had a pleasant dinner waiting for them, the nisser coming in with fresh cream cheese and salted butter for the brown bread Sister Iarlaith was putting on table. The children were scrubbed and hands were cleaned, and everyone sat down together—even a few of the boggarts joined them, to inhale the pageant of crumbs now garlanding the seats and glean a few scraps of cold chicken by the way. Myndil related everything that happened during their visit to the farm to Brother Crannach and Sister Iarlaidh throughout dinner, telling them about the newborn calf and wondering why human children did not try to stand ten minutes after being born.   

                “It does seem odd, doesn’t it, that for a reigning species we don’t try to crawl immediately after we’re born. I suppose it has something to do with having so few predators about, or perhaps babies sense that they’re safe and being cared for and don’t feel as though existence warrants giving up naps for.” Myndil chomped on his slice of brown bread and cream cheese. “If humans are God’s special creation, why did God make us so fragile as newborns?”

                GOD MADE HUMANS AFTER ANIMALS. Somewhere, someone was slottering on a thick slice of bread. GOD GAVE THE ANIMALS ALL THE SURVIVAL ASPECTS.

                “But not all animals have the same survivability when young. Baby turtles are rather vulnerable, trotting about in the hide tide, hoping it will sweep them into the sea, but they do live an amazing long time. Humans are rather vulnerable at anytime, being so fleshy and full of breakable bones, and we die from disease rather easily. I wonder why God didn’t give us a protective shell or flippery feet.”

                YOU HAD THOSE A LONG TIME AGO. YOU DECIDED YOU DID NOT LIKE THEM, SO GOD LETS YOU SUFFER WITHOUT THEM.

                “Oh.” Myndil looked at the bite marks in his bread. “Well, I suppose if we don’t live in the water anymore, we don’t need flippers or a shell, though they would be nice to have—but did we never have wings before? I know some of the angels have wings, but if given the choice, I would much rather have a thousand eyes and wheels of flame like the ophanim rather than wings, because they don’t seem to keep the birds save from harm at all.”

                Myndil went on, stopped only by Sister Iarlaith, who asked if he would not have more bread, while the Brothers and Sisters minded the children and made sure they ate their dinners before the boggarts did. Only the abbess noticed Aodhgan had not touched anything. He was sitting in the corner, looking somewhat more dismal than usual, his smiles diminished and his eyes clouded over in a gloom. He was letting the children clamber over him, helping them scale his shoulders, giving them looks of sorrowful affection.

                Something was amiss, and that night, when Aodhgan was supposed to be out on his self-willed patrol about the abbey, he was in his room, sitting with his wife in his arms, comforting her as much as he was comforting himself by her presence.

                “Are you feeling well, uanin?” he purred, gazing earnestly at her, his arms cradling her back.

                “I am,” she smiled, “but what is it? You seem out of sorts. Did something happen while you were away? All the children seemed to have a lovely time.”

                Aodhgan thrummed. “There was a young girl on the farm,” he began, with a darkened aspect, and from his manner of describing her, she knew exactly which girl he meant. “She was nursing a wolf pup that had wandered away from its mother. Her father had me return it to the woods.”

                “You did what was needed, mo Faoladh,” the abbess consoled him, her fingertips furrowing his short hair. “A wolf cannot live on a farm.”

                “No, but werewolves don’t live in abbeys.”

                The abbess almost laughed. “We’ve thoroughly domesticated you.”

                Aodhgan simpered and sighed. “She was so happy. She was grieved when she realized the wolf was gone. I know what I did was right, uanin, but was it wise?”

                “You have such a heart, mo faoladh mor,” said she, in a conciliating tone. “You’re always so concerned for everyone. If you’re worried that she might be afraid of you or dislike you now, I don’t think she would.”

                “No…” Aodhgan lowered his eyes, and his chest sank. “Is it wrong that I wanted her to have the pup after seeing her in agony over it?”

                She shook her head. “I think it’s natural to be anxious for her happiness, especially a child born with disadvantages. Children in general seldom have a chance at happiness when there so much misery in the way.”

                Aodhgan gave her a sagacious look.

                “We always want to appease sadness and ease discomfort,” said she warmly, “but sometimes what children want is not what they need. They need food, shelter, and attention. What they want is cake for every meal and a late bedtime.”

                Aodhgan smiled, but his heart ached.

                “Perhaps you might have done things differently. You might have explained why she couldn't keep the wolf and brought her to return it, so she could see the mother wolf missing her child, but I don't know how else it could have been done better. It's painful now, but it would be worse later if the wolf hurt the sheep or hurt the girl.”

                “Mmm.” He felt a pang in his chest, and he passed his hand over his eyes. “The guilt is unbearable.”

                “How do you think her father feels?”

                Aodhgan looked grave. “The way she cried, uanin… She acted as though I had killed the pup in front of her.”

                “I know that you don't want her to think of you as a villain, mo Faoladh, but it will pass. In a few weeks, when the farm has so many new lambs, she'll be happy again, you’ll see.”

                Aodhgan did not relate that the girl’s father had promised her a hound of her own; he feared that the farmer had said it only to only to appease her. Not everyone had the privilege of raising something they would grow to love: he had raised Eochaid, and though Eochaid liked teasing and defying him at times, he had never had to see Eochaid in anguish. Eochaid got what he wanted because he was a prince, but he asked for little because King Donnacha had taught him not to desire more than he had. They cherished their relationship together—but the girl on the farm had no friends and little family, and though she had many to look after her, her desire to love something in return went unfulfilled.

                Aodhgan held his wife close, his nose resting against her nape, his hand caressing her womb, and he hoped that however their child should be born into the world, that they never have cause to grieve as long as they were both alive.