(In which Picket, newly arrived at Cloud Mountain, cannot sleep. He makes his way to Blackstar's statue and thinks about life)

He’s not sure why he’s dragging himself up the steps, but he can’t stay in his room anymore. It’s so dark and so small, and he can’t sleep.

His foot burns, but he pushes through it. The crutches clunk on each step.

The garden is moonlit, empty. He stands at the top of the steps, hunched over and panting. He’s so useless.

He walks to prove that he can, stumbling along the path with a clunk-clunk-clunk. It’s too still. No guards—they’re probably still guarding their precious barrels in Hallway Round, but it’s not like there’s anything to do here.

Coming through a doorway, his eyes catch on a group of standing rabbits and he stops, fumbling with the crutches.

They don’t move. Statues, the old legends frozen in stone.

Picket walks (slowly. There’s a feeling of reverence in the air that he doesn’t understand) until he’s standing before one of them.

A buck, sword upraised and cape flying. A raised star marks his shoulder. Blackstar. Gilded by silver light, he looks ready to step off his pedestal and take up the fight.

A true hero. Picket stares up at his face. He can hear Father’s voice whispering the old stories in his ears. Blackstar is everything Picket’s always dreamed of being.

The crutches rub at his arms. His foot aches. He sinks to the cold ground, staring up at Blackstar like he’s the very stars in the sky. For a moment, he lets himself imagine that he’s the one standing proud, sword in hand and face set in determination.

He’d stab that wolf, kill him and send the other wolves running with tails between their legs. He’d protect Heather and he’d—he’d snatch Jacks away from the wolves’ paws.

He’d—Picket is crying. He wipes the tears away, smearing them across the fur of his face as he glares up at Blackstar.

“Why?” he asks (unsure what he means to say.)

Blackstar’s face is fixed on the horizon. He looks so sure in his heroism. Picket scrambles to his feet, almost falling as he puts weight on his foot.

“Why?” he asks (louder, harsher) He stumbles forward. He wants to hit something. He wants to smash that smug expression off Blackstar’s face.

The moonlight glints off the star patch—a patch that had been given to Blackstar by his father. Picket can hear Father’s voice and it aches. He swipes a hand roughly across his eyes.

He steps toward the statue, intending to swing at it, or kick it, to do something with all his pent-up emotion. But his foot burns as he steps on it, and he falls forward.

His face smacks into the smooth stone, and he stays with his arms wrapped around the statue. If he squeezes his eyes closed hard enough, he can almost imagine that it’s someone else.

A tear trickles down the stone. Picket loosens his grip, sliding to the ground. He curls into himself, leaning against Blackstar.

His hero stands watch over him, larger than life. But he’s just a statue. He can’t speak, can’t pull Picket into a hug and hold him there until he cries himself to sleep.

Picket is alone.

He huddles at the feet of a dead hero, tries (and fails) to control his tears. His shoulders shake as he sobs into his arms.

The tears don’t last. Soon he’s quiet again, fur damp and body stiff with cold. He hugs his knees to his chest and stares back up at Blackstar.

“Why aren’t I a hero too?” he whispers.

There's only silence, and the calm light of the moon above.

Picket sits alone in a garden of heroes and waits for an answer that will never come.

A/N: Set during the early days at Cloud Mountain. Inspired by a frame of a PMV by @Meadow in which Picket with crutches in hand stares up at a larger-than-life statue ( TGE Updated WIP - Hard Love - YouTube).

Also posted on ao3.