Chapter Text
January 1995
At seven thirty, Talia decided against splitting up and going to their respective homes. Instead, she followed Ginnadiy back to his house to work through his library. She was convinced the incursion of hunters had to have a nonviolent resolution. Magic was their only remaining option, every other avenue exhausted. Knowing she wouldn't let it go, he prepared himself for another long night of searching through his books on law and ceremony.
At eight pm, Ginnadiy stared at the dead body of a hunter, eyes fastened on the broken syringe clenched tightly in a fist. Talia's features smoothed back into her human face, but her eyes remained red as if unwilling to trust that the threat had passed.
At two in the morning, they were near Tahoe making the trek to a wendigo's nest. (Talia was always antsy in the creatures presences, he'd seen far worse and didn't mind them so much.)
February 1995
His daughter invited him to her home, her voice lilting with cheer and laughter. When he got there, his son in law (a man he grudgingly respected even if he was former military and a policeman, a man he never would have trusted in Russia) was smiling and holding his daughter close. The song their joy created was sweet to his heart, comforted the niggling worry her phone call had provoked.
Klavdiya held his hands and told him he would be a grandfather, that she was already well into her first trimester, according to the doctors.
He put his hand to her belly, ignoring how she laughed and told him not to spoil any surprises; she and her husband both too used to his little idiosyncrasies to be shocked. He didn't look for a heartbeat or the first flutterings of movement, it was too soon for that. Instead he listened carefully. The song of a child growing was unmistakable, that of the znaiushchie liudi even more so.
The notes of songs, earth old and stirring made his heart skip a beat; rime and conflagration were sparking and colliding already, the first whispers of the boy's -it would be a boy, his daughter was having a son, she was having a child, he thought in wonder- potential.
In a rare show of emotion, he cried.
August 1995
The boy was born early, impatient to see the world. Too eager, too curious. Already he was a handful, tiny limbs flailing, reaching for his mother and father, reaching for him. High pitched wails filled the room, loud and strong. The doctor announced him perfect, despite being a little premature.
Klavidiya gave the baby his name, something he had not anticipated, and something already long past discussion if John's easy, silent nod was anything to go by. Then again, he was staring down at his son, eyes filled with awe. It was that look, that familiar awe that granted Ginnadiy the patience to wait to hold his grandson.
When John finally, almost reluctantly held the boy out in offering, he took him gently with a grateful smile.
“Gena,” He hummed, staring down at his grandson, surprised to see the baby staring back up at him, gaze intent. Even in the dimmed lights, his eyes were pale, not the damp earth brown of his mothers, or the pale blue of his fathers. Not Alkaev eyes either. They were almost gold, unlike any eyes he'd seen in John's family photos, or known in his own family tree. If he were given to superstition -something that he lacked, knowing as he did- he'd say Triglav had touched the boy.