"Wolves?" Wilfred questioned the minute Decker let them in, locking the door behind them.

Decker nodded, running a hand through the fur in between his ears. "They've been lingering in the woods for quite some time. I'm worried they'll attack–I already sent out a message to–" he stopped, eyes landing on Picket. "Who's this?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, this is my nephew, Picket," Wilfred said. "Picket, this is Tommy Decker, a dear friend of mine."

"Hm," Decker nodded. "Whittle's child?"

"That would be him," Wilfred confirmed.

Decker stepped away from the door, tearing his eyes away from Picket. "I'll tell you later," he said, nodding at Wilfred and Smalls. "I think I need to feed the three of you first, no?"

"That would be nice," Smalls said. "I'm so hungry, I could eat just about anything at this point."

Decker laughed, leading them through a narrow hallway. Picket found it hard to not look at the pictures lining the wall–there were so many people, smiling and laughing, forever frozen in the paintings. Were they relatives, long gone at this point? Were they friends? He was reminded of his own home, where beautiful paintings Mother had painted with her limited supplies were lined across the walls. There had been one from the Great Wood, he realized. That one hung over the mantelpiece.

It was gone now. Burned up. Reduced to ashes.

Decker brought out three bowls, slicing some thick bread and laying it down. Picket realized just how hungry he was. The berries he had that morning seemed like ages ago. Decker sliced apples and peaches, passing the bowls to the three hungry travelers. "I don't have much," Decker said. "I suppose I've gotten used to living alone since–" he stopped.

"Since…" Smalls prompted, a sudden flash of curiosity appearing on his face.

"Ah, since my latest visitor," Decker said lightly, the look in his eyes clearing. "He came 'round similarly to you, though he stumbled out of the woods rather than stumbling out of a boat."

Wilfred chuckled lightly. "Thank you for the meal, Tommy. We're very obliged."

"Not a problem," Decker said. "I appreciate the company, as untimely as it is," he said, his tone both a mixture of grim and light.

"Of course," Wilfred said. "We should be out of here by tomorrow–we just needed somewhere to stop."

Decker nodded, glancing over at Picket, curiosity appearing on his face again.

"How long have these wolves been here?" Smalls asked.

Decker frowned. "About a week, I'd say. They've been prowling around the border of my garden for two days now. I haven't gone outside since then."

"And you sent a message to…" Wilfred trailed off, glancing around the room.

"I did," Decker confirmed. "He knows. One can never be too careful." He glanced again at Picket. Picket felt very conspicuous with everyone staring at him like he was ruining their conversation. Maybe he was. "It's getting late, lad," Decker said in a gentle tone, in a way that Picket didn't like. Decker was talking to him like he was a small child. "I have a guest room–third door on the left just upstairs. You can rest there for the night."

"We'll talk more in the morning," Wilfred promised, smiling.

Picket took that as a sign to leave. He did so reluctantly. His meal was finished, sure, but he wanted to hear what Uncle Wilfred and the other two were going to talk about.

He went up the stairs, coming up to the second floor. Here he hesitated–the stairs were just out of sight from the kitchen, and no one could see him unless they looked there on purpose. He could eavesdrop. Picket mulled over the decision for a few seconds. He was exhausted, but his curiosity and need for more answers outweighed that. He settled himself on the top of the stairs, tucked out of sight, and strained his ears to hear the conversation rising from Decker's kitchen.

"Nick Hollow's a ruin," Wilfred was saying. "I think they took everyone." He sounded exhausted. "Picket may very well be the only survivor. It was a small community, and with the amount of enemies that were there–" Picket felt very ill at the words. Him, the only survivor, from Nick Hollow?

Were the Whittakers dead? Farmer Elric's family? All his friends from the schoolhouse? His neighbor, just down the pasture and to the right, was dead as well?

Or were they taken away to the Great Wood?

"Such is Morbin's way," Smalls said bitterly.

"Where do you plan to head?" Decker said. "You can't stay here for long."

"We thought of the Great Wood," Wilfred said. "But Winslow as good as banished us. Morbin's been in his ear for far too long, and it's too risky. We'd typically be able to do it with just the two of us…but…"

"The boy?" Decker asked. "What are you planning to do with him?"

