Ajax used to believe he wasn’t meant to stay still.

On gentler days, when he prefers to dress the blood in poetry, he tells himself it was fate rewritten. That, after his fall, his childhood dream of becoming an adventurer had come true in the most ironic, brutal way. The stars themselves had pulled the strings, casting him as a willing puppet in a never-ending pursuit of strength.

And yet, somewhere between the manic laughter and ruin, between the stolen moments and your patience (which borders on saintly), a family bloomed. And suddenly, he was no longer just Tartaglia. Not merely Ajax, either.

He was something entirely new. Softer. Smitten. Stripped raw.

He hasn’t learned how to walk away from his vices, not truly. But there’s a shameful part of him, tender and buried deep, that knows if all that wreckage led to this, he wouldn’t undo a single step.

The clearing behind the cabin is quiet. The hush of the woods hums like a lullaby, interrupted only by the far-off clatter of his children laughing down by the stream.

Ajax stands behind his son, one hand on his hip, the other resting on his sore shoulder.

Lev grips the bow like he’s seen his father do a thousand times; too confident, casual, and a bit dramatic for a boy six years of age.

“Alright, Lyova,” Ajax says, stepping in close. “Hold it up. Chin high. Eyes forward. Back straight. Relax.”

Lev scrunches his nose. “But you don’t hold it like that.”

“Yes I do?”

“No you don’t. You slouch and twist your wrist funny.”

Ajax bristles. Lev can be mouthy when he wants to be, despite the pedestal he puts his father on. Which, unfortunately, makes his critiques annoyingly accurate.

“It’s called controlled slouching,” Ajax mutters, grabbing his own bow to demonstrate, only for his shoulder to crack audibly as he pulls. He winces.

“Papa.”

“Papa’s fine.”

“Paaapa,” Lev says again, worry tipping into a whine.

Ajax clears his throat. “Aaanyway,” he says, louder than necessary, “you draw with these fingers, not your whole hand. And don’t hold your breath unless you want to pass out.” He gently adjusts Lev’s elbow. “There. Now lose the arrow.”

Lev lets go.

The arrow veers sideways, bounces off a tree trunk, and vanishes into a bush. His face starts to crumple, but Ajax is quicker, scooping him up before the tears can start.

“Did you see that form? Better than my first shot, malysh. You’re a natural!”

Lev clings to him, giggling as Ajax lifts him into the air and spins him gently.

From the porch, you step into view, shawl wrapped loosely around your shoulders and a steaming mug cupped in both hands. Ajax spots you and lights up instantly, grinning like a boy himself. He waves with all the enthusiasm of an overexcited hound, his eyes shouting Did you see that? Did you see what our boy just did?

He kneels down again, Lev still in his arms. “Wanna try again?” he whispers, nuzzling their noses together. “We’ve got an audience now. Let’s show off a little, yeah?”

Lev beams. Dimples peek through like sunbreak on the water, and for a moment, it’s like watching the sunrise wear your son’s face.