By the time Theodore was three months old, the family had collectively decided that Arion had exhausted every medically defensible excuse for keeping his son behind the doors of the Crown Prince's Palace.
It was November now, the gardens beyond the residence already stripped of most of their leaves and the distant mountains beginning to carry the first thin traces of snow, while inside the palace the heating had been raised enough that Dean could comfortably walk around in a light shirt without worrying about Theodore becoming cold.
Theo had changed considerably since August.
The frighteningly tiny premature infant who had once fitted almost entirely between Arion's hands had gained weight steadily, his cheeks had filled out, his dark hair had grown thicker, and his periods of wakefulness had become long enough that he now spent substantial portions of the day staring solemnly at whatever happened to be closest to his face.
His eyes still changed.
Sometimes gold.
