Day 12: Garden
(This one meandered, as Namina tends to. Garden made me think of him, and his beebs. So now you get to see how they met)
Namina never saw himself becoming a parent. It wasn’t avoided, he claimed, just… put off. Left to gather dust, under mercenary contracts and long voyages across the stars. He still came home from time to time, regaled his friends with tales of the wonders he’d seen and beasts he’d hunted, even purred back when a fellow Floran sang to him. They would carve his mark into the tribe’s history-bone together, chat and play, and then off he’d go again, back to his endless wander. Next time he came home, his friend would chat with him again, tease a bit, share their own tales- and then go play with new seedlings or groom their favored partners as someone else took a turn.Â
And Namina was fine with that. The seedlings were cute, but he had no real desire to look after them all the time. The partners were cute, but he did alright by himself. Unanchored and unattached, that’s how he liked it. Greenfinger scoffed and told him to come back sooner next time, before he lost his roots and drifted away. Namina shrugged and took it in stride. Who needed roots, in the end, long as he got his jobs done?Â
And it was a job like any other, at first. Filthy bandits, their cells full of stolen people his boss had been hired to bring home. They fled like cowards, and Namina bared his fangs. Nice when the prey gave good chase. Poor chase, he decided after, but fun all the same.Â
And it brought warmth through his veins as he saw the families reunited, an Avian mother smoothing her chick’s feathers, two Hylotl helping their little polliwogs walk for the first time, legs free of chains. The boss caught Namina’s eye and nodded, pride showing through her stern face. Job well done. All accounted for.Â
All but two. Or rather, two extra. A little Floran, an even smaller Floran beside them. Been through the wringer, they had, anyone could tell just by looking. Built like reeds and small, so small, their teeth worn sharp from gnawing at nothing. They snapped and snarled at anyone who got too close, scared, hungry. Wild. Even the boss couldn’t get close, gave Namina a look. Not sure what she thought he’d do. Small ones weren’t his problem.Â
Except these two were. They caught his scent and went very still. Didn’t bite even when he got right up to the bars of their tiny steel cage. Just reached through, reached toward him. And Namina caught himself remembering hands that lifted him so long ago, caught himself reaching back.Â
“Papa iss here.” The old purr had another note this time. Soft, soothing. He felt the boss’s stare change tone, and ignored her. The little hands were what mattered now, the calm and quiet his voice could bring. “Papa is here, little sssprouts.”
“Papa?” The elder child’s voice was cracked and weak. “What iss Papa?”Â
Namina’s claws clicked the lock open on their cage. The watchers stepped back, waiting for the feral children to pounce. He ignored them too. “Papa iss big Floran. Keeps sprouts ssafe.”
They tottered out, holding the baby seedling close. “Big Floran. Big-big.”
His purr grew with stifled laughter. “Yess. Come.”Â
He left again, in time, but only after their leaves were full and soft, their broken claws regrown enough to climb his back and tickle at his shoulders while he laughed and tried (not too hard) to shake them off again. And he caught the knowing look in the Greenfinger’s one good eye as he felt his own face light up at the sight of them, every time he came back home. He ignored it. It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know. And he was too busy letting their little laughs fill his heart before the next big trip, anyway. Not too big. Just big enough to have more stories, hear more laughs and see their smiles again.
