In the day following the oldest Ro'Meave son's prognosis, his father had numbed himself to any sort of emotion he could have possibly felt. Having not gotten any sleep that night, Garte was operating on auto-pilot.

Both him and his wife were still unable to process those wretched words the doctors spit at them. It was as though they were spouting insults at the two parents, putting the prospect of palliative care on the table in regards to a child who wasn't even school aged yet. The scene kept replaying over and over in their heads. The only difference between the two of them was how they dealt with the blunt force trauma of the word terminal.

Zianna, distraught and disturbed, put in much of her efforts to stop reliving the moment from start to finish, over and over again. Even as she read to Zane, or put Vylad down for a nap, a mere glance at Garroth would cause everything from the day prior to come back to her. Every smell, every word, every face, every tick of that forsaken clock that her husband so hated. In order to hide her own emotions from her oblivious, ailing son, she kept her distance for a certain number of days and allowed Garte to adopt the role of Garroth's caretaker.

Garte couldn't make himself go into work that day. Not only was the effort just too great for him at the time, he also saw the state his wife was in. So, in his dulled and emotionless state, he worked from home and stepped into the role of both breadwinner and father. His easily distracted mind was overwhelmed with having to switch between the amount of business work stacked against him and his responsibility to care for three children under the age of five, one of which was slowly declining into permanent slumber.

The day was reaching mid afternoon. The house that was usually noisy with three toddlers assumed an unsettling state of silence. The eerie silence was interrupted for Garte when he heard a noise come from the room adjacent to his office. He furrowed his eyebrows and got up out of his chair.

As he walked into the bedroom which he heard the noise from, he could hear his two oldest boys arguing. He opened the door, watching his two sons freeze when they saw him. Without even looking to see what the situation was, Garte was already feeling frustration towards Zane.

"Quit bothering your brother, Zane. Come on," Garte said, stepping aside and motioning for Zane to follow him out the door.

"He took my stuff and hid it!" The three year old argued.

"I don't care who did what," Garte said, once again motioning towards the hallway. "Now, Zane."

Garte, already feeling flustered with the child, glanced over at Garroth. He saw that Garroth was sitting on the side of his bed, and he could see that he had Zane's toys next to him. As much as he wanted to discipline his oldest, something in him just wouldn't allow for that. He was even happy about the situation, realizing that this meant that Garroth's energy wasn't completely drained yet, and that the pain medication he was prescribed was working.

That silver lining left Garte's mind as he heard Vylad's crying from the next room over. The stressed out father sighed, trying to not let his children tip him over the edge.

"You two woke up your brother," Garte mumbled, pressing his eyes and then looking back up at his boys. "Alright, Zane, you stay out of Garroth's room. I'm going to go get Vylad."

Zane, glaring at his father as angrily as he could, walked out of his older brother's room. Garte didn't care where the three year old went, so long as he wasn't bothering his sickly child. Garroth looked down, as though he felt guilty for letting Zane take the blame for what he had done.

"I'll be right next door if you need anything," Garte said gently to Garroth, before exiting the room to tend to his youngest.

Garte walked into Vylad's room, pressing the switch which illuminated the room. He saw the auburn haired little boy, his face flushed and covered with tears. He didn't see the toddler in his bed, however, but on the floor with a bloodied and swollen lower lip.

In a moment of shock, adrenaline, and frustration, the blond man picked up the son that wasn't his and rushed him to the bathroom. He sat the toddler on the counter and began trying to calm Vylad down.

Dampening a wash cloth with cold water, holding Vylad up by his back, Garte began examining the wound on Vylad's lip. Luckily, he had merely bit his lip when falling, and Garte could see that he didn't need stitches. He took a sigh of relief; he did not have the energy to go to the hospital again that week.

"Well, that must've hurt, huh?" Garte asked, to which Vylad nodded in response. "Did you nap at all?"

Vylad shook his head, which was an unusually honest response for a two year old. He had calmed down by this point, letting his dad hold the cold washcloth to his lip. His tears were dried, and everything was suddenly alright in his little world.

Garte, however, felt like another weight was being strapped to him. He had a child riddled with cancer who needed not only his attention, but affection as well. His workload could not be ignored, regardless of the situation with his boys. His wife was trying to keep a strong face, but simply couldn't, and hadn't helped him hardly at all that day. On top of that, he had an injured two year old who hadn't taken his nap for that day. The lack of sleep was absolute for a second night.

The sound of footsteps trailed up the stairs. Garte snapped his head and saw Garroth, standing in the doorway of the bathroom and looking as tired as ever. He placed the blooded washcloth on the counter and turned to Garroth.

"Can I have some of the medicine you gave me this morning?" Garroth inquired, wincing every time he took a breath.

The four year old was referring to the painkillers he had taken. Garte and Zianna were specifically instructed to only give him some when he asked, for as long as he was able to speak up for it. Garte turned to Vylad, seeing the boy's arms reach out for him, and picked him up.

"Well, Vylad just hurt his lip and we need to make sure he's okay," Garte explained. "Have you asked mommy?"

"Momma can't," Garroth said in a matter of fact way.

"Why not?"

"I tried to ask but then when I walked by she sounded sad."

Garte, clearly puzzled by this explanation, looked up behind is son, and then back down to him. He adjusted Vylad in his grip, who was holding onto him as though his little hands could keep him from leaving.

"I'm sure you can ask her, Buddy," he insisted, feeling Vylad's grip on his shirt.