"I had thought–maybe–we could leave him here with you," Wilfred began. "But with these wolves nearby, and the risk that they might attack…he's my family. I can't leave him. I have a duty to Whittle to protect him."

Picket stood up and backed away from the staircase. He didn't want to hear much more. It felt like he was a burden to Wilfred, hearing these words come from his new-found uncle's mouth.

A duty to protect him.

A duty.

It hurt a lot more than Picket wanted it to.

He went to bed feeling angry at himself and angry at the world.

"Lad, wake up!"

Picket was ripped from his terrifying dreams by Decker shaking him awake. The first thing he processed was the orange light all over the room. "What's going on?" he coughed, inhaling the sharp scent of smoke.

"The wolves attacked," Decker said, and Picket leapt from his bed.

"What?"

"Your uncle is waiting for you," Decker said, pushing him out the door. Picket glanced out the window, eyes widening as he saw wolves moving through the orange flames. They were here. It was like back in Nick Hollow. "You need to run. Don't look behind you, and don't stop," Decker said.

"What about you?" Picket asked.

"I'm staying," Decker said grimly, the two racing down the stairs. "I've accepted my fate, but you–you need to keep fighting."

"You can't just stay!" Picket protested. "They'll kill you!"

"I know, lad," Decker said. "But I'm an old buck. I've lived my life. And I know, if I run now, I won't live long enough to see the Mended Wood."

Picket stared, uncomprehending. A window shattered down the hall. The only thing he could smell was smoke, and the only thing he could see was Decker's blurred face, partially obscured by the smoke pouring through the windows. He didn't breathe in too deeply, otherwise the smoke would choke him.

"Run, Picket," Decker said. Picket could see Wilfred and Smalls, both of them at the ready for any attack, their swords bare.

Picket took a few stumbling steps backwards.

"It will not be so in the Mended Wood," Decker whispered.

Picket turned and ran.

[BREAK]

Hurling through the woods blindly, Wilfred behind him and Smalls in front of him, was very possibly one of the worst things Picket had ever done.

No longer half-asleep, Picket did his best to follow Smalls through the thick woods, crashing clumsily around. Panic raced through every nerve. Were the wolves following? Was he going to die now?

"We can stop now–" Wilfred said through gasps, exhaustion obvious in his eyes. Picket came to a stuttering stop, slumping against a tree, taking great gasps of air. He felt like he could still smoke. His ankle hurt terribly.

"They saw us," Smalls said. "They knew when to attack." He shared a horrified glance with Wilfred. "Decker–"

"He's gone," Wilfred said, and Picket's heart fell. Decker was dead. He had only known the buck for a handful of hours, but the loss felt jarring. Add it to the pile of grief Picket was already struggling to carry. Wilfred picked himself up, dragging himself from where he was standing. "Well–we're near where I intended to go next," he said grimly, trying to keep a light tone, but it obviously wasn't working.

"Right," Smalls said.

"Where are we going?" Picket winced as a jolt of pain raced up his foot. Had he injured it somehow, running from those monsters? He had half a mind to tell Wilfred, but seeing the determined and exhausted looks on his companions' faces, he changed his mind. He could bear through the pain, he was sure. If they could do it, he could. And he was not going to admit weakness in front of Smalls, no matter what.

"Good," Smalls said. "I'm…I'm going to need a rest," he said, gesturing to the sun slowly starting to peek from the sky.

"I think we all will need one," Wilfred shot a worried glance towards Picket. "How are you holding up, lad?"

"Fine," he said, concealing a wince as he walked up to them.

"Good," Wilfred said. He didn't even notice Picket trying to conceal his limp. Bitterness welled up in Picket, and at this point, Picket just let the angry thoughts come forward. "Let's go. We're not far, if I'm not wrong."

Picket forced himself to run after the two, though the pace was much slower then when they had been fleeing the wolves. He ignored the jolts of pain he felt with every single step, and he lingered at the back so no one saw him wincing. He didn't know how long they ran, but at one point the ground sloped up and Picket found it harder and harder to ignore the sharp bolts of pain racing through him. He still didn't speak. He could bear through it. Heather–if she was alive, his mind added–was probably suffering more than him. He could do this.

The sun started to rise steadily in the sky. They took a rest at midday, and Picket was extremely grateful for that. Wilfred paced the entirety of the small camp they set up, absorbed in his thoughts so much so he didn't seem to notice either Smalls or Picket.

