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"Maybe you need a nap." Litcelmo said seriously, little brows drawn together in a frown, though he was not completely convinced. Ata didn't look sleepy to him, but he would take his word for it.
"Maybe, Litcelmo. Maybe I do," he said softly, and with a sigh, rested his head on the elfling's tiny shoulder. "Maybe we both do, huh?"
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Litcelmo tugged at his father's robes where he sat in his office. Something was wrong, the little Altmer had noticed-- the way his father's shoulders were tensed, and the sour look on his face. He looked sad. Maybe someone was being mean to him? "Ata? Are you sad?" he asked softly, climbing into Ondolemar's lap.
With the awful day he'd been having, Ondolemar had not even considered getting Litcelmo involved--it wasn't as if the boy would understand his troubles, anyway. The weary father put on a smile and set a hand at the boy's back so he wouldn't fall over. "I'm not sad, Litcelmo," he promised. "Ata is just very tired..."
The child's white eyebrows drew together, but he nodded, swinging his legs back and fourth. Voada had said that the shouty-man had a rude mouth when they'd been feeding the dogs. It looked like Ata agreed with her. Talking of Voada..."I'm hungry." the child mumbled a moment later, tossing his head back against the older mer's chest, unintentionally headbutting him.
"Oof!" Ondolemar leaned back just in time to get a mild bump to the chin, avoiding a nasty bloodied nose. "Oh, ah--you can go down to the kitchen and ask for something, alright?" he said, setting the elfling back down. "Unless you'd like me to come with you."
The child squealed, kicking his legs even at the thought of being tickled. "No tickles, Ata, no tickles please!" his little nose wrinkled, golden eyes looking about the room to make sure Shouty-Man wasn't around to hear him tattling. Once he was sure that he could safely say, he stage-whispered, "It was the Shouty-Man. 'Cept when he saw me after he said it, he said, 'Oh sheet.'"
Ugh. Who'd the bloody Dunmer been talking to, anyway, that he used that word? Ondolemar pursed his lips and raised a brow at his son. "Right. Well, next time you see the Dovahkiin, tell him that your father wants to speak with him. And don't say that word anymore, alright? It's rude."
"N'wah n'wah n'wah n'wah." Litcelmo babbled as he toddled about the room he and his father shared, pudgy little arms holding up his stuffed bear. With his hands, he moves the bear's arms about, making spittlely sword noises. "N'wah n'wah n'wah!" the little Altmer let out a peal of laughter-- the new word he'd learned while wandering the Keep was funny to say. (celmo no)
Ondolemar could not be completely sure what his young son was saying at first, and when he was, he wasn't completely sure how to handle it. His first instinct was to snap at the child not to say that, but what would that accomplish? It would embarrass Litcelmo, and make Ondolemar out to be the bad guy, and he had his fill of that.
He leaned out of his chair, where he was stationed at his desk, and grabbed the boy around the waist and pulled him onto one knee. "Celmo, I want to know where you learned that word--and if you don't tell me the truth, I might have to tickle you," the commander said solemnly.
No doubt the Dragonborn had taught him--for some reason, the Dunmer adored Litcelmo.
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Litcelmo bent his head back and smiled, a wide, gap-toothed smile that made his eyes crinkle into slits. "I want to be like you." he said, tapping his small, pudgy feet together. Litcelmo looked back out at the dying sun, which was now letting out it's final rays of orange light before sinking behind the stone. He snuggled against Ondolemar as a cool, evening breeze blew over the city, raising goosebumps on his little arms. "You're brave an' powerful and good at magic-- Ata, it's cold."
Oh, the poor child--he'd no idea what being like him entailed, but Ondolemar didn't have the heart or the eloquence to derail the childish thought. He simply showed Litcelmo a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and hugged the elfling around the middle.
"Thank you," he mumbled against his son's tiny, tiny shoulder. The boy was wrong. He wasn't brave, and he wasn't powerful. One big hand went to cover the boy's bare feet and kept them pressed together in an attempt to warm them up. "You should have worn socks, sweetling."
As the sun began to sink behind the craggy rocks that surrounded the great bastion that was Markarth, young Litcelmo plopped down beside his father onto the cold stone. This place, a little outcropping of grass atop a ridge in the stone was where the two of them would go on occasion-- it helped relax Litcelmo in preparation for bedtime, and proved to be good time for the two of them to bond. As the young Altmer climbed into his father's lap, he asked, "Ata, can I be a Justiciar one day, too?"
The question caught him off guard a bit, and his instinct was to say no--but resting gloved fists on his knees, he peered down at the child and nodded slowly. Ondolemar was a commander--he was in charge of the Justiciars, and he was in charge of dealing out punishments. If Litcelmo wished to follow his footsteps, he would see to it that no one laid a finger on him.
"Perhaps one day, if that's what you decide you'd like to do, Litcelmo..." Ondolemar murmured. Of course he would never say it out loud, but he would be so relieved if the boy were to choose a different path.
IMPORTANT
Just a note, and I'm not trying to make anyone feel bad: but Litcelmo is the brainchild of my friend Charlie and I so if you guys wanna send anons as him, I think that's pretty cool that we have a fanbase, but ask Charlie first okay? :3
~love
