Picket was in a bad mood, Smalls could tell, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving the younger buck to wander around, upset and angry, to get into more trouble. Frankly, he didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone even when he was in a good mood. Being a Longtreader, even if you didn’t know it, was dangerous on the best of days.

            “I’m sorry Picket.” Apologies usually lightened the mood. “I forgot how much it irritates you for me to call you ‘lad’. I’ll try to remember next time.” He paused for a beat, and then added, “In my defense, It’s what I call many of my younger friends.” .......Not that I have many to begin with.

  Picket didn’t reply. He just continued down. Smalls could tell he was embarrassed, and didn’t really blame him. The angry glares and mumblings didn’t help much either.  

            “Those guards back there at the door, they’re trained to protect the community.” He tried to make his voice calm, at the very least. “They have rules here that might seem a little strange.” He paused a minute, but Picket didn’t said nothing, so he proceeded. “You have to remember that most of the people here escaped the Afterterrors that followed the fall of the king. They are on edge, so when someone tries to break a door down, they have to act.”

            “But I wasn’t trying to…..” Picket gave up half-way through his sentence.

            “Just hang in there la-um, pal.” Now that, that sounded stupid. And everyone wondered why he was on the quieter side……. “It’s not the end of the world.” That was the wrong thing to say, he thought, but all Picket muttered was;

            “Too bad.”

            They reached the bottom of the staircase, and Picket pushed forward relentlessly, clearly wanting Smalls to go away. Smalls didn’t.

            They turned into another corridor, assuming an awkward silence Smalls was all too happy to be taking part in. Picket stopped at a door.

            “This it?” Smalls asked. Picket nodded. “Is Heather around?” Again, Smalls realized, once againg, that that was the wrong thing to say. The brief look Picket shot him was not cordial, he shook his head, opened the door and went inside.

Smalls made a split-second decision, and stopped Picket from closing the door by sticking his foot in. He realized almost immediately that this had been a bad idea. “Ouch!” He cried, cringing. “Dumb instincts.” He added, rubbing his foot. Smalls straightened again, foot still throbbing, and said, “Listen, Picket.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself. “I’m going to say this to you, because you hate me anyway and so it doesn’t matter if you get even more angry at me.” His sudden bluntness irritated Picket, because he tried to close the door again. Smalls wouldn’t allow it. He shoved the door back open and entered the room. He first noticed the paintings. And-oh, they were beautiful. Glorious in a sense, the kind of thing Smalls felt buried in the depths of his memories-like a word just on the tip of your tongue, but too far away to know.

            Smalls was tired. Tired of everything. Tired of trying, tired of fighting, tired of….Picket. He was sick of the questions he couldn’t answer and the weight of everything on him. He was sick of how sick the world was, sick of lying.

He kept his voice calm, but his words were not as gentle as they had been before.“Listen, lad. And you are acting like a very little lad.” He could sense Picket bristling but didn’t care. “You’re not the only one bad things have happened to.” His foot, still throbbing, ached all the more at the statement. “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone they love.” Smalls could sense tears building in his eyes, and fought it. He was too old to cry. Instead, He continued. “You have got to pull yourself together and stop moping around, feeling sorry for yourself. I know, Picket. I know what you’re going through.” I’ve been through it a million times. And it hurts. I know it does. Life hurts. The painting directly in front of him was beautiful, but so tragic because the scene it depicted was likely burnt to ash. “I know it so well.” His voice cracked slightly at the end of that sentence. He reached out and touched the painting gently. Picket didn’t understand, not yet.

But Smalls did.

He understood how dark the world could be and the cruelty and harshness that they faced. He knew what it was like to be rejected and tortured, he knew. He’d watched Morbin’s policies steadily become more severe, he’d watched his cousin driven to insanity his sister and her child murdered; he’d seen these things. And he’d seen worse things still, the things that kept him up at night, like he’d told Heather. The things that had twisted and hardened him through pain.

            The awfulness of having to stand by while watching those you love being slaughtered.  

            “We can’t always save them.” He whispered. “And we just have to do our part.” He had said much more than he had intended. Smalls turned and went quickly out, struggling to hide the tears that had spilled over out of his control.

Smalls delayed going down to lunch for as long as possible. This was hard, since he was hungry again, but he did not want to risk a meeting with either Heather or Picket. He wasn’t in the mood to answer questions and was even less in the mood for conversation. He wandered down, finally, around one o’clock. Gort was annoyed at his lateness, which had become quite a trend, but begrudgingly handed over a bowl of stew the third time Smalls asked. He was peacefully eating it when a rabbit came up and sat down without any introduction. Smalls looked up. Great, The day was going just perfect.

            “I’m Kyle.”

Smalls recognized him as the buck he had first seen the night of their arrival. He hadn’t liked him, he remembered. Regardless, Smalls wasn’t in a good mood now or then and didn’t particularly want to hold conversation.  

“And you are?” Kyle prompted.

            “Smalls.” Smalls replied, wishing that Kyle would go away.

            “Smalls? Why do they call you that?”

            “Because it’s my name.” Smalls replied dryly. And you can tell very well why.

Kyle laughed.

Smalls didn’t find it funny. Mocking him about his size was a good way to get on his bad side-quick.

            “Listen, there’s been a lot of talk about you. I mean, everyone knows who Heather and her sour-puss brother are, but no one can figure out you. People are curious.”

And that’s how it’s going to stay. He picked at his food, wondering if there was some polite way to tell somebody to disappear into thin air and not come back. “They can be curious all they want.” He responded curtly. “That doesn’t mean they’ll get an answer. Besides, I don’t know what they’d want to know.”  

