Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him' James 1:12, NIV. The trees still had green the day that Smalls was taken. That green is gone now, and Smalls is afraid. Young!Smalls fic, TW mentioned child abuse (erm, torture) and overall angsty-ness. Written for Citadel of Words, Stories of Autumn Prompt Challenge Prompt 2: 'I hate the fall, but love Autumn'. Enjoy and have a great Halloween! (uh......if you celebrate. nobody come for me. It's actually a catholic holiday, fun fact.......wow I'm really off topic)                

Smalls balances on his tip-toes, arms out to his side as he walks along the log. It’s a cool, clear autumn day, just enough wind coming along every so often to knock more golden leaves from the faded summer splendor that’s left of the forest. The only noise is the quiet rustle of forest creatures and the low-pitched twitter of some bird whose forgotten to go south.

                    Smalls halts at the edge of the log, swaying precariously as he gazes deeper into the woods. He could go further, he’s at the edge of the land he knows, ooor, he could turn around before Wilfred has an aneurism looking for him. Smalls stops for a second, thinking back to when he’d snuck out of the palace early this morning. Never mind, he’s been gone long enough already that its definitely been noticed.

                    Too bad for Evan, he wasn’t awake so he couldn’t follow Smalls. That had kind of been the whole point. Smalls is tired of everyone looking at him like he might drop dead at any second. He scowls at the thought.

                    “It wasn’t my fault.” He mumbles, twisting the hem of his sleeve, It was Daggler’s. He shudders and hops off the log, beginning to sprint. Usually he can outrun his problems, going so fast and so hard that he can’t hear anything but the rush of wind and the pound of adrenaline in his head.

                    Daggler crippled that.

                    He only makes it a few yards before the pain in his feet become so terrible he trips over himself and ends up sprawled on the ground. Tears bud in his eyes, and he blinks them back fiercely, chiding himself for crying-he’s almost eleven, he’s too old to be acting like a spoiled baby. He sits up and scrubs his forearm across his face roughly, then reaches down to tug at the bandages circling around the bottoms of his feet. Really, those are the only wounds still plaguing him from his stint in Daggler’s dungeons. The bruises and cuts have healed-even the nasty, infected one that almost broke through the vein in his wrist. That one did scar, to his chagrin.

                    Smalls stays seated on the ground, pulling up bits of dead grass and tearing them apart, trying to pretend he isn’t afraid of getting up and feeling that pain again. Evan’s still mad at him.

                    Or maybe Evan’s just mad at himself? Smalls doesn’t really know. Either way, Evan is upset, and it’s Smalls fault.

                    That’s part of the reason why he was so desperate to get away from the palace in the first place. It hurts, seeing that Evan doesn’t trust him and Wilfred suddenly thinks he’s regressed to the age of four.

                    Smalls isn’t helpless.

                    He’s just…..small.

                    Frustratingly so. He grits his teeth, crushing a portion of grass in his hands and scattering it to the wind. Even when it’s not technically his fault, somehow it still is.

                    Everything feels different now. He doesn’t just see the fear he understands it, because try as he might nauseating terror rises in his stomach every time he catches even the barest glimpse of Daggler. Some part of him wants to curl up, go to sleep and never wake up again. Maybe then the pain will go away.

                    He falls backwards, arms stretched out across the grass. It’s soft and brittle with autumn. The sky above is bright October blue, puffy white clouds floating across the wide dome. Branches bend and sway in the wind, leaves whistling cheerfully and quietly. Smalls wonders what song it is, and if it carries some secret he’s not entitled to know.

                    Everything had still been green the night he’d been taken. They still didn’t know exactly how long he’d been missing, and Smalls had lost hope of his scattered, terrifying memories providing any of that information. He remembers primarily three things-pitch darkness, cold, wet, slimy stone, and the stench of his own blood in his nose. It had been cramped too; the ceiling low, the walls tight and close.

