Smalls jumped, startled, and shot into combat mode. He glanced up. The landing was on fire, spewing huge amounts of smoke into the sky. The fire sizzled as the rain hit it, but the building was already crumbling to ash. To embers. I've had plenty of fire for one week. Smalls decided, digging the oars into the water and bringing the boat to a stop.

"We need to get to shore, now!" Wilfred called. Smalls was already on it. A moment later, they were on dry ground. "Stay low." Smalls' eyes darted around, checking for enemies. Heather identified seven wolves, high above the Landing, on a ridge. It wasn't Garlackson himself, but a different company.

"Decker?" Smalls asked, eyes roving the house.

"No sign of struggle from them. Maybe he got out in time." Smalls hoped so. Decker had been a good rabbit. They reached the shore, and Smalls hurried from the boat, and he and Wilfred pulled it to shore. Smalls offered Heather his hand to help her out, but she declined and focused on her brother, who was as cordial as usual, and louder than ever.

"Quiet." Smalls muttered in his direction, receiving a glare in return. He stepped forward carefully, gesturing to Wilfred that I'll scout. You stay here. Wilfred nodded, sticking low to the reeds with Heather and Picket.

He darted across the open patch between Decker's landing and the river, rolling behind a barren oak a moment before a wolf paused and glared down at the blaze, as if he had heard something.

"Keep moving!" He ordered, snarling, and snapping at a younger wolf who had slowed briefly to see what his commanding officer was looking at. Smalls waited a hard moment, then peered back out, fingering the pommel of his sword. He confirmed the number of enemies.

He searched for the closest refuge, identifying a finger of forest jutting out close to shore, about a hundred yards out from where Wilfred, Heather, and Picket were situated. Best option, we run for it, He decided. He communicated the plan to Wilfred through previously agreed upon hand-signals, and he in turn communicated it to Heather and Picket. Smalls' eyes remained glued to the wolves high above. Three…..two…one…..And he gestured urgently for them to run. And they ran.

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Smalls waited, tense and poised, until Picket passed to start running. Then he sprinted for it. He easily passed Picket and caught up with Wilfred, who nodded on his arrival and put on some more speed. Heather was quite a bit ahead. She's fast.

They were almost to the forest when Smalls heard a sharp cry. He stole a rapid look back and saw that Picket had stumbled and fallen. He didn't get up. Smalls skidded to a halt. He cast one quick glance at Heather and Wilfred to ensure that they were well ahead. Then he shot off in Picket's direction.

Smalls did not necessarily consider himself heroic. He never had. He did what he did mostly because it was right, but he would be a liar if he said that was the only reason he ever acted. Sometimes he acted only because he was told to. Sometimes he acted for selfish reasons. Sometimes-and this was, really, his greatest flaw-he acted from his emotions. He didn't always think before he leaped. For that reason, he didn't think himself heroic. He considered himself more on the reckless end of the scale.

He didn't know why he went back for Picket.

Maybe it was because he felt sorry for the kid. Maybe it was because he wanted to show he didn't have any hard feelings. Maybe-and this was something that he pinpointed later, and instantly felt ashamed about-he wanted to impress Heather, whom he was already beginning to like. Maybe it was just because it was the right thing to do. Maybe it was all those things mixed together.

He reached Picket, stopping briefly. Picket was injured, obviously, and unable to walk. Not taking time to consider Picket's feelings about the whole ordeal, Smalls scooped him up and charged back across the open field, setting him down just under the tree cover. Wilfred and Heather had paused,

"We have to hurry." Wilfred called, voice calm but urgent. "If they saw us, then we have almost no time." He glanced at Picket's foot. Picket wouldn't look at him. "We're not safe yet."

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The forest was tangled and looming, and though the rain was thudding heavily on the branches and dead, clinging leaves, very few drops made it all the way to the ground. Smalls wasn't complaining. Wilfred was ahead of him, and normally Smalls would have matched his pace. The wound on his back was keeping him from doing so, and he knew better than to push himself and make it worse. In fact, with each step, the pain only seemed to grow. Either the medicine is wearing off, or it's getting worse. He decided that the medicine was just wearing off. He managed to ignore the pain.

An hour passed.

