This is one of the newer arrivals to the wyvern stables, a heavily patterned spitfire named Nils. According to the stablehands, he was born two weeks ago but has not made much progress in gaining trust with humans. "So they separated him from the rest of the clutch," Alcryst explains as he continues to wrangle the furious wyvernling in his arms. "The knights have been taking turns with taking him out, and today's my turn again..."
The stablehands claimed that Nils acted out of fear, but Alcryst has a hard time believing that as the little creature continues to gnaw on his hands, searching for more treats. "I ran out of treats to give him, so I put out some minnow traps by the fishing pond to catch more. But I don't have enough hands to check traps and keep an eye on him, and—and you're good with animals, so I thought you could help me..."
In the first weeks, it was almost okay — Okay that the Missus is dead, that the old orphanage burned down the other week, too. People felt bad because they're so little, but if they really felt bad enough they'd've taken them in, right? It was always oh you poor dears, aren't you lot from the orphanage? it must be so hard, and never come in and sit with us, eat with us, you're safe, welcome home.
(But, let's be real; Who in their little neighbourhood could afford to take in two growing boys with nothing to gain, anyways? If they could, the orphanage would've been empty, no screaming Missus, no seven and twenty-one in the closet. He might even remember their names.
If they could, there would be no orphanage.
If they could, Ma wouldn't have left.)
He is eight, it is fall, and he hasn't learned enough. Finch's face is haggard and too tired-looking for a kid who's six. ████ doesn't care about what his own looks like.
What came in from begging trickled to a halt. They scavenged little things — A bruised apple here, half a loaf of stale bread there, an overcooked slab of meat every now and then. Then, they started nicking, when it still just wasn't enough — Fresher berries, jars of milk from big, big batches, a cookie from the counter. For a while, it's easy to sneak away little things at the harvest markets, but Winter watches and waits like Missus' shadow at the top of the stairwell, like the empty hooks on their coat-wall.
Finch knows what'll happen if it gets to them. Finches should migrate for the winter. So should ████, but he isn't one. Finch cries into his knees. Over the cold, over his scraped knees, his sister, his rumbling tummy, over how much he misses the Missus and the meat pies she made when they were good.
(That's ridiculous. Is it? The Missus took care of them. The Missus swung her cane. He still doesn't know what being good is. The Missus is dead.)
The bakery with the green paint sells meat pies, but it's hard to steal from that bakery. He knows what the smart choice is. He chooses the reckless one anyways.
He tries, he really does. But his hands are cold and don't move right. The haggard desperation in his eyes is visible from a mile away. The baker catches him pie-handed. The boy braces for the screaming and the walloping, but it never happens. Instead she's looking at him with this sad, sad look in her eyes and kneels, beckons him closer.
She tells him her name — Miss Birkett — And, oh, he's been stealing her milk for a month now. He thinks she knows. She does. She laughs anyways, hearty and warm, moves to take the pie back, half-crumpled from his vice grip, pauses in stroking a hand through his hair when he flinches.
easy now, she says, or something like it. stay here, she tells him after, and he really, seriously thinks about running away while she's not looking, but he's tired, and his feet won't move right, and he doesn't know what to say to Finch when he comes back empty-handed. She turns around before he's even counted to fifteen, two fresh bags in her hands, pressing them into his palms with a smile.
...
what?
Grey eyes stare wide, disbelieving, immediately clutching the two bags to his chest.
... why?
She tells him he's been causing trouble. She tells him that the milk orders are important for what she can sell that day; How one can of it can make a batch of delicious cookies. She tells him they're all trying to get by, so he can't just steal from anybody. But it's all gentle in tone — No harsh edges. She takes his shaking hands and says that he doesn't need to be afraid. The fear that's been clawing up his throat slowly but surely becomes replaced with — guilt. Real, true guilt. Not guilt forged with the hammer of a cane. Just...
She can't take him in, she says. His face falls. But, she continues — If he comes back tomorrow to help her with kneading the dough, she'll give him two more pies. Her eyes are gentle crescents.
i can't tell you to stop if you want to live, kid. but we help eachother here in this corner of nevassa. we need to stick together when times are hard; not take from eachother. everyone appreciates some help here.
that makes sense, doesn't it?
He thinks of Finch. He thinks of how the kids were always fighting eachother. Thinks of how much easier it was to share chores, or swap what you didn't like, even if the Missus got angry at them for it. He thinks about how the two girls stopped fighting and started cleaning up the broken plate on their own. He thinks of how much more miserable it feels to keep something to himself instead of share it with his brother. It does — It makes sense.
He doesn't remember what else she said, but the warmth of the woman's hands and the bags in his, the look on Finch's face when he brought back the pies etch out a warm space in his chest. Some gentle, cloudy feeling sets in there; A vague puddle of beorc-being, of every one of them rolling in the same street-dust. If they're all having a hard time, there's no reason to make any of it harder. He doesn't want to — Doesn't want anyone else to have to be scared of the winter, to cry from hunger, to sit abandoned on a cold doorstep with cut feet and no shoes.
As much as he hesitates in going back the next day, wrestling with learned fear again —
