Smalls did not see Wilfred for most of the day. Heather and Picket’s initiation was that night-and, well, Smalls didn’t want to be there. He didn’t need to hear the horror story again, or see the final nail pounded into the coffin of his friends’ innocence as they realized just how cruel the world really was. It was too painful, too hard. And he was being selfish but Wilfred had given him the choice, so he stayed back.

            And of course, sitting alone in his room, his mind automatically turned to Evan’s earlier laughing suggestion that he was in love with Heather.  

            The idea made him nervous and worried. It wasn’t something he wanted to deal with-nor was it something he even knew how to handle. Suddenly, his feelings around her made much more sense. Maybe he really was falling for her.

            And the more he considered, the more sure he became.

            No, it wasn’t just a maybe, it was an absolute-100%-certainty. And, that was what really scared him. Knowing that he did. And the fact that he enjoyed it. This couldn’t happen. Not now. Maybe not ever. He was afraid of it-afraid because he didn’t understand it. Afraid because it meant getting attached, and every time he got attached, it seemed, whoever it was he loved got hurt.

            He’d watched it happen again and again and again.

            And it killed him every time.

            He was selfishly afraid of that, of having to watch it and relive that pain.

            He wanted desperately to protect Heather, but he was beginning to realize that to do so he might have to stay away. Anyone who came near him could become another casualty-another tally mark in history’s records of loss. Smalls couldn’t bear that for Heather. The very thought of it destroyed him.

            Wilfred knocked.  

            “How was it?” Smalls asked.

            “Hard.” Wilfred replied, and the beaten-down, pained look on his face saddened Smalls. “But that was expected.”

            “Is Heather okay?” He mentally smacked himself. He didn’t need Wilfred catching on along with Evan-he’d lose his mind.

            “About as one could assume.” Wilfred sighed. He said nothing on Smalls’ interest, proving his mental exhaustion. “They’ll both be……fine.”

            “Wilfred,” Smalls stopped him just before he left, “Thank you.”

            Wilfred looked down at the floor, eyes filling with tears. “You’re welcome.” And he slipped away.

            Smalls closed his eyes.

            Sleep did not come easily that night, and when he did drift off, the dreams made him wish he hadn’t.

He saw Heather in the Savory Den the next morning. But Emma was with her, and so Smalls hung back. He wasn’t sure how to act around Emma, or if he was, necessarily, even allowed to speak with her. He didn’t feel like pushing the limit, so he stayed away. He doubted either girl noticed him.

His mind was snared in a whirlwind of thoughts, and conversation was unappetizing. He ate, staring at the wall listlessly. At some point, Evan joined him.

“What’s bugging you?” He asked.

Smalls shrugged. “Nothing.”

“By nothing  you mean nothing more than usual?”

“Yes.”

Evan was quiet a moment. “Initiation?”

“Why is it always so hard to watch?” Smalls sighed, letting the utensils rest. “I don’t recall it being so awful when we were.”

“That’s because, by then, we’d both already seen Daggler’s dungeons.” Evan replied dryly. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Smalls. We’re a special case and you know that.”

“It weighs so much.” Smalls mumbled, tugging at the chain briefly.

“I think it’s meant to.” Evan sighed. “I know you’ll hate me for saying this, but you need to be patient.”

“It-” Smalls broke off, exhaling. “It just feels similar.”

“I bet.” Evan agreed. “Their revelation might be the only on capable of rivalling your’s.”

“I don’t understand all the dishonesty. Why would anyone feel inclined to lie to their own children?”

“Shame, probably. The Longtreader name isn’t stellar, Smalls. I don’t think I need to tell you that.”

“But from what Wilfred has said about Whittel before, it doesn’t seem like him.”

Evan shrugged. “Write to Edward about it, then. He’s actually old enough to remember Whittel, and he won’t just shut us down like Wilfred.”

“Edward might not want to talk about it.”

“It’s worth a shot. If you really want to know, he’s probably the best person to ask.”

“Maybe.” Smalls sighed.

“Listen, I’ve got drills this morning, so I’ve gotta go.” Evan stood. “Keep your head on right, okay?”

Smalls snorted. “Says the buck without a brain.”

Evan rolled his eyes, unable to hold back his laughter. “See you later.” And he was gone.

            Edward was Smalls’ cousin. He’d been with them in the First Warren, but had left, like so much of Smalls family, after the massacre. He was the son of Ian, Jupiter’s elder brother. Ian had been publicly executed for his leadership in a revolt shortly after Morbin’s invasion. Edward’s mother, Lucy, was Wilfred’s younger sister, but she’d died long before Smalls was born. Try figuring that family relation out. Smalls shook his head.

            Edward was somewhere north now, struggling to combat the anarchy that had descended in the wake of the downfall of the bureaucracy in the north-east regions.

            The last thing Edward needed was Smalls pestering him about the side of his family he’d probably like nothing more than to forget.

