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GULL
and deep down I know this never works
It is only a few moments before the little form stumbles out of the drifts, but it feels like an eternity. “Calm down!” the tiny voice pipes, “I’m…” Right here. “Brigand,” you choke, “You’re…” Alive. But you cannot bring yourself to finish the sentence, not while you are covered in blood with his mother’s battered body between you. Instinctively, you step around the corpse, in a weak attempt to shield it from his view. You know that it’s too late, and he’s already seen what has befallen her, but you feel an urge to protect him from the worst of it. Gods knew, you still had the nightmares, and your mother’s death had been nowhere near this gory.
But the kid only stares back at you, barely moving, his face eerily calm. You return his gaze, face contorted with grief and confusion. How can he just stand there? You’d have expected explosive emotion from the kid—crying, anger, desperation, anything but this. Instead, he looks on quietly, features stony as he murmurs, “He killed her, Gull.”
And your heartbeat hammers in your chest. “Who did?” you demand, drawing yourself up to your full height. “Who, Brigand? WHO?” The last word comes out as a roar. You hadn’t meant to shout at the kid, but his testimony is your only clue to the bastard who killed Muriel. Perhaps it is not an appropriate reaction for a father—Muriel would have wanted you to comfort the kid, to tell him that everything would be okay in time, but Muriel wasn’t here right now. She had never seen the darkness in anyone, and it was that very darkness that had extinguished her life.
Besides, the kid had called you by name. You almost don’t notice, but you realize it as you stand there waiting for him to condemn the one who has done this to you both. Gull. He says it like you are equals, and it surprises you that you feel a weight lifted from your shoulders, a burden you hadn’t fully known you were bearing now taken away. Maybe one day you will miss the brief time he had called you Da and marked you as his own, but on this awful day, it’s fitting: you are the same in your loss.
@[Brigand]
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