ORIGIN

Caring for children was an insidious thing. One moment, it was all giggles, laughter; the next one of them was having some form of sudden nervous breakdown. Then the younger batch was getting into trouble, and before you knew it you'd spent twenty hours straight struggling to contain them all.

He'd snuck off, truth be told. An exhausted mental murmur to Mercy in warning, and he'd limped off to lick his not-exactly-wounds. His head had dropped to his legs and he'd slept, woken only by a mischievous Mischief nipping at him now and then, scampering away, wanting to play. She was a child who'd never grow up--not that he minded, really. He was just waking up again--refreshed at last, and grateful for the rest--when he heard a quiet murmur of a 'hello,' so soft that even with his stag's ears he wasn't quite certain that he'd heard.

He pushed up, after a beat, with a quiet clatter of hooves on stone, and nearly collided with Vivilene as he moved around the Throne to peer out.

Pale eyes blinked, and he pulled back, then dipped his head in greeting.

"Vivilene," he offered, and peered at her for a moment. She spent much of her time in Eridanus, and though he certainly welcomed her visit, he wondered why she'd come. Or if she needed his mind, again, open to her--her speech had never come too freely, and he was always happy to smooth that path a little more for her, to make it easier for her to communicate.

Gentle thought came with his next words, then, unobtrusive but like an open hand, offered; his mind was there if she had trouble with her speech. "How have you been?"

He took note of it all, of course, but he said nothing, and gave little away. He didn't know if she knew that he knew (and wasn't that a mouthful) of her feelings, but it didn't matter; he respected her privacy enough not to mention it. And he couldn't pry, anyway, or broadcast back--the link faltered, failed, and for a moment he mentally shook it as if to see if that would fix it. Nothing happened; were he not a complete master of such magics, it might have even backfired. But as it was it simply... cut away.

"My magic is not cooperating," he began gently, a bit distressed that he couldn't communicate his thoughts.

But her words, even if she couldn't feel it, had softened him. A little pity (yes, pity; not just sympathy--he felt sorry for her), a bloom of warmth. A desire--unaware, as she had yet to speak, that it twinned her own--to help. It was yet another mirror of all those who seemed to come to him for only this but was that a bad thing, in what it reflected of him? He thought of himself as violent, but...

Vivilene seemed fragile. Shaky, on the verge of cracking, breaking, and he was cautious with her. A voice slipped into kid gloves, a demeanor to mirror a newborn fawn's--carefully unmoving, as if either of them might tumble. "You don't need to bring anything," he reassured at once, quiet, mild. Then she made her request--or asked her question, anyway--and he gave it a beat of consideration before speaking.

"You don't need to be doing anything--just to reassure you--but of course if you want to..." Her question rang through his mind and he tried to think over all those who seemed troubled. Temperance, James, Livius (asleep); Charity, wherever she had run off to. All of the miserable, insecure creatures who didn't know quite what to do with themselves. But was that for Vivilene-?

...Perhaps; he got halfway through debating this question with himself--the pros and cons, if it would be good for her or do more harm, and what if she failed?--before setting his own opinions aside. He'd let her decide if they were what she was after. And he resisted the urge to quietly tell her that he could damn well use someone to listen to. Not in so many words, at least.

It did, however, give him an idea.

"Actually... While I don't know anyone who needs help directly--like... chores, and things like that. I--well, it's a bit of a long story? I have a few Gembounds who come to me, speak to me, about their troubles, and I'm afraid I'm not the best at handling them. Maybe if they had a friend," and it wasn't a fake suggestion. In fact, his kind words held near-desperation, exhaustion, behind them. Pride wasn't an emotional sort; he didn't know what to do with it. He turned to logic and he tried to help them solve their problems when maybe all they wanted was a patient ear, but he wasn't that ear. He wasn't patient with it. He tried--caves, he tried. But others laying their problems on his shoulders, again and again and he, seeing only logic and then the frustration of their repeated folly?

It was... It had been taxing.

"I don't know if they'd accept help, mind you... but I can tell you a little about them, if you like? Maybe you can look for them, and see if they want someone to talk to--if that's the sort of thing you might mean? If not, just--clarify, of course," he added, careful not to lay this burden on her too heavily and too quickly. He didn't want her to feel bad if she refused, if he was misunderstanding her request.

After a moment, he went on: "I'm glad you're doing well," and it was kindly, even if she was still convincing herself of it. "We can speak however you want, any time--I'm sure it's coming along wonderfully."

Pride stepped over, gently lowering himself to knees and hocks to lie beside Vivilene. His ears flicked back, then forward, his gaze shifting out toward Orion as a whole as his mind drifted elsewhere entirely.

"The ones I know--and mind you, there are probably more out there," he interrupted himself, straightaway, firing her a solemn glance.

Then backpedaled, and interrupted further. "Oh, but--let me say your words sound perfect, Vivilene. I imagine they would regardless." He didn't comment on this further--didn't explain how everyone forgot words at times--because while it was true, it would sound (he imagined) as if it were dampening her own experience, claiming it to be unimportant. He did not know enough about her struggles to remark on them, aside from to offer some quiet, genuine praise.

Back to the task at hand, then.

"The ones I know-"

A white hare bolted into sight--at top speed--and made straight for Vivilene; she aimed a tumble, a flip, to land upside-down against her. Pride eyed her. She did not move from her attempt, which would hopefully not startle his violet companion too much.

When things had settled, he tried again.