            “Anything.”

            “I’m adopted.”

            “Who’d willingly be adopted by a Longtreader in this day and age?”

Smalls couldn’t find a reply, but Kyle continued before he could think any harder.

“And-well, that stunt with Helmer yesterday is driving everyone mad.” His voice dropped into a whisper, and he leaned forward. “Not everyone fires three arrows at once and they all find their mark. Nor does just anyone put their life on the line for Helmer the black.”

Mentally, Smalls grimaced. Annoyingly observant.

            Something was off about Kyle. Smalls didn’t trust him. Not a bit. His attitude and manners disconcerted him. He’d had enough run-ins with liars and traitors that honesty was a big deal to him, and while Kyle hadn’t obviously told a falsehood, his demeanor suggested that he had little problem doing so.

            “So why would you?” Kyle asked. “And ‘because it’s the right thing to do’ is a sad answer.”

            “Do you need more than that?” For a moment, Kyle seemed taken aback, and fumbled a second, before replying smoothly,

            “No, but it’s very cliché, don’t you think?”

            “Clichés aren’t distinctly bad.”

            “That depends on who you ask.”

            “Well, you were asking me.” Smalls could see Kyle floundering slightly, and squinted at him. “What do you want?” He asked bluntly.

            “Nothing. Just curious.”

            Smalls doubted that, but went along. We’re both playing each other, He realized. Neither of us knows what the other wants.

            They went back and forth for a moment, after which Kyle excused himself. Smalls watched him retreat with skepticism. He had a feeling he’d be seeing the buck again-and he wasn’t sure if he liked it.  

The afternoon passed quietly-for him at least. Wilfred poked his head in around dinnertime to give him a rushed overview of his afternoon, which had not been quiet in the slightest.

            So Picket was apprenticed.

            Smalls, if he was being completely honest, didn’t care much one way or the other. He did care that, apparently, since Picket’s new master was ‘Helmer the Black’, half the leadership was fuming. More tension was exactly what they needed.

            He didn’t get completely why they were so mad, if it pulled Helmer out of his spiraling depression and anger issues then great. And if it didn’t? Well, at least Picket would know how to defend himself and probably grow up a bit in the process. Smalls wasn’t complaining, he was beginning to get just a bit tired of having to watch out for the kid when Picket didn’t even like him.

            Wilfred seemed upset about it though, so Smalls didn’t say that.

            “The congress will be in a few weeks.” Wilfred reminded him.

            “I know.” Smalls replied, barely glancing up from his book.

            “They want to reveal you.”

            That got his attention. “Why wasn’t I involved in this conversations?” He asked.

            “Probably because they only happened about an hour ago.”

            Smalls raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

            “Rake mentioned it only in passing. He thinks that it will boost morale.”

            “Or lower it.” Smalls muttered.

            Wilfred sighed, slumping. “I know. That was my point. The truth is that the sentiment here is almost as much against you as me, though it’s not fair and it’s wrong. They……might not trust you.”

            “Wilfred, they don’t. That’s the truth.” Smalls flicked a page in his book. “Sugar-coating it won’t change it.”

            “Nor does it make it right.”

            “You can’t force the world to do what’s right, Wilfred.” Smalls replied. “You and I both know that’s not the way it works.”

            “I know. it’s just-” Wilfred wilted. “It’s not fair to you. I deserve it, but you don’t. You were a toddler when your father died, you don’t even remember him.”

            “That’s not the way people see it.” Smalls reminded him. “They’re bitter; they want someone to blame.”

            “Ironic.” Wilfred muttered. “That was what Garten wanted too.”

He woke early the next morning, a nightmare fading to the back of his mind as he dressed. His feet felt better. But not better enough to walk normally, he quickly learned. Unable to think of anywhere better to go, he went to Lighthall.  

            It was quiet in Lighthall. It felt like a little bit of the mending, hidden away here, in the gentle beauty of the slowly rising sun shining through stained-glass windowpanes.

            Something about it brought back all the pain of the last few weeks, the frustration and the anguish he felt in the First Warren and the anger he held towards Winslow. The grief of watching others go through what he had-and being unable to stop it.

            Weariness settled on him, a strange exhaustion that wasn’t the exhaustion of his body, but of his heart and mind. This is much harder than books make it seem, He sighed.

“Why’re you crying, son?” Smalls jumped. He looked up to see an elderly looking rabbit, dressed in the habit of an artisan, and wearing thin, wiry glasses. For a moment Smalls was unsure of how to respond, as he hadn’t even realized he was crying. Then he said, “It’s beautiful here.”

The old rabbit looked around, smiling sadly, wistfully. “Aye, it is. We’ve tried to make it so. Our history deserves a place, even the bad parts.” Smalls nodded in agreement. “I’m Luthe Glazier, master artisan here.” He added as an afterthought.

            “I’m Smalls. I feel closer to it here, the past. Thank you.” He nodded to the image of his father. “To him.”

            “I have to go out for some supplies. I’ll be back soon.”

Smalls nodded. “All right, Master Glazier. I’ll stay here for a little while. Thanks.”

Luthe Glazier smiled kindly at him. “You’re welcome anytime. And please, call me Luthe.” He paused, “It pleases me that you feel close to your father here.” His gaze flitted to Jupiter’s picture.  

Smalls startled. A short silence passed. “Very few-” He began.

            “I know it. You don’t need to tell me. I understand.” Luthe Glazier cast a sympathetic look at him as he walked away.

Smalls, stunned as he was by the encounter, only turned back to watch the sunlight explode into Lighthall, throwing bright colors all over. It looked like fire, and he sat down, and wept.