            Looks like answers must wait, He decided.

            Smalls was at an unfortunate loss as to where to go. He wasn’t usually faced with this much leisure, and the idea of having an entire day to himself was…….odd, to say the least. He wandered.

            Eventually he found himself outside again through one of the doors in hallway round. He was on a long porch, looking out into the mist. He knew that it was facing the once-Great Wood, but the fog prevented sight. That didn’t make him feel better about seeing it again.  

            There were many painters, and Smalls couldn’t help but almost shake his head at them. He didn’t mind optimism-but when it became fantasies, like those that painters were creating, Smalls had to draw the line. One could hope all they wanted for the mended wood, that didn’t regrow what was burnt and burnt again.

            “You are Smalls, aren’t you.”

Smalls jumped, started by the quiet voice. It came from a middle-aged doe, sitting in a chair half-turned towards the Great Wood. She had a gentle, kind look, but there was also a sharp intelligence that warned Smalls not to underestimate her. The lady’s fingers were moving so quickly through her sewing they were practically blurs.

            “How do you know who I am?” He asked, mind leaping into an investigation to figure out how this woman knew who in Natalia he was. A lifetime of hiding had made him cautious if not paranoid.

            “Oh, I know everyone here. I was friends with your mother, I remember when you were still only a toddler.” The woman replied, nodding pleasantly

            “How-” He broke off, shaking his head slightly.

            “You will find that more are aware of your true heritage here than you might suspect.” She paused a moment, cocking her head at him, “Why are you here?”

The directness had Smalls fumbling for an answer. “I….don’t know.” He finally responded. “Who are you?”

            “My name is Maggie Weaver.” She replied. Smalls realized at that moment that he was being, in fact, incredibly rude. “You are troubled.” Maggie said. “As I may guess.” She pursed her lips and murmured something that Smalls didn’t quite catch. Louder, she said, “Do you know what this place is?”

Smalls hesitated. “No, not this place, exactly. I haven’t been here before.” He gestured out. “I know that that’s the Great Wood. But I don’t know why you are sitting out here. Or why there are so many painters.”

            “I am here to work.” Maggie said simply. “The painters are here to work, also.”

Smalls glanced over at the artists-and then said, “Their work isn’t accurate.”

            “Art is not meant to be accurate, princeling. It is meant to evoke feeling. Does their art make you feel something?”

It sounded almost like a reprimand.

Smalls watched as a painter applied more green to a forest that didn’t exist anymore. He contemplated a moment, and then shook his head, “No. Because it isn’t true.”

            “Do you believe that someday it may be?”

  Smalls hesitated, looking at the ground, “Maybe.” He finally replied. “Maybe someday. But it will take a long time for the green to return.”

Maggie nodded sadly, her smile dimming. “It will.” She agreed. “Perhaps a very long time, past my years. Perhaps past yours. But that doesn’t mean that it’s gone forever.”

            “Sometimes it feels that way.”

            “You’ve seen much death and hate,” Maggie said, her voice kinder than any Smalls had heard in a very long time. He was surprised, in a sense, startled. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had given up on life itself.” She paused.

Smalls looked down, half-ashamed of the tears that blurred his vision.

“But you are very brave to not have.” She turned back to the fog, and smiled, her face somehow joy-filled and grief-ridden at the same time, a look Smalls recognized as something he had seen Heather wear. “The green will come again, dear prince, the green will come again. Don’t give up hope, just because something looks dead does not mean that it is.”

            “What is it that you do all day?” Smalls looked up from his book to see Kyle. He looked very out of place in the quiet, peaceful library.

            “Currently it’s reading.” Smalls replied, turning a page. “Since the doctor won’t let me do much still.”

Wilfred had made him go and see one of the doctors, though it wasn’t Zeiger this time. The doctor had said he still wasn’t supposed to be on the more badly cut foot. And the wound on his back still wasn’t completely healed, to his perpetual annoyance.

            “Well, what do you do when you aren’t on crutches?”

            “That varies.”

            “You’re very vague.”

            “I enjoy my privacy.” Smalls turned a page, hoping that Kyle would take the hint. Kyle, of course, did not.

            “You’ve made that clear.” Kyle snorted. “Do you even have friends?”

Despite the rudeness, Smalls still replied, “Mostly acquaintances.”

            “So you keep to yourself?”

Smalls had to resist rolling his eyes as his dislike for Kyle mounted. Is that not obvious? Smalls was well aware of society’s general perception of him. But there was a difference between being private and being Helmer. “Ordinarily.”

            “Well, what friends do you have?”

Smalls looked up over the cover of his book. “Why do you care to know?”

            “Curiosity, can you blame me?”

Smalls closed his book, sitting up slightly straighter and meeting the other buck’s gaze evenly. For a moment, his eyes seemed to flinch. He still was hiding something, but what that was Smalls could only guess. “I have a brother.” He said at last.

