Later that afternoon, Smalls looked through the rest of Evan’s letters. Most were only notes and random thoughts about everyday things and minor occurrences. Evan raved on for a whole page about how happy he was spring was coming. There were another two paragraphs dedicated to insulting names he had given Ronan’s son that Smalls would never repeat in polite society. Nothing specifically important or life-altering.
But even if it never would matter to anyone else, it mattered to Smalls. And it mattered to Evan. Really, they did tell each other everything. They always had. They’d only ever had each other when things were hard, and tragedy had brought them together instead of pushing them apart.
But writing out everything that had happened in the last few days proved difficult. Smalls wound up with nearly twenty pages of material by the time he was done, and his hand was shaking so badly that he could barely write his name.
He didn’t want to think about it.
He didn’t want to remember, he just wanted to forget. And forget and forget and forget. Because he couldn’t handle the pain. Not of this. He couldn’t. He cringed at the memory, but he could still feel it. Smalls had been young, yes, but that didn’t mean that the day hadn’t been as imprinted in his mind as the brand had been on his foot.
Daggler.
No. I won’t do this. I won’t. It can’t control me. But it was too late. Smalls squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if that might stop the pain.
“He doesn’t talk, Captain.”
“He will if we make him.”
“How?”
“You know how. The kid’s quiet, but he sees everything.” Daggler leered at Smalls. “The spares do tend to get overlooked, don’t they?”
Smalls blinked up at him.
“Surprisingly good poker face for a seven-year-old.” Daggler snorted. “Take ‘im in. He’ll break. These kids always do.”
Smalls swallowed, head throbbing and old scars stinging. Daggler had wanted to know where Whit was. Even though Smalls had seen his older brother, and that he was, even, the last person Whit spoke to before running.
Whit had been caught, of course.
Because Smalls broke.
Because he was unable to bear the tortures Daggler impressed on him. Unable to bear the pain, unable to bear the awful nightmares that still tormented him years later. Whit had been caught, and he’d been punished far worse than Smalls had been. He had vanished three years after-shortly before the massacre.
Smalls stared at his letter, cringing as the memory replayed again and again. He sighed, and put his pen down. No more writing. No more.
Smalls tried to sleep. But he felt like he was suffocating. It was too dark, too closed in. He lay there for a few more minutes, then bolted up, deciding that sleep was severely overrated. He dressed quietly, sheathed his sword, and secured it around his waist, then pulled his cloak on. Remembered he wasn’t supposed to be walking on his feet just yet, grumbled unhappily a moment, then took the crutches leaning against the wall from where they’d been left earlier that afternoon.
The halls were mostly empty, except for a few tired-looking soldiers who barely gave him a second glance. He was just about to step out into Whitson’s garden, greatly distracted, when he collided with someone. Righting himself, he mumbled an apology and was going to move forward when a voice stopped him.
“Smalls? What are you doing up at this time?” Heather asked, startled.
Smalls looked up, surprised. A moment passed, and then he replied, “I could ask you the same thing.” Concern was etched in every line of Heather’s face.
She hesitated, looked away and responded, “I’ve been dreaming. But you haven’t answered my question.” Smalls glanced all around for some sort of way to escape. He didn’t want to explain anything, much less to Heather, he just wanted peace and quiet. Finally, he settled on;
“I wasn’t able to sleep.”
Heather didn’t look like she quite believed him but didn’t question him further. “How are your feet?” She asked instead.
“A bit painful.” He admitted, a wave of relief washing over him. Physical pain was okay. He could do that. He could explain that. “But nothing I can’t handle.” Heather studied him for a minute. It felt like she was seeing straight through to his soul, straight through his feeble lies and flimsy barricades and right to the truth. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Something’s bothering you.” She said, voice dropped into a whisper. “You’re……tired.”
“That might be the lack of sleep.” He responded, trying to keep his voice light. Heather raised her eyebrows. He had epically failed, evidently.
“That’s not what I meant.” Heather insisted. “Smalls,” Her voice softened, “What is bothering you?”
Smalls sighed, giving in and leaning back against the wall. “Can we…….can we go in?”
Heather glanced towards the garden, then nodded. “Yes.”
“It’s beautiful at night.” Heather commented, gazing around, an odd, wonder-struck look in her eyes.
Smalls nodded in agreement. The moonlight was halved due to the sickle-moon, leaving an ethereal glow to everything behind.
Heather looked back at him, eyes flicking to the sword he wore. “Smalls,” She smiled, and there was a touch of sadness in her tone and face, “Nothing’s wrong. We’re safe. You can relax.”
It was then Smalls realized how tense he was; as if he were about to rush into battle. “I wish I could.” He replied, looking down. “Unfortunately, I’ve had times in the past where, when I have, something has gone wrong, and I haven’t been prepared.”
Heather tilted her head. “What do you think will go wrong here?”
Smalls paused. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Many things can. You would be surprised how determined the enemy can be.”