"No!" Garroth exclaimed, clearly taking half his energy. "Momma's too sad to. You have to."

Garte sighed. He knew Zianna didn't intend for Garroth to hear any crying, or anything about his illness, and yet somehow he did. Even though he was grateful his son had a strong face he could turn to, he knew he was equally as sad as Zianna was. Too sad to do much, but still having to do it anyway, because it wasn't going to get done if he didn't.

"Okay, I'll get you that medicine. Will you wait in bed for me?" Garte asked of his oldest.

Garroth nodded and began to walk back into his bedroom. Every step was an audible struggle, and he rubbed his arms as though it would somehow make the pain go away. Garte saw this, as Garroth wasn't hiding it considerably well, and picked him up, too. Now in one arm was his oldest and in his other, his youngest.

His arms ached as he carried Garroth into his room and rested the boy on his bed. Garroth struggled to get into a position he was most comfortable laying in. Garte left the room for a quick moment, with Vylad in his arms, and met his wife at the bottom of the steps. In his naturally forgetful mind, he kept repeating to himself the instruction to give Garroth his medication, or to ask Zianna to do so.

"You have someone who wants to see you, G," Zianna said quietly, glancing at Vylad.

"Yeah? Who is it?" Garte asked as he reached the bottom of the steps. He assumed it was a business inquiry from another company owner he knew.

"One of the four you had over last week," Zianna said, gently taking Vylad from Garte. "Michael, I think?"

Garte's heart sunk down deep into his chest. When Derek was around, Garte felt more at peace in the presence of the intimidating wizard. This time, Derek wasn't there, and his whole family was at a vulnerable point.

Being the professional he was, Garte shook off anything that happened during the days prior and managed to put a fake half smile on his face. He shoved his hands into his pockets and opened his front door.

There Michael stood, standing as his ever powerful self. He put on a smirk, a little too friendly considering the circumstances. Garte gave an uncomfortable smile, quietly shutting the door behind him as he stood on the porch, across from the seemingly divine man.

"Good to see you, Garte," Michael said, offering his hand for Garte to shake. "I'm very sorry to hear about your son."

Garte hesitated, but shook Michael's hand, "Thank you."

The two paused, not saying anything. Both of them knew Michael wasn't there just to exchange sympathy.

"I'm sure you can imagine I'm not just here to say that," Michael chuckled to ease the awkward situation.

"Y-Yeah, I didn't figure," Garte stuttered in response.

"Well," Michael began. "We have good news regarding the forever potions. We've had our first few successful mice experiments."

"That's... that's great," Garte lifted his eyebrows, happy to hear at least some decent news.

"Isn't it? We think we're ready to start the experimentation on the children," Michael smiled.

Garte paused for a moment. He knew every word Derek had spoken about how cautious they should be around Michael, and witchcraft as a whole. He pressed his lips in a line, but couldn't say anything before Michael spoke up himself.

"I know you're hesitant," the grey haired man said, and got suddenly serious. "Garte, this could not just save the world, it could save your boy. It would give your son a fighting chance at life."

"I know, I know," Garte said, not letting Michael get any further with the false hope. "It's just... Derek has been so hesitant, and I trust him on these things."

"Well, Derek can't know everything," Michael reminded the grieving father.

"He certainly knows more than I do."

"About your children? About what to do in regards of your dying son?"

Garte let out a labored breath and closed his eyes. He didn't like hearing anything to do with the word death when thinking of Garroth. He could say that the child was sick, but there was no way anyone could get him to say his son was dying.

Michael smirked to himself. He now knew how to get under Garte's skin.

"Take some time to think about it, hm?" Michael offered his hand for Garte to shake once again.

The men shook hands in a clumsy grip. Their hands were immediately then placed into their pockets once again. Michael began stepping down the stairs, but before he got to the bottom he turned around, looked Garte straight in the eye, and spoke.

"Remember, Garte, he is your son."

Before Garte even got a chance to respond, or even got to say goodbye, Michael strode down the sidewalk to his car. He didn't once look back at the Ro'Meave house, knowing that in doing so, it would give Garte more to overthink.

In his already distressed state, Garte realized he hadn't yet given Garroth his pain medication. He rushed inside, panicking and kicking himself for forgetting the one thing he needed to remember. He was stopped by Zianna, who put a hand on his chest. She was able to feel his heartbeat hammer, just as she had felt a million times before.

"Garroth, he needs his pain killers, I-" Garte rushed before being cut off.

"I got them to him, G," Zianna replied, placing her other hand gently on his shoulder and attempting to calm him. "He's fine, he just took it."

"I forgot. I fucking forgot, again," Garte said through angry breaths. Tears formed in his eyes as he bit his lip.

"Hey, it's alright," the distraught mother spoke gently. "It happens."

Garte, stressed beyond belief, was too angry with himself to respond to his wife. He shook his head and lowered his gaze to the floor, his knees practically shaking with anger.

The eerie silence crept into the house once again as soon as everything calmed down. Garte was only able to hear his own breath, heartbeat, and the sound of his inner voice screaming at him. He began to think deeply about what Michael told him.

Garroth was his son.

And yet, he felt it was his fault that the preschooler was on death's doorstep.

Even still, the chance to save Garroth was placed right in his hands.

Garte knew how easily he could be manipulated and taken advantage of. It was something he grew up with.

He knew someone was trying to warp his perception and manipulate him.

He just couldn't figure out who.