Picket was in a bad mood, Smalls could tell, but he didn't like the idea of leaving the younger buck to wander around, upset and angry, to get into more trouble. Frankly, he didn't like the idea of leaving him alone even when he was in a good mood. Being a Longtreader, even if you didn't know it, was dangerous.

"I'm sorry Picket." Apologies usually lightened the mood. "I forgot how much it irritates you for me to call you 'lad'. I'll try to remember next time." He paused for a beat, and then added, "In my defense, It's what I call many of my younger friends." Not that he had many to begin with. Picket didn't say anything. He just continued down. Smalls could tell he was embarrassed, and didn't really blame him.

Smalls saw angry glares and mumblings out of the corner of his eye, but ignored it.

"Those guards back there at the door, they're trained to protect the community." He tried to make his voice calm, at the very least. "They have rules here that might seem a little strange." He paused a minute, but Picket didn't reply, so he proceeded. "You have to remember that most of the people here escaped the Afterterrors that followed the fall of the king. They are on edge, so when someone tries to break a door down, they have to act."

"But I wasn't trying to….." Picket gave up half-way through his sentence.

"Just hang in there la-um, pal." Now that, that sounded stupid. And everyone wondered why he wouldn't talk most of the time…"It's not the end of the world." That was the wrong thing to say, he thought, but all Picket muttered was;

"Too bad."

They reached the bottom of the staircase, and Picket pushed forward relentlessly, clearly wanting Smalls to go away. Smalls didn't.

They turned into another corridor, assuming an awkward silence Smalls was all too happy to be taking part in. Picket stopped at a door.

"This it?" Smalls asked. Picket nodded. "Is Heather around?" Again, Smalls realized that was the wrong thing to say, for the brief look Picket shot him was not cordial. And he didn't know why he'd asked anyways. He did want to see her again... He shoved that away.

Picket shook his head. He opened the door and went inside. Smalls made a split-of-the-second decision, and stopped Picket from closing the door by sticking his foot in. Unfortunately, it was the injured one. "Ouch!" He cried, cringing. "Dumb instincts." He added, rubbing his foot.

Picket said nothing. Smalls straightened again, foot still throbbing, and said,

"Listen, Picket." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to say this to you, because you hate me anyway and so it doesn't matter if you get even more angry at me." His sudden bluntness seemed to irritate Picket, because he tried to close the door again. Smalls wouldn't allow it. He shoved the door back open and entered the room. He first noticed the paintings. A sudden sadness swept over him as he gazed at them. They were all of the Great Wood. Every single one. In it's days of glory. Days Smalls couldn't even remember.

A touch of anger filtered in. Smalls was tired. Tired of everything. Tired of trying, tired of fighting, tired of….Picket. He kept his voice calm, but his words were not as gentle as they had been before.

"Listen, lad. And you are acting like a very little lad." He could sense Picket bristling, but didn't care. "You're not the only one bad things have happened to." His foot, still throbbing, ached all the more at the statement. "You're not the only one who's lost someone they love." Smalls could sense tears building in his eyes, and fought it. He was too old to cry. Instead, He continued. "You have got to pull yourself together and stop moping around, feeling sorry for yourself. I know, Picket. I know what you're going through." I've been through it a million times. And it hurts. I know it does. Life hurts. The painting directly in front of him was beautiful, but so tragic because the scene it depicted was likely burned to ash. "I know it so well." His voice cracked slightly at the end of that sentence. He reached out and touched the painting gently. He thought back to being eleven, to standing on the steps of the palace, eyes wide, watching his older sister's body be taken away. Then Matthew, his brother, dying of pox. Eliza, his cousin, withering away until she was little more than a skeleton.

How terrible it had been.

"We can't always save them." He whispered. "And we just have to do our part." He had said much more than he meant. Smalls turned and went quickly out, trying to hide the tears that had spilled over out of his control.

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.

.

Smalls delayed going down to lunch for as long as possible. This was hard, since he was hungry again, but he did not want to risk a meeting with either Heather or Picket. He wasn't in the mood to answer questions and was even less in the mood for conversation. He wandered down, finally, around one o'clock. Gort was annoyed at his lateness, which had become quite a trend, but begrudgingly handed over a bowl of stew the third time Smalls asked. He was peacefully eating it when a rabbit came up and sat down without any introduction. Smalls looked up. Great. The day was going just perfect.

