Oliver reeled. To say the crack of gemstone was unexpected was an understatement. He'd heard of children hatching late, but he'd actually forgotten that this citrine was ever meant to house a child. That is to say--he hadn't forgotten literally, of course. But for so many cycles he'd watched it hopefully, expectantly, then worriedly... that eventually it had just become part of his background, part of his day. He would pass it and lay a clawed hand on it, chatting briefly. Sometimes he told it about the goings-on in the cave, at first with a wistful grief (imagining that it would never hatch, and that his speech was pointless), and later out of habit. It'd become an almost friend to him, just a shining stone he kept well-hidden with moss and undergrowth, but visible enough if one knew where to look. Sometimes he'd slept close, no longer imagining it would one day bear true life.
And now?
He had scrambled to it, eyes wide. His jaw hung open in a parody of shock, worked, and then formed squeaking words. "You're alive." He blinked. What a stupid thing to say! Briefly he took in their appearance: the feathering and fur, the wings not unlike his own--the rest of it so different. They were white and gold, a wonderful opposite to his midnight black, and he beamed abruptly, joy spilling over. "You're alive! I mean--hello! I'm Oliver! I'm your dad!"
He was almost more childlike than fatherly as he drew closer, gaze shining. If a child could hatch after so long--then anything was possible. One could hope, one could wish, and anything might come true! He sat a couple paces away, careful not to crowd the full-grown 'child.' "Do you have a name?" he asked, heart racing with excitement.
They would live!