They picked up their pace again as the sun began its descent,

"We're here," Wilfred said, as they entered a misty clearing. A stream could be heard nearby, the trickling sound constant in Picket's ears. Picket wished he could see better. It felt horrible, standing in the mist—he felt exposed, but he couldn't see anything besides Smalls' blurry shape and Wilfred next to him.

Smalls rolled his shoulders loosely. "I'll make sure it's safe," he said. He held his sword with such casual confidence. The nausea-inducing jealousy was back. Picket forced himself to look away before the jealousy turned into anger.

"Stay here, please," Wilfred said to Picket, joining his ward.

The two only managed a couple steps, glancing around, before there was a voice. "Stand fast!" A pause. "Another step, and it'll be a bellyful of arrows for you."

"I'm so hungry, I could eat just about anything," Smalls said calmly, tilting his head in the direction of the voice.

"Another word out you, and you might get your wish, little one." Picket found it hard to hide a small smile at the insult disguised as a nickname.

"Have anything savory or dennish?" Wilfred asked, as the wind picked up and the mist was swept away, revealing a cadre of rabbits, all of them armed with bows and arrows. All were dressed in an unfamiliar uniform. The tall rabbit at the front squinted, trying to see through the thin veil of mist that still lingered.

"Is that Wilfred?" he asked, and his tone felt rather hostile. It certainly didn't put Picket at ease.

"It is," Wilfred said easily, ignoring the hostility in the buck's tone. "Is that Pacer?"

"The same," Pacer gave Wilfred a curt bow, descending from the rock, sending uneasy glances to Smalls and Picket. "It's been a long time." If Pacer and Wilfred were friends, Picket thought, then this was a rather cold and stiff reunion. Pacer's face seemed permanently bent into a frown.

"We've come far, and we're very hungry," Wilfred said. "We need to get inside."

"No one gets in unless Lord Rake gives the word," Pacer said sharply. He nodded to one of his companions, and the buck spun around and turned back into the cave.

"How long has that been the law?" Smalls questioned with an edge to his words.

"Since our most recent betrayals," Pacer told Smalls. "It's hard to trust anyone, regardless of their family connections."

An awkward silence fell over them as they awaited this…Lord Rake. Picket had never been in the presence of a Lord before.

"It is an evil age where friends cannot be trusted," Wilfred finally said, selecting his words carefully. "But I understand."

Pacer merely scowled.

There were footsteps, and the buck appeared again, this time followed by a tall rabbit with gray and white fur, dressed elegantly. He struck Picket as a fatherly type, and the thought drove deep into Picket. His own father was gone—possibly, very possibly, dead.

The rabbit glanced at the gathering in the clearing, before stepping towards Wilfred. He sent a furtive glance towards Smalls, and then Wilfred and he wordlessly embraced. "I'm so glad to see you," the rabbit said. Pacer stepped to the side, his stance still stiff and uniform. "You are very welcome, friends."

"Thank you, lord," Wilfred said. "This is my nephew, Picket."

"I am very pleased to meet you. Ah—" Rake smiled. "I see you are injured, Picket. Nathaniel," the lord turned to one of Pacer's lieutenants. "Could you fetch Emma? She should be in the hospital. And get Gort as well."

The lieutenant Nathaniel nodded, disappearing swiftly into the cave.

Wilfred glanced at Picket, eyes widening in concern.

Picket didn't meet his gaze.

"Such a foolish child," Wilfred muttered under his breath, some traces of guilt on his face, and Picket cringed away from him.

"And this," Wilfred said finally, hesitantly, "is Smalls."

"Smalls," Rake said. "A pleasure to meet you."

"I'm sorry to cut introductions short," Wilfred said, sobering quickly. "But I'm regretful to bring the news that Tommy Decker was killed by—" he stopped short. "The wolves. They got to him."

Rake's face fell. "We got his message, we knew about the wolves…and I had hoped that he would get out in time…" he glanced up, his face suddenly calm, his voice strong. "It will not be so in the Mended Wood!"

Picket remembered what Decker, clearly a beloved rabbit, had said to him in the burning house.

It will not be so in the Mended Wood.

silly fun fact: the person Decker talked about "stumbling out of the woods" was one of my very first Green Ember OCs. I don't write him anymore but I felt obliged to reference his story :)