The Grand Forest was cruel. Everything about it whispered danger — from the damp earth that swallowed footsteps, to the shadows that watched from the treeline, to the faint cries of beasts in the distance. Yet in the middle of that danger, a strange pair carved out a fragile existence: a newborn child with eyes far too sharp, and the silent, pale undead who carried him.
It began with food.
Alaric was, unfortunately, still a baby. His stomach didn't care about sarcasm or his adult soul. It cared about one thing: milk.
The first few days, Ashen had crushed berries, chewed roots, pressed fruit juice carefully to the infant's lips. It kept Alaric alive, but it wasn't enough. His body cried out for something more, something he couldn't explain in words.
On the third morning, Alaric woke with a tiny wail. His golden eyes squeezed shut, his small fists curled tight. His throat burned with hunger, louder than his pride.
Ashen reacted instantly. He lifted the child, scanning his face, then turned toward the forest. His gaze swept the undergrowth, the mossy trunks, the distant vines. He stepped forward, sword ready in one hand, the baby cradled in the other.
Finally realizing I need more than fruit juice, huh? Took you long enough, zombie-dad.
They wandered through the forest, Ashen's steps silent as death. The air was heavy with mist, every shadow hinting at predators.
Then — a sound.
Low, rhythmic, heavy. The muffled snorts of an animal grazing.
Ashen stopped, his silver-gray eyes narrowing. He shifted the child in his arms and moved quietly through the underbrush.
Ahead, in a small clearing, a creature grazed beneath the trees. It was deer-like, but larger, with horns that glowed faintly and fur that shimmered like starlight. A beast of the Grand Forest, regal and strange.
And beside it — a smaller one. A doe.
Alaric blinked his tired eyes, then widened them faintly.
…Wait. Don't tell me you're actually gonna—
Ashen stepped forward.
The doe raised its head, ears twitching. It snorted sharply, eyes glowing faintly as it caught his scent. Its muscles tensed.
Ashen's hand moved fast as lightning. His blade flashed.
The buck in the clearing bolted instantly, but the doe never made it. Ashen's strike cut clean, precise. Blood sprayed against the moss, steaming in the cool air. The body collapsed silently.
Alaric gurgled faintly, his face twisted between horror and relief.
Well. There's my breakfast, I guess. Zombie-dad's gone full caveman.
Ashen didn't waste time. He carried the child to the corpse, set him carefully on a patch of moss, then crouched over the doe. With silent efficiency, he pressed his hands to its belly, searching.
Milk.
The undead worked with calm precision, draining what he could into a hollowed fruit shell. Then, as if testing the temperature, he held the shell for a moment in his cold hands before pressing it carefully to the child's lips.
Alaric blinked, then latched weakly. Warm, rich, soothing. His small body relaxed instantly as he drank.
His golden eyes softened.
…Okay. I take back some of the zombie-dad jokes. You're a five-star nanny. Gourmet milk delivery service in the middle of monster territory? That's dedication.
Ashen watched him silently, making sure he swallowed, making sure he didn't choke. His gaze never wavered.
When Alaric finished, milk dribbling from the corner of his mouth, Ashen wiped his chin carefully with his sleeve. Then he gathered the infant back into his arms, lifting him with quiet precision.
Alaric sighed, his tiny body sinking against the undead's chest.
Fine. You win. I'll live.
The days fell into rhythm.
Ashen hunted silently, keeping the child fed and safe. He found hollows in roots, caves behind waterfalls, places hidden from predators. He carried Alaric always, never once setting him down where danger could reach.
Alaric, meanwhile, perfected the art of being lazy.
When Ashen set him near moss or fungi, the baby sprawled like a miniature king on his throne, his golden eyes watching silently as his undead caretaker did all the work.
Yep. This is the life. Survival of the laziest. Who needs to crawl when you've got a zombie knight carrying you around?
Every so often, though, guilt pricked him. His adult soul hated helplessness, hated relying so completely on someone else. But his body betrayed him. He was still small, still weak. Still just a child.
Ashen never judged him. Never complained. He simply carried on.
And though he never spoke, Alaric sometimes felt as though the silence meant more than words.
Nights were the hardest.