"I need to stop!" Heather called. Smalls halted, pivoted, and hurried over to her.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

"I'm okay. I just need a moment to rest." Smalls didn't believe her. She looked fine-obviously she had run much further distances before. She wasn't even breathing that heavily. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she glanced over at Picket before looking back at him. Oh. He nodded, and Heather's features relaxed a bit. Smalls was struck again by her beauty, but kept his mouth shut this time. He'd embarrassed himself enough for one day.

"I could use a rest too." He said instead, sinking to the ground. It wasn't technically a lie. He was in pain too-it just wasn't as much of an impediment. Picket was squeezing a stick so tightly it looked about to snap. Wilfred caught on to the halt.

"What's up? Why're we stopping?" Smalls glanced in Picket's direction, making sure he wasn't looking at them as he and Heather both mouthed 'Picket' at the same time. Wilfred nodded. "Well, I needed a puff as well." He walked over to Picket, where the two began conversing outside of Smalls' and Heather's hearing. Smalls sighed.

"I'm sorry he's been so terrible." Heather said. "He…he wasn't like this before…" She looked down, sadness prevalent on her face.

"Trauma does things to people." Smalls said gently. "I'm sure he'll get better." Heather sighed.

"You don't know him like me. Picket…Picket holds onto things. He holds grudges." Smalls was suddenly uneasy.

He knew what evidently Heather didn't; he knew about there family's history. He knew about the terrible shame and pain that Wilfred carried, the pain that someday soon Heather and Picket would be forced to take on as well. Though he didn't blame Heather, Picket, or Wilfred for any of it, Heather's assessment of Picket had him wondering. He glanced over at Picket, who looked on the verge of tears.

"You're bleeding." Heather said. Smalls leaned his head on his knees and sighed.

"I know. There isn't much I can do about it right now." His head was pounding again.

"Uncle said you had a concussion."

"Borderline."

"And that's better?" Smalls gave her a questioning look that she met with a raised eyebrow.

"Slightly." He finally answered. Heather looked skeptical. "Alright," He admitted reluctantly, "It doesn't feel much better." It struck him then as odd that he had so readily admitted his pain to a doe he barely knew. But I want to. The thought came without permission, and Smalls could only look away as his face flushed from it. But it was the truth. Smalls, to his great confusion and embarrassment, found himself attracted to her in a way he'd never been with anyone else. Heather didn't appear to notice.

"We're moving again!" Wilfred called. Smalls looked up. Apparently, Wilfred and Picket had come to some sort of agreement, which was a nice way of saying that Picket had been given zero choice in the matter. Wilfred was carrying Picket on his back. Smalls hung back with Heather, deciding that he liked her company far more than Picket's.

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The rain turned into a mist and fog that made it much more difficult to navigate. And it was all uphill now. Smalls was tired. He tried to calculate how many miles he'd traveled in the last three days but gave up when he realized he didn't really want to know. The fog made him uneasy, and he kept his hand on his sword at all times, drawing it whenever he heard a strange noise. Better safe than sorry. He thought, glancing at Heather.

"You don't have to walk with me if you don't want to." Heather said softly. "I'm alright." Smalls looked at her, surprised. She must have thought that she was an inconvenience when Smalls actually thought the opposite.

"I would rather stay if you don't mind." He replied. Heather nodded, turning her head slightly so that he just caught the barest trace of a smile. That lifted his mood slightly. There was something warm and kind about her, and sad, too, a sadness that seemed to come from deep inside her and made her seem much older than she was, and she carried herself in a manner that denoted much higher rank then what she was born into. "I'm sorry you have to go through all of this." Smalls said, and he meant it.

"Thank you, but it isn't your fault." Smalls hesitated. They were looking for my mother. But he couldn't say that. It would spark too many questions-and Heather was anything but stupid. She wouldn't take whatever flimsy half-lie Smalls would be able to come up with seriously.

"It might not be," He finally said, "But losing loved ones is hard no matter who you are." Her eyes met his, and the same pain that had been there earlier that day was back, forming tears in the corners of her eyes. There was a question, hanging there, on the tip of her tongue but she didn't ask it. Smalls could sense it, and an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. But Heather looked away, saying nothing. The question faded. But Smalls knew what it was, and he knew that he could never have told her the true answer. Who are you? The truth was so much more complicated than Smalls would have liked. He sighed.