            “That’s all?”

            “That’s all.”

Kyle scrutinized him for a moment. “And where do the Longtreaders fall on that?” He asked.

            “You asked about friends.”

            “So, you are a Longtreader?”

            “Not by blood.”

Kyle shook his head. “You’re contradicting yourself.”

It was the most serious Smalls had heard him. “Paradoxes exist.” Smalls replied, opening his book again and turning a page. Kyle stood there for a minute, and then turned and walked away. He wants something, Smalls thought, watching the retreating figure out of the corner of his eye. I wish I knew what.

            Never before had Smalls so thoroughly regretted asking for a bowl of soup than that evening at dinner. The absolutely murderous look the apprentice gave him-apparently one from Blackstone-could’ve killed. Smalls rolled his eyes. He knew the drill by now; and he was used to the ridicule.

            Half-way through his soup (And about a third through his book) Heather came and asked if she could sit down. Smalls said yes, (Because of course he was going to) but secretly wondered where Emma had gone. She and Heather had become fast friends. She didn’t appear conversational, and a heavy sadness had settled on her. Smalls wasn’t surprised, but he was sorry. She barely touched her food.

He hesitated for a long while, and then suggested, “Maybe you should eat some more.”

Heather shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Smalls was beginning to doubt she had eaten anything all day. “Where’s Emma?”

            “I don’t know. It was…..too much.” She blushed, and looked away, eyes scanning the room as if already anticipating trouble.

Smalls grimaced. He knew that feeling.

“Thank you.” Her voice came out as little more than a whisper, and her eyes remained trained on the bowl as she slowly stirred the soup with her spoon.

“For what?” Smalls asked, confused on the warranty of her gratitude.

“For-” She gestured vaguely. “Well, everything. You don’t have to put up with all this.”

Smalls looked away. “Wilfred has done much for me.” He said at length. “A few angry glares or a bit of gossip is something I can take.”

“It’s not just a bit, you know that.”

Smalls shrugged. “He’s done more than you know.” He almost added-‘and so have you’-but quickly stopped himself.

Her hands were trembling lightly, and when Heather realized he had seen, she hid them under the table.

“You should eat.” He said gently. “You’ll make yourself sick.” Heather nodded, but didn’t resume her meal. “Weren’t you the one just telling me not to worry?” He asked, teasing.

Heather gave him a look, but she was smiling. “I think we can firmly say that that was different.”

Smalls laughed tiredly. “Well, I suppose. It can’t last forever.” Even to himself, his voice sounded inexplicably soft.

Heather smiled, and then laughed a bit. She brushed her eyes, and then looked back up at him. “There’s still hope, isn’t there?”

“Yes.” Smalls agreed. “They say hope is fragile, but I think it’s rather strong.”

Heather nodded in agreement. “Life-shattering realizations aside; has the doctor let you off crutches yet?”

“No. I would say they’re the ones who are paranoid, if anything.”

“Or you’re just impatient.” Heather retorted, smile widening.

“I’m not nearly as impatient as-” He stopped. As much as he enjoyed the banter, he wasn’t entirely sure where, exactly, the teasing line was, especially when it came to Picket.

“Picket?” Heather asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, if I’m being honest.” Smalls conceded.

“Is he being a pain?”

“No. I’ve barely spoken to him recently.” Which is probably a good thing. “Has Helmer straightened him out at all?”

Heather immediately scowled, and Smalls got the sense he’d hit a nerve. “Depends on what you mean by that.”

Smalls, unblinkingly, stated, “Ground his ego and most of his sense of dignity to dust?”

“Really?”

“Most mentors do that, Heather. At least in the military. The First Warren was worse than Helmer, I can assure you, and I survived. Don’t worry about Picket.” The kid needs to toughen up some.

“Why would that help anyone?” Heather asked, clearly unconvinced.

Smalls sighed. “It’s about hardening yourself for the battlefield, Heather, because if you aren’t hard then you’re going to get killed, end of story. Helmer’s doing Picket a favor-and it’s not like Picket will end up in the hospital.” He paused, then added, “Probably.”

Heather obviously disliked his response, but she accepted it. “I know.” She spoke, voice quiet. “And I understand why. But I…….don’t like it.”

Smalls nodded. “It’s easier to become jaded and mindless in this world. It’s harder to retain humanity and kindness. Helmer’s focused on keeping Picket alive. It’ll be harder for him to remember to live, especially if he’s learning how from ‘Helmer the Black’.”

“You know more about him.”

“Only the bits that Wilfred’s told me. I’m not much older than you, Heather. The Capital was invaded when I was a toddler.”

“But we’ve had very different lives.”

“Yes.” Smalls agreed. “Very different.” He almost reached for her hand, but remembered, just in time, his vow to stay away, so that she was safe. But it was painfully hard, letting go. And he did wish, then, that things weren’t the way they were.