Er...TW for child abuse and implied kidnapping? Kinda? Also torture. Smalls will never have an easy life while I am writing...
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Later that afternoon, Smalls looked through the rest of Evan's letters. Most were only notes and random notices about everyday thoughts and minor occurrences. Nothing that was really important in the grand scheme of things. Evan raved on for a whole page about how happy he was spring was coming. There were another two paragraphs dedicated to insulting names he had given Ronan's son.
But even if it never would matter to anyone else, it mattered to Smalls. And it mattered to Evan. Really, they did tell each other everything. They always had. They'd only ever had each other when things were hard, and tragedy had brought them together instead of pushing them apart.
Writing out everything that had happened in the last few days was difficult, but Smalls managed. He wound up with nearly twenty pages of material by the time he was done, and his hand was shaking so badly that he could barely write his name.
He didn't want to think about it.
He didn't want to remember, he just wanted to forget. And forget and forget and forget. Because he couldn't handle the pain. Not of this. He couldn't. He cringed at the memory, but he could still feel it. Smalls had been young, yes, but that didn't mean that the day hadn't been as imprinted in his mind as the brand had been on his foot.
Daggler.
No. I won't do this. I won't. It can't control me- But it was too late. Smalls squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if that might stop the pain.
There were good reasons why Smalls hated the First Warren so strongly.
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Smalls tried to sleep. But he felt like he was suffocating. It was too dark, too closed in. He lay there for a few more minutes, then bolted up, deciding that sleep was severely overrated. He dressed quietly, sheathed his sword, and secured it around his waist, then pulled his cloak on. Remembered he wasn't supposed to be walking on his feet just yet, grumbled a moment, then took the crutches leaning against the wall from where they'd been left earlier that afternoon.
The halls were mostly empty, except for a few tired-looking soldiers who barely gave him a second glance. He was just about to step out into Whitson's garden when he crashed into someone. Righting himself, he mumbled an apology and was going to move forward when a voice stopped him.
"Smalls? What are you doing up at this time?" Heather asked. Smalls looked up, surprised. A moment passed, and then he replied,
"I could ask you the same thing." Concern was etched in every line of Heather's face. She hesitated, looked away and responded,
"I've been dreaming. But you haven't answered my question." Smalls glanced all around for some sort of way to escape. He didn't want to explain anything, or have to answer to anyone, he just wanted peace and quiet. Finally, he settled on;
"I wasn't able to sleep." Heather didn't look like she quite believed him, but didn't question it.
"How are your feet?"
"A bit painful." He admitted, a wave of relief washing over him. Physical pain was okay. He could do that. He could explain that. "But nothing I can't handle." Heather studied him for a minute. It felt like she was seeing straight through to his soul, straight through his feeble lies and flimsy barricades and right to the truth. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Something's bothering you." She said, voice dropped into a whisper.
"That might be the lack of sleep." He responded, trying to keep his voice light. Heather raised her eyebrows. He had epically failed, evidently.
"I'm not asking you to tell me about it." She said. "I know you don't know me well. Just….it's going to be okay, alright? We're safe here." She paused, and her face softened, "Whatever it is your going through, you have friends, okay? I hope you know that." Smalls nodded numbly.
"You should go back to sleep." He said. Heather nodded, cast him one last sympathetic look, and turned back down the hall.
Smalls argued with himself a moment, sighed, and then went back to his room. The darkness didn't seem so dark this time, and he fell asleep quickly.
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Smalls woke the next morning in a much better mood than he'd been in for a while. Wilfred took advantage of this at breakfast.
"I want to show you something." He said. Smalls looked reluctantly up from his plate of steaming applesauce.
"What?"
"You'll see." Smalls wasn't sure if he like that or not.
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"That's a lot of stairs." Smalls muttered. Wilfred smirked.
"Do you-"
"No." Smalls refused the offer of help before the word had even left Wilfred's mouth. Wilfred laughed for what seemed like the first time in a long time.
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Light Hall was beautiful, that was certain, and Smalls was glad that there were artists working so hard to preserve their history, but he wasn't sure he understood why Wilfred had wanted to show him it.
"Wilfred," He asked, "Why are we here?" He could see a few artisans working a while away down from them, out of earshot, but they took no notice and continued on in there work as if no one was there. Wilfred sat heavily on a workbench.
"I wanted to tell you something." Smalls sat down beside him.
"What's going on?" You've been acting strange ever since the First Warren. Before that, even. Wilfred sighed and rubbed his face.
"You know how many siblings you have, yes?" Smalls was confused. Obviously, he knew how many siblings he had-most hated him with a burning passion.
"Of course." He replied.
"How much do you remember of before the fall?" Wilfred had never asked that before. Smalls looked down, struggling to recollect.
"I…...remember the apple tree outside the nursery window, that they burned later." He admitted. "And the model ship none of us were allowed to touch that hung on the wall and was broken when the wolves got in. And…" There were a few blurry images of his mother, one foggy memory that he thought might have been his father, but beyond that there was nothing. "I don't know." He admitted.
"Do you remember your sisters?"
"Which one?" Wilfred sighed.
"Your younger."