"I'm Kyle." Smalls recognized him as the buck he had first seen the night of their arrival. He hadn't liked him, he remembered. Smalls wasn't any more interested in a conversation with 'Kyle' than he was with anyone else. "And you are?" Kyle prompted.

"Smalls." Smalls replied, wishing that Kyle would go away.

"Smalls? Why do they call you that?"

"Because it's my name." Kyle laughed.

Smalls didn't find it funny.

"Listen, there's been a lot of talk about you. I mean, everyone knows who Heather and her sour-puss brother are, but no one can figure out you."

And that's how it's going to stay. He picked at his food, wondering if there was some polite way to tell somebody to disappear into thin air and not come back. "Well, I'm not sure what they want to know." Sadly, there wasn't, so he settled on that reply instead.

"Anything."

"I'm adopted."

"Who'd willingly be adopted by a Longtreader?" Smalls couldn't find a reply, but Kyle continued before he could think any harder. "And-well, that stunt with Helmer yesterday is driving everyone mad." His voice dropped into a whisper. "Not everyone fires three arrows and they all find their mark. Nor does just anyone put their life on the line for Helmer the black." Mentally, Smalls grimaced.

Something was off about Kyle. Smalls didn't trust him. Not a bit. His attitude and manners disconcerted him. Kyle obviously had no issue with lying, and Smalls didn't like that. He was probably over-reacting, over-analyzing like he always did, but something told him that Kyle was not trustable.

"So why would you?" Kyle asked. "And 'because it's the right thing to do' is the worst reason ever."

"Do you need more than that?" For a moment, Kyle seemed taken aback, and fumbled a second, before replying smoothly,

"No, but it's very cliché, don't you think?" They went back and forth for a few more minutes, before Smalls excused himself.

Kyle was lying about something. Smalls couldn't have begun to guess why. But he didn't like it. Not a bit.

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.

The afternoon passed quietly-for him at least. Wilfred poked his head in around dinnertime to give him a rushed overview of his afternoon, which had not been quiet in the slightest.

So Picket was apprenticed.

Smalls, if he was being completely honest, didn't care much one way or the other. He did care that, apparently, since Picket's new master was 'Helmer the Black', half the leadership was fuming. More tension was exactly what they needed.

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.

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He woke early the next morning, a nightmare fading to the back of his mind as he dressed. His feet felt better. But not better enough to walk normally, he quickly learned. Unable to think of anywhere better to go, he went to Lighthall.

It had always been hard for him to put a name to his emotions. He had a tendency to bottle them up and store them away until they all erupted. After a fight. After a trigger. Sometimes they'd show up in nightmares that he was deeply ashamed of, other times it would just be this constant weight of foreboding in the back of his mind for weeks and weeks on end. Right now, it was giving him a headache to think about.

But it was quiet in Lighthall. It felt like a little bit of the mending, hidden away here, in the gentle beauty of the slowly rising sun shining through stained-glass windowpanes.

"Why're you crying, son?" Smalls jumped. He looked up to see an elderly looking rabbit, dressed in the habit of an artisan, and wearing thin, wiry glasses. For a moment Smalls was unsure of how to respond, as he hadn't even realized he was crying. Then he said,

"It's beautiful here." The old rabbit looked around, smiling sadly, wistfully.

"Aye, it is. We've tried to make it so. Our history deserves a place, even the bad parts." Smalls nodded in agreement. "I'm Luthe Glazier, master artisan here." He added as an afterthought.

"I'm Smalls. I feel closer to it here, the past. Thank you." He nodded to the image of his father. "To him."

"I have to go out for some supplies. I'll be back soon." Smalls nodded. It was all the same to him.

"All right, Master Glazier. I'll stay here for a little while. Thanks." Luthe Glazier smiled kindly at him.

"You're welcome anytime. And please, call me Luthe." He paused, "It pleases me that you feel close to your father here." His gaze flitted to Jupiter's picture. Smalls was startled. A short silence passed.

"Very few-" He began.

"I know it. You don't need to tell me. I understand." Luthe Glazier cast a sympathetic look at him, and walked away. Smalls, stunned as he was by the encounter, only turned back to watch the sunlight explode into Lighthall, throwing bright colors all over. It looked like fire.