Smalls did not see Wilfred for most of the day. Heather and Picket's initiation was that night-and, well, Smalls didn't want to be there. He didn't need to hear the horror story again, or see the pain in his friends' eyes as they learned the truth about the world. It was selfish. Really, he just didn't want to see the pain in Heather's eyes. That thought only made him feel worse about the whole ordeal.

What Evan had said earlier-about him being in love with Heather-had stuck.

The idea made him nervous and worried. It wasn't something he wanted to deal with-nor was it something he even knew how to handle. Suddenly, his feelings around her over the last few days made much more sense. Maybe he really was falling in love with her.

No, it wasn't just a maybe, it was an absolute-100%-certainty. That was what really scared him. Knowing that he did. And the fact that he enjoyed it. This couldn't happen. Not now. Maybe not ever. He was afraid of it-afraid because he didn't understand it. Afraid because it meant getting attached, and every time he got attached, it seemed, whoever it was he loved got hurt.

He was afraid of that.

Smalls was afraid of a lot of things, really, too many to count, some irrational, some rational, but what it mostly boiled down to was an innate need to protect, and an inability to do so.

Sleep did not come easily that night, and when he did drift off, the dreams made him wish he hadn't.

.

.

.

He saw Heather in the Savory Den the next morning, but, since Emma was with her, he kept his distance and ate alone once again. Her head was down and she looked as if she'd spent a good portion of the night crying, but he didn't say anything. His nervousness around her had decidedly increased since the last time he'd seen her. He didn't want to talk, and had to dodge Evan when he came looking for him. Smalls just wanted time to think-time he hadn't gotten.

He didn't know what to do or where to go. He didn't know Cloud Mountain well enough to feel comfortable there. And he was tired of being in his room. So, he wandered, not staying very long in any one place. He got a good feel for Cloud Mountain, discovering that if you wanted to access somewhere hallway round was basically the crossroads for the entire community.

Eventually he found himself outside again through one of the doors in hallway round. He was on a long porch, looking out into the mist. He knew that it was facing the once-Great Wood, but the fog prevented sight. It didn't make him feel better.

"You are Smalls, aren't you." Smalls jumped, not expecting the voice. It came from a middle-aged doe, sitting in a chair half-turned towards the Great Wood. She had a gentle, kind look, but there was also a sharp intelligence. Her fingers were moving so quickly through her sewing they were practically blurs.

"How do you know who I am?" He asked, defensive immediately. A lifetime of hiding had made him cautious if not paranoid.

"Oh, I know everyone here. I was friends with your mother, I remember when you were still only a toddler."

"How-"

"You will find that more are aware of your true heritage here than you might suspect." She paused a moment, cocking her head at him, "Why are you here?" The directness had Smalls fumbling for an answer.

"I….don't know." He finally replied. "Who are you?"

"My name is Maggie Weaver." She replied. Smalls realized that he was being, in fact, incredibly rude. "You are troubled." Maggie said. "As I may guess." She pursed her lips and murmured something that Smalls didn't quite catch. Louder, she said, "Do you know what this place is?" Smalls hesitated.

"Not this place, exactly. I haven't been here before." He gestured out. "I know that that's the Great Wood. But I don't know why you are sitting out here. Or why there are so many painters."

"I am here to work." Maggie said simply. "The painters are here to work, also." Smalls glanced over at the artists-and then said,

"There work isn't accurate."

"Art is not meant to be accurate, princeling. It is meant to evoke feeling. Does their art make you feel something?" Smalls watched as a painter applied more green to a forest that didn't exist anymore. He contemplated a moment, and then shook his head,

"No. Because it isn't true."

"Do you believe that someday it may be?" Smalls hesitated, looking at the ground,

"Maybe." He finally replied. "Maybe someday. But it will take a long time for the green to return." Maggie nodded sadly.

"It will." She agreed. "Perhaps a very long time, past my years. Perhaps past yours. But that doesn't mean that it's gone forever."

"Sometimes it feels that way."

"You've seen much death and hate," Maggie said, her voice kinder than any Smalls had heard in a very long time. "I wouldn't blame you if you had given up on life itself." She paused. "But you are very brave to not have." She turned back to the fog, and smiled, her face somehow joy-filled and grief-ridden at the same time. "The green will come again, dear prince, the green will come again. Don't give up hope, just because something looks dead does not mean that it is."

.

.

.

