Shadows of the Past

"Athos, I'm hungry."

The voice of his younger self echoed in his mind.

The old librarian barely looked up from his book. "Then cook something."

Argolaith, no older than six, had pouted. "I don't know how."

Athos had turned a page. "Then learn."

Argolaith had stomped his foot. "Why don't you cook?"

Athos had finally looked up, his tired eyes narrowing. "Because I don't have time to coddle you, boy."

And that had been that.

He'd learned to cook that day—burning his fingers, nearly ruining the only good pan they had, and finally managing something barely edible.

But he had done it.

And from that day forward, he had taken care of himself.

Because Athos?

Athos had never been a father.

Kaelred's voice broke him from his thoughts.

"You've been quiet for a while, Argolaith."

Argolaith blinked, looking up. "Yeah. Just thinking."

Kaelred raised an eyebrow. "That's dangerous for you."