"The ones I know have many struggles. There is James, the winged horse. He made a friend in an older lion, who pressured him into creating new children when he himself was barely out of childhood. He was not ready to raise children, and it hurt him greatly, I think. He felt locked in place, unable to wander and explore as he should have been. He was overwhelmed by new responsibility, for new life he wasn't yet prepared to care for. This coiled in him, I think, bound him into more and more stress, but he did not quite know why he was so upset--only that he was very unhappy. His realization as to the 'why' did not come until much later. I think he has new family, now--less fear, perhaps. At least, I hope so. He lives in Pegasus now, with his family. Perhaps he could do with a friend? Or perhaps he has no need of one, now."

The stag settled, mind drifting to another. "Then there is Livius. They have slept for a very long time but they may one day wake. If they do, they could benefit from a friend--because I do not know what to do with such issues. They have always believed themselves to be lesser, not enough; they were born with a poisoned gemstone that limited their health. They were always sickly, could never properly eat, and that is, I think, partly why they led the Seven--to prove to everyone that they weren't the weakling they imagined themselves, deep down, to be."

A quiet sigh, then. "James had the same issue, I think, always believing himself to be less than he is. Likewise with one of my newest children, Temperance. He is a good cub, but he does not believe in himself. He thinks he is not good enough, that there are expectations for him to meet that are not there. He frustrates himself, ends up hating himself, and I do not know what to do with that. It is deeply troubling," he went on.

Pale eyes cut to Vivilene, sadness in them. He hoped, abruptly, that he was not laying too much on her; she had come to him for help and here he was, his own troubles boiling forth. Was this what she wanted, or would he make things worse for her?

"There may be many like them, but my mind is not made for gentle kindness, for understanding. I look for solutions, not simply blind support. Perhaps you can find the ones I speak of--or others with similar troubles--and offer an ear, at least?" he suggested, uncharacteristic uncertainty in his tone.

Mischief seemed to enjoy the touch--eyes half-closed, whiskers and nose working rapidly and constantly as she lay otherwise limp in Vivilene's arms. At no point did she otherwise move, just fat and furry and lazy, content with the attention.

Pride flicked an ear at Vivilene's words, and peered to her in some surprise. "That's... surprisingly insightful, and I wouldn't have thought of it," he answered; and for a moment he simply considered the idea. What could he offer Temperance to aspire toward? What 'little things' could he nudge forward as goals; or what might the cub suggest, perhaps, for himself? "Do you have any suggestions? For such goals, I mean?" he went on, because thus far, her ideas were quite sound. Maybe she would have more that he could work with, more to go on.

He made no mention of her troubles with her speech, not out of kindness or politeness but because he genuinely did not really notice them. It was part and parcel of her learning, after all, and he needed no clarification on any of her meanings, so all in all she was rather clear.

"As for solutions themselves, perhaps they are not... a bad thing, but sometimes when one can only see the logical aspect, it becomes..." And here he paused, seeking the right word himself for a long and thoughtful moment. "It becomes... stifling, I suppose, or... frustrating, that would be it, for both parties, if that makes sense? They wish emotional support, I can offer only cold logic, in their eyes, and they become frustrated." He gave a soft deer's snort, a sort of shake of his head. "I imagine being capable of both would be more useful, and I do try. But I think a kind heart, such as yours, would make a great deal of impact if opened in the right directions."

He gave Vivilene's advice a genuine ear, but when she asked her question--'What kind of things does he like to do?'--his heart dropped at the simple realization that he didn't know. It wasn't for lack of trying; it was just that everything he offered the cub seemed to aggravate him further. A gift of fruit annoyed him for its sparkle, despite him assuring him it was temporary. Magic practice sent him into a rage. Play with his brother irritated him. Games, stories, it didn't matter what it was--Temperance seemed eternally grumpy.

"Everything I have thus far tried seems to have made him angry," Pride admitted, pensive. "But perhaps I can try with a simple bit of magic. He'll need to learn it anyway," he reasoned, "and perhaps with praise he'll hate it a little less. As you say, perhaps the praise is what matters?" Pride's heart, though, was rather miserable at the realization that one of his children was quite simply unhappy. Vivilene's advice was his only lifeline, at the moment, and he clung to that and tucked it carefully away with the full intent of trying it out later. He offered her a kind glance. "It's a better idea than any I've had," he told her, with a firm dip of his head.

"As for telling someone I simply understand how they feel--I make an attempt, and you're very right. But I don't always remember to, and I seem to have trouble balancing the two. It's... a work in progress," he added. He didn't mention that he sometimes got irritated: that someone complaining about the same problems, wallowing in self-pity without the will to even try to do anything but bemoan their fate, annoyed him. It was a sort of, well, what do you want me to do about it? thought, at those times; a I've given you possible solutions, and you only throw back reasons they will not work. I don't want to hear it anymore. Those times were few and far between. Livius had struck him that way more than once, though he'd never voiced it. But it certainly made him think of himself as perhaps less empathetic than he should have been.

He shook his head, gently, as if to clear his thoughts; and then, more intently, he peered at Vivilene. "When did you get so insightful?" he asked, good-naturedly, repeating his sentiment from earlier. "This is some of the best advice I've been given in a very long time." He paused, thinking, and then added, "It's helped, you know. Just hearing the idea and having someone listen to me, has helped." He wanted her to know it--because maybe that would help her, too. It was what she wanted; to help others. His eyes squinted in a little smile. "To take your advice in praising: I think you're doing very well at helping. You should be proud of yourself," he added, "and I think you'll do very well at it in the future, too."