"What is it that you do all day?" Smalls looked up from his book to see Kyle. He looked very out of place in the quiet, peaceful library.

"Currently it's reading." Smalls replied, turning a page. "Since the doctor won't let me do much still." This was true. After seeing Mrs. Weaver, Wilfred had made him go and see one of the doctors, though it wasn't Zeiger this time. The doctor had said he still wasn't supposed to be on the more badly cut foot. And the wound on his back still wasn't completely healed, to his annoyance.

"Well, what do you do when you aren't on crutches?"

"That varies."

"You're very vague."

"I enjoy my privacy."

"You've made that clear." Kyle snorted. "Do you even have friends?" Despite the rudeness, Smalls still replied,

"Mostly acquaintances."

"So you keep to yourself?" Smalls had to resist rolling his eyes. Is that not obvious? Smalls knew he was a bit of a loner-he just preferred to be by himself. Was that so wrong?

"Ordinarily." He still didn't like Kyle. In fact, his dislike of him was only growing.

"Well, what friends do you have?" Smalls looked up over the cover of his book.

"Why do you care to know?"

"Curiosity, can you blame me?" Smalls closed his book, sitting up slightly straighter and meeting the other buck's gaze evenly. For a moment, Kyle's eyes seemed to flinch. He still was hiding something, but what that was Smalls could only guess.

"I have a brother." He said at last.

"That's all?"

"That's all." Kyle scrutinized him for a moment.

"And where do the Longtreaders fall on that?" He asked.

"You asked about friends."

"So, you are a Longtreader?"

"Not by blood." Kyle shook his head.

"You're contradicting yourself." It was the most serious Smalls had heard him.

"Paradoxes exist." Smalls replied, opening his book again and turning a page. Kyle stood there for a minute, and then turned and walked away. He wants something. Smalls thought, watching the retreating figure out of the corner of his eye. I wish I knew what.

.

.

.

Never before had Smalls so thoroughly regretted asking for a bowl of soup than that evening at dinner. The absolutely murderous look the apprentice gave him-apparently one from Blackstone-was enough to make him wish to get away as quickly as possible. He knew the drill by now; and he was used to the ridicule. Didn't mean he liked it.

Half-way through his soup (And about a third through his book) Heather came and asked if she could sit down. Smalls said yes, (Because of course he was going to) but secretly wondered where Emma had gone. Heather had been with her for most of the last week. She didn't appear conversational, and a heavy sadness had settled on her. Smalls wasn't surprised, but he was sorry. She barely touched her food. He hesitated for a long while, and then suggested,

"Maybe you should eat some more." Heather shook her head.

"I'm not hungry." Smalls was beginning to doubt she had eaten anything all day.

"Where's Emma?"

"I don't know. It was…..too much." She blushed, and looked down.

Smalls wondered what she meant by 'too much', and whether she was talking about the initiation the night before or the day after. Maybe both. He had no idea how to comfort her or make it better, so he just sat there quietly. Well, he wouldn't leave her, and that was one thing he knew for sure he could do.

"Thank you." Her voice came out as little more than a whisper, and her eyes remained trained on the bowl as she slowly stirred the soup with her spoon.

"For what?" Smalls asked, not sure what he had done that had warranted that.

"For-" She gestured vaguely. "Well, everything. You don't have to put up with all this." Smalls looked away.

"Wilfred has done much for me." He said at length. "A few angry glares or a bit of gossip is something I can take."

"It's not just a bit, you know that." Smalls shrugged.

"He's done more than you know." He almost added-'and so have you'-but quickly stopped himself. Her hands were trembling lightly, and when Heather realized he had seen, she hid them under the table. "You should eat." He said gently. "You'll make yourself sick." Heather nodded, but didn't resume her meal. "Everything will work out." He said. Normally, he wasn't one for hopeful messages or positive half-truths. This didn't feel like a lie, however. For once it felt true. "It can't last forever." Even to himself, his voice sounded inexplicably soft. Heather smiled, and then laughed a bit. She brushed at her eyes, and then looked back up at him.

"There's still hope, isn't there?"

"Yes. I can't tell you everything now, but as long as there's people like us left to fight, then there's hope." Heather nodded, content with that answer. She began to eat.

.

.

.

Poor Heather :'(. At least Smalls was there, clueless though he is...No Evan this chapter, sadly. Instead we get Kyle, my least favorite *sigh*