It was storming. The rain poured down heavily, pounding against the ground and making it harder and harder to find a foothold. It slicked across the trees, running down the trunks in rivulets. Sight was all but impossible. By the time they found somewhere sheltered enough to camp, they were mud-streaked, sopping wet, and exhausted. They couldn't build a fire, and practically everything in their packs was soaked, including, to Smalls' great displeasure, all the food.
He decided it was going to be one of those nights. One of those nights when he was hungry, cold, wet, and generally all-around miserable. When he was a child, Wilfred made those nights better by telling stories. Now, Smalls was older, and had learned not to complain when food ran short or there wasn't somewhere comfortable to sleep.
That didn't mean he didn't still hate it.
He knew that Wilfred did too, that they were both in the same boat, and that was why he didn't complain. Because it wasn't fair to Wilfred and didn't make him feel better anyways. Smalls just pulled his cloak tighter around him and pulled his scarf up over his face until all he could see was the fabric and the rain was muffled.
.
.
.
The scarf had been his father's. King Jupiter's, that was what he meant. Wilfred had given it to him years and years before.
"He refused to take that silly thing off the entirety of our youth." Wilfred had said, shaking his head. "His mother had to make him do so that it could be washed."
"Why'd he do that?" Curious, seven-year-old Smalls asked. Wilfred laughed.
"Because we were seventeen and didn't think about it then." He replied. "It was just something he did."
"But why?" Wilfred shrugged.
"Who knows? He was a person, just like everyone else, with weird quirks and odd-ball habits that drove everyone crazy."
"Like what?" Wilfred smiled and proceeded to tell him a funny story about Jupiter's food snitching shenanigans.
.
.
.
Wilfred hadn't told a story like that in a long time. Was Wilfred getting sadder, or was Smalls now just old enough to see it? He didn't know. Somehow, he felt it was both. Wilfred rarely spoke of Jupiter now, and the mention of the mended wood seemed to do little to life his spirits.
Smalls tried to picture the mended wood, tried to envision what that could be. But it was so hard. He knew that a true mending wouldn't come with Morbin's fall. A long peace, perhaps, but evil wouldn't suddenly vanish with Morbin's death. Though it would take a good chunk of it out of the world. They needed more than that for a mending with a capital M.
The present issues felt so big and pressing that mending with a lower-case m would be just fine for Smalls.
Sometimes he felt he'd seen only all the bad and none of the good. He knew this wasn't true, but on hard days it felt like it was. On hard days he ached for the mended wood, ached so badly it seemed his heart was bleeding with longing.
It would be safe.
That was one thing he could consistently keep in his mind about the mending, that it would be safe, and he would no longer be in constant danger. Tonight, that was all he could remember. It would be safe. And warm. And kind. And he was asleep before he could come up with another adjective to describe it.
.
.
.
"Rise and shine." Wilfred's voice broke through to Smalls, and he groaned. "You'll get up if you're hungry." Wilfred said decidedly, which was true, even if Smalls resented it. He sat up groggily, rubbed at his eyes, and swallowed some water to wash the dry taste out of his mouth. He glanced at the sky, and could tell by the light levels that the sun had just risen. The sky had cleared a bit, but for the most part a low cloud coverage remained. Everything was still soaked, but Wilfred had managed to start a fire and had some apples roasting by it.
Normally, Smalls would have grumbled good-naturedly about the four hours of sleep he had gotten, but considering the previous night's events, decided against it.
"Where are we going?" He asked after a minute. Wilfred's cheerful attitude faltered.
"Nick Hollow."
"Up there? Why? They've never liked Natalia."
"That," Wilfred stated, "Is a debate for another time." He paused, sighed, and then continued. "I don't think you know this, Smalls, but I'm half hollower myself. I was raised for some of my childhood in Nick Hollow." Smalls' interest was piqued. Wilfred rarely talked about himself and even less often about his childhood or family. Smalls had a sort of natural curiosity about it all. "After the old kingdom fell, my brother moved back north, into the house we grew up in." It can't be Garten. Who is he talking about? Seeing the look on Smalls' face, Wilfred elaborated. "My younger brother. Whittel." Smalls had never heard of this. "A few weeks ago, I received my first letter from him in years, though how he knew where I was, I have no idea." Wilfred paused.
"Why did he contact you now?" Smalls prompted. Wilfred sighed.
"He had information he was asked to pass on to me, about a few Hollowers interested in joining the secret citadels."
"If it's only that, then how come we have to go all the way to Nick Hollow?" Wilfred looked exhausted. Smalls wondered if he'd slept at all or had been faking it.
"Because your mother is headed there. And she's being tracked."
.
.
.
