The small boy hummed softly to himself as he dipped his brush into his paint then brought it back to the parchment. It was a bit of a mindless activity for the child but it kept him occupied. That was all that mattered.

As the tip of his brush touched the parchment, lines formed and took shape. A story began to unfold, a story about a youkai, his queen, and a mistress. The story had its share of ups and downs, happiness and sadness, the forming and severing of bonds, of great triumphs and heart-breaking tragedies, but, most of all, it had love. The love of a male for his mates. The love of a father for his sons . . . the love a brother had for a brother.

All because one little boy decided to pain a picture. His father would have been proud.