                    Smalls closes his eyes, breathing in slowly as the wind picks up. It carries the scent of apples and pumpkin, and the barest trace of the fresh squash the palace kitchens must be preparing.

                    “Wilfred said we’ll go soon.” He whispers, as if the reminder will stamp out all the burning sparks of terror in his head. “We’ll go. Things’ll get better then.” But he’s not so convinced. Over the span of his short life-pun unintended-he’s learned to expect the worst. There’s not exactly many things that give him hope, not when he’s supposed to be hope.

                    “Some hate the Fall but love Autumn.” Wilfred’s voice calls quietly out of the past. It’s one of his favorite sayings.

                    “What’s it mean?” Smalls remembers asking, though he’s not sure when. He’d been pretty young, maybe six?

                    “It means that some people hate the hard parts of life but love the easy bits.”

                    Smalls wrinkled his nose. “Aren’t we supposed to hate the bad things?”

                    “Hate? Yes. If we’re talking about bad things like Morbin’s atrocities, like the killing of little children and the murder of innocents, then yes. Hate those things, despise them, revile them and rebuke them. First-Father commands us to do so. But a fall is not always a bad thing.”                    “It is when you sprain your toe.” Smalls retorted, having done so the previous month.

                    Wilfred laughed. “Well, what did that teach you?”

                    Smalls considered. “Not to run up stairs.” He finally replied.

                    “Exactly. It taught you to be safer, and made you more cautious. You’ll think twice next time as opposed to rushing in. So we learn to love pain, sometimes, when it teaches us things. First-Father gives us such things, at times, so that we learn to love Him and His law better.”

                    “He made me stub my toe?”

                    “No, but He did give you the opportunity to learn from it. As you get older He will give you more trials, and you will learn to take joy in them, I think.”

                    “Why?”

                    “So that you can learn, and you can grow.”

                    “What if I don’t want to?”

                    Wilfred chuckled. “You will. Trust me. All young bucks do; it’s simply nature.”

                    “Will Evan have them too?”

                    “Of course. All of us do.”

                    “Does too?”

                    “Yes. Does too.”

                    “Huh.”

                    Wilfred laughed again. His smile comes out of the past-and present day Smalls turns the final words he said that day over in his head. “Learn to love the Fall, Smalls, as much as the Autum, if not more. The greatest joy comes out of the greatest suffering, if you keep your sight on First-Father.”

                    Smalls opens his eyes, to find Evan staring down at him. He lets out a shriek, bolting up. Evan darts to the side, laughing manically.

                    “Wilfred’s losing his mind up there and you’re lucky I didn’t strangle you for running off.” He says, crossing his arms once he regains his composure.

                    “That’d defeat the purpose of finding me.” Smalls mutters, making no move to get up.

                    “Aw, c’mon. I already got read the riot act by him this morning, I don’t want to hear it again.” Evan huffs. “Besides, the cook made pumpkin pies and I bet we can snitch one on the way in, so it’s not a total loss.”

                    “You’re a hazard to society,” Smalls sighs, but climbs painfully to his feet.

                    “As if you’re any better.” Evan retorts.

                    “Do you want me to come or not?” Smalls demands.

                    Evan doesn’t deem that with a reply.

                    Wilfred isn’t happy, of course, he usually isn’t when Smalls runs off-something about safety and ‘needing to know where you are’ and ‘you’re only eleven, you can’t fight something three times your size please don’t fight that thing three times your size’, but Wilfred doesn’t stay on his case for long. Evan manages to successfully blow up a pot of soup in the face of a young apprentice, so Wilfred spends the vast majority of the rest of the afternoon trying to keep the head cook from going for Evan’s head. And mounting it on a stake in front of the kitchen as a warning to others. The head cook really doesn’t like Evan, okay?

                    Regardless, Smalls really wasn’t involved in this one, so he just hides out in the library until dinner. His feet still ache from his fall earlier. He knows better than to run, now, though. Love the Fall, Smalls, He reminds himself, Just as much as you love the Autumn.