Smalls' memory of his mother was that of a dim dream. His mother, Lady Glen, had left when he was so young-only about four or five-that his remembrance of her had faded into a kind of pleasant figment that he was half-convinced was only imagination. She had used to visit occasionally, usually at night, but that had become less and less frequent the older he got. He had a few letters from her, but he'd never been allowed to reply. Smalls really didn't know his mother at all.
.
He and Wilfred started out quickly, hoping to reach the half-way point to Nick Hollow by the evening. Smalls hadn't asked Wilfred that many questions, wanting to work it over in his head, first.
"Thirty-nine times twenty-five." Wilfred's voice shattered his thoughts, and Smalls scrambled a moment, trying to remember the answer. He was horrible at mental math.
"Nine hundred seventy-five." He answered, after a moment of deliberation.
"Correct. Forty-two times sixteen."
"Oh, come on, do we have to?"
"Forty-two times sixteen."
"Six hundred sixty-two?" Smalls offered after a moment.
"Six hundred seventy-two." Wilfred corrected. Smalls sighed. He hated math. He could recite whole histories and memorize dozens of vocabulary words quite easily, but he struggled terribly with math. Wilfred had developed a habit of asking him random math equations while they were traveling, a habit that Smalls decidedly did not like. "Seventy-three times twenty-two." Not twenty-two. Anything but twenty-two. "If you don't know, guess." Wilfred added.
"…fifteen hundred?"
"Close. Sixteen hundred, six."
"Are we done now?" Wilfred grinned; Smalls groaned.
.
.
.
The math grilling, luckily, halted once they found wolf tracks. It was around midday. For once, Smalls was grateful. Anything was better than being forced to try to figure numbers in his head.
"Right for the Hollow." Wilfred said grimly. "They aren't even trying to hide their tracks."
"They don't think they have to." Smalls said. "How far out from here?"
"If we run? A nine or ten hour run for you, and eleven to twelve for me."
"We need another day." Smalls said, shaking his head. "Or we run through the night." Wilfred gazed at him for a moment, then laid a hand on his shoulder.
"They aren't your family, lad."
"Your family is mine." Wilfred shook his head, laughing softly.
"That isn't a good thing."
"I say we run through the night." Smalls said, ignoring Wilfred's remark.
"We'll need coffee." Smalls very much agreed.
.
.
.
Endurance sprints was what Smalls was best at. He knew that he could easily outstrip Wilfred and make it to Nick Hollow in eight hours if he pushed himself. But that was when he was well-rested, had eaten regularly, and didn't have a throbbing migraine.
They stopped a few times to eat and drink, and Smalls decided he wasn't going to think about the amount of coffee he had ingested in just the last four hours.
"How far off are we?" He asked around midnight. The moon shone down full and bright. Smalls was feeling a vague disconnection from reality, and registered that as not being a good thing, but couldn't remember why that was.
"Five hours." Wilfred said, breath coming short and rough. His eyes still had the sharpness of being alert, but they were glassy with exhaustion all the same. Five hours. You can make it.
.
Smalls no longer could concentrate on anything besides running, running, running. His brain seemed to shut down and block everything out. Until, Sometime early in the morning, Wilfred stopped, and Smalls didn't have any strength to protest. He didn't remember what happened after that.
.
.
.
Smalls opened his eyes, blinking in the sudden brightness of day. The sun stretched up into its noon-time position, and Smalls wondered how long he'd been out. Wilfred was awake, stirring a newly made fire.
They were somewhere relatively warm and green with the first few buds of spring.
"What time is it? Where are we?" Smalls asked, his memory of the night before failing him.
"Nearly noon. We're about a half mile out from my brother's house."
"We made it?"
Wilfred chuckled. "Barely. If we'd gone any further, I don't think we would have." His face sobered. "I should have let you sleep longer yesterday. I wasn't aware we'd have to run so hard or so fast. I'm sorry for that."
"I'm fine." That wasn't completely true and every muscle in his body ached, but it was nothing that wouldn't dissipate within a few days.
"Well, you can be proud. We made a three-day journey in one. That's not something everyone can do." Smalls brushed this aside.
"Is there anything to eat?"
"If you get some potatoes from the pack, there will be in a few minutes." Smalls was starving, and he couldn't remember the last time he ate. The potato hardly did him justice, but it would tide him over until there was time for a full meal. He stood and glanced around, trying to regain his bearings.
"When will we leave?" Smalls asked.
"Soon, I think." Wilfred paused, and then added, "I forgot something when I told you about Whittel. He has three children, Heather, his eldest and only daughter, Picket, and then a baby, Jacks. Heather is about your age." Smalls hadn't considered it and didn't give it much thought now. He nodded, but was much more focused on the tracks he had discovered in the dirt.
"Wilfred," He said, his voice edged with caution and unease, "There's wolf tracks here."