Heather sighed, and looked away. “Smalls, when Picket and I lived in Nick Hollow, we were always told that the wolf raids could never happen there. We were told to forget about it, to pretend it was nothing, especially if one happened even just ten miles south. It was almost as if we were taught that imagining would make them go away. But it didn’t. On the other hand; some of our neighbors were so paranoid they rarely left their acreage. I…….know Picket and I grew up sheltered, but comparatively, we did not have it as bad as some of the other children we knew, who were never allowed more than a couple miles from home.”
Smalls nodded, wondering where she was going with this.
“So, I think it can go both ways.” She added quietly. “That, like my neighbors, one can become so afraid and paranoid they won’t let themselves relax, or even see what good there is in the world.”
Smalls inhaled. “Anyone specific we are talking about?” He asked.
Heather studied him and smiled sadly. “I think you know. Smalls, I don’t know what has happened in your life that has made you fear what others might do, and it might be justified, it might not. I don’t know. What I do know is that fear is an awful way to live.”
Smalls let out the breath he’d been holding, and leaned heavily on his crutches. “You’re right.” He agreed. “Paranoia-it’s……horrible. But it’s kept me alive, Heather, when nothing else did.” Suddenly he was frustrated. “It…….it lives in my memories, the bad ones, the ones that I can’t forget whether I want them or not. The ones that keep me up at night and remind me how pitifully weak we really are. Paranoia is awful, Heather, you’re right, but sometimes we take the awful instead of the evil simply to survive.”
Heather seemed oddly at peace with this. “You deserve better.” She said, “And you deserve to know that.”
Smalls looked up at the moon. “Many deserve things, Heather. But that doesn’t mean that they get them, especially now.”
“I don’t know what’s happening ‘now’.” Heather replied, an empty echo of frustration in her voice.
“I would tell you,” Smalls replied, “If Wilfred wouldn’t murder me for doing so.”
Heather laughed, then blushed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s true.” Smalls smiled. “Wilfred is a strong supporter of the Law of Initiates, and I’m supposed to follow the law regardless.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Technically yes, but I think that laws are generally written for those in the seat of power, to make sure they never have too much of it. Otherwise, society would quickly collapse into anarchy.”
“A terrifying thought.” Heather agreed.
“No worse than tyranny or invasion.” Smalls replied. “Some parts of Natalia face anarchy, others face tyranny; invasion, specifically.”
“Clearly you know more about that than I do.”
“That isn’t exactly your fault.”
Heather’s face fell. “Why didn’t they tell me, Smalls?” She asked, and the startling sadness in her voice took Smalls aback. “Why did my parents lie to me?”
Smalls struggled to reply, every answer that he turned up only seemed to open more questions. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t know.”
“I wish I did.” Heather replied.
It turned out that the late-night conversation was exactly what was needed to put Smalls back on his normal sleep schedule-that is, the four to five hours he usually got. The conversation bothered him. Not in the sense that he was concerned about Heather, per say, but in the fact that he was worried about the world in general.
When he woke, however, much of the fear had dissipated, retreating with the return of the sun. Yesterday’s events seemed far off, save for the crutches and pain Smalls still felt whenever he stood.
Wilfred met him at breakfast.
“I want to show you something.” He said.
Smalls looked reluctantly up from his plate of steaming applesauce. “What?”
“You’ll see.”
Smalls wondered what Wilfred had neglected to tell him this time.
After a climb up far too many stairs for Smalls’ taste, they came up into Light Hall. Smalls had heard of it, and it was beautiful, that was certain. Smalls was glad that there were artists working so hard to preserve their history, but he wasn’t sure he understood why Wilfred had wanted to show him it. Smalls could recite major Natalian history backwards and forwards.
“Wilfred,” He asked, “Why are we here?” He could see a few artisans working a while away down from them, out of earshot, but they took no notice and continued in their work as if no one was there. Wilfred sat heavily on a workbench.
“I wanted to tell you something.”
Smalls sat down beside him. “What’s going on?” Everything has been off lately, strange and not right. Not that it was before, but it wasn’t this insanity.
Wilfred sighed and rubbed his face. “You know how many siblings you have, yes?”
Smalls snorted. Obviously, he knew how many siblings he had-most hated him with a burning passion. “Of course.” He replied.
“How much do you remember of before the fall?” Wilfred had never asked that before.
Smalls looked away. “Only blurry images, Wilfred. I was too young. You know that.”
“Yes,” Wilfred insisted, “But you must remember something.”
Smalls bit his lip. “Just……things. Odd things. Things like warmth and life, laughter. Wildflowers. Running water, apples. I don’t know.”
“Anything about your family?” Wilfred pressed.
“Wilfred-”
“This is important.”
Smalls sighed. “Again, I don’t know. It was……so long ago.” And afterwards I just wanted to forget. Remembering only hurt more. “Who are we even talking about?”
“Your sisters, specifically.”
“They were gone by the time I was nine, Wilfred.”
“I’m not talking about Marianne and Briony. I’m talking about the one you only knew before the invasion.”
Smalls was baffled. He didn’t remember any other sister. “Who?”
“Emma.”