Chapter Text
Gravel. Underfoot. Again.
He turned around. Twisted roots tangling in him. Idiot. Idiot. Walk away.
But he doesn't, and the air is thick, damp, scented. Earth and leaves. Smoke and heated herbs, sticking, coating, digging into his skin, his lungs, the inside of his ribs. And there's a pit in there and he's falling and he knows it, but what can he do but grab the walls and show his teeth, short breaths and bared fangs. Ears back like a dog and skin in his mouth.
And the door is closed and he's outside. On the gravel. Again. She had a good time. He did a good job. Good night. Good boy. Good bye.
He doesn't beg. He doesn't stay. The leash doesn't hurt, and her hand doesn't stay on his chest, his arms, his face, like a ghost, like a bruise, like a secret, and the words he writes don't matter because they're not from a starving child, desperate for something real. Crumpled paper. Sheets of trash. Tree pulp, ash, tears, graphite, fool's dreams.
So he doesn't send the letters. He doesn't talk to the others. He doesn't ask for time or help or forgiveness. His mother knows. Somehow. and that makes it worse. Like he's a child. Like he doesn't know.
He doesn't tell her the rest though. The robes and the letter and the wardrobe. His mother kills monsters, fire eyed and steel fisted as she is, and he doesn't want to picture the encounter, if she knew.
Because beyond that gravel, through that door, there is a den. A nest of something, coiled in the soil, slipping between the cracks, the sands, the shards of glass, green eyes and a bared breast. Long claws, dug into the dirt, pulling out roots, worms, ancient aches and young dreams, brought to her mouth with something like delicacy. Something like grace. And in those moments he is bare, unhidden, laid out like writing detailing his birth, the stars, the moons and the constellations his Momma would tell him about. Plain as the letters he never sent. Plain as the letters he never lost. Plain as walking the open fields, feet in the grass, bow in his hand, two mothers still with him, promising him about next times and futures and stories they'd tell him again and again and later and soon.
Paper thin.
And he's outside again. Hoping for something real and begging her to let him stay. Because he is a dog. Because he is old and he is young.
Because when she lets go of the leash, he is nowhere, and he is alone, and he is hidden and closed and scared.
Because he never sent the letters. And no promises were made and none were kept.
And foolish little boys with clumsy words can't convince anyone to stay, please. just stay please. just stay.