An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Whenever he’s in distress, Kallamar almost always finds water. It’s instinctual, perhaps. He’s still a sea dweller at heart. The creek that borders the edge of the compound serves as a fine spot for bathing and washing clothes. This time of day, it’s deserted, save for a few bathing robes hanging on tree branches to dry. He sits at the water’s edge and lets his tentacles submerge. The water is cold and clear, not salty at all, but it’ll do.
Oh, what a mess I’ve made, is all he can think. Tears flow unimpeded. Some small, hysterical part of his mind of wishes the Lamb hadn’t bothered rescuing them. Perhaps it would all be simpler if their family was consigned to oblivion. Perhaps it’s what they deserve. His whole body is aflame with shame and grief and regret. It bows his shoulders, overwhelming and unsurmountable, like the crushing weight of the ocean floor.