The forest came alive with predators once the sun fell. Roars echoed, eyes gleamed from the underbrush, and the air filled with the coppery scent of blood as beasts hunted each other.
Ashen never slept. He stood sentinel at the mouth of whatever shelter he found, sword ready, eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Alaric lay bundled behind him, tiny fists clutching his swaddle. Fear pricked at him every night, the memory of his mother's death and the monster's roar still fresh.
But every time, he opened his golden eyes and saw Ashen's unmoving back. The pale figure that never faltered, never left him unguarded.
And somehow, that was enough to let him sleep.
Alright, he thought one night, drifting into dreams. If you're going to protect me, then… I'll try not to make it too hard for you.
The forest was unpredictable, yet Ashen carved order out of it. Every morning he set out, silent as shadow, hunting or foraging for what the infant needed. Every evening he secured shelter, sword always in reach.
And every time, Alaric was carried like precious cargo, swaddled against his chest.
The newborn, of course, had opinions about all this.
Seriously? This is my life now? Be carried around, burped, and fed like I'm some VIP potato? At least get me a throne or something. A moss throne. Yeah.
His sarcasm would have been funnier if he hadn't drooled halfway through the thought.
Ashen noticed, naturally. The undead always noticed. He wiped the child's chin with his sleeve before adjusting his hold.
Alaric huffed softly, cheeks puffing.
You're too efficient. You're making me look bad.
That day, Ashen found milk again, draining it into a carved fruit shell. He fed the baby with the same precision as before, ensuring he swallowed, ensuring he didn't choke.
Alaric squirmed mid-drink, tiny brows furrowing.
Ugh. Can't I get, like, cookies or something? Just milk every day? What am I, a cat?
Ashen tilted his head slightly at the infant's gurgle but said nothing, of course.
When the child finished, full and drowsy, Ashen wiped his chin again and settled him into the crook of his arm.
Alaric sighed, eyelids heavy.
Fine. I'll allow it. But tomorrow, you'd better come back with cake.
As days passed, Ashen began collecting more than food.
He gathered soft moss to line their makeshift beds. He found bark and broad leaves to shelter the child from dripping rain. He even shaped sticks into crude barriers near their shelters, deterring smaller beasts from creeping too close.
Each action was done silently, efficiently, without fanfare.
Alaric, observing from his bundled perch, found himself grumbling more often than not.
This is unfair. He's too competent. If it were me, I'd have already died of laziness by day two. Zombie-dad's out here building five-star accommodations while I can't even roll over without toppling like a log.
The thought made him snort, though it came out as a bubbly hiccup.
Ashen's gaze flicked toward him.
Their eyes met.
For the briefest moment, Alaric swore he saw something almost human in those silver-gray eyes. Not warmth, exactly — but acknowledgment.
He blinked, startled, then laughed. A small sound, high-pitched and awkward, but laughter all the same.
Ashen tilted his head faintly, studying him. His expression never changed. But he didn't look away either.
Alaric's chest tightened oddly.
…Don't look at me like that. I'll start thinking you actually care.
Night fell again.
They had settled beneath the roots of a giant tree, the space warm with gathered moss. Rain tapped faintly above, and the forest sang with distant cries.
Ashen sat at the entrance, sword across his lap. His pale figure glowed faintly in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy.
Alaric lay bundled behind him, staring up at the twisted roots. His golden eyes reflected the faint glow.
This rhythm… it's fragile, but it works. Food, shelter, safety. I never had this before. Not in my last life. I was alone then. Invisible. Nobody cared if I lived or died.
His tiny fists curled against his swaddle.
But now… even if it's because of magic, even if he's undead… he's here. He's staying. That counts for something.
His eyelids drooped.
Before sleep claimed him, he whispered in his mind one last thought.
Alright. If you're going to protect me… I'll try to survive. I'll try not to make it too hard for you. Promise.
The child drifted into soft dreams, chest rising and falling in calm rhythm.
Ashen sat unmoving at the entrance, his silver eyes scanning the shadows. He didn't speak, didn't shift.
But when the infant let out a quiet sigh in his sleep, Ashen's head tilted just slightly — a subtle gesture, almost imperceptible, as if acknowledging the sound.
And the forest, for one fragile night, kept its distance.