The moon glowed off of the white of Kid’s face, the skull marking glowing brighter and brighter until it was the only thing left of him she could see. The rest of him was cast in shadow and dipped in darkness. Nymeria looked at him (carefully, almost enviously) seeing for what felt like the first time his bright pink eyes and his cold little face; how he’s grown, she thought, with a wretched sadness that didn’t belong alongside her disgust.

Then her gaze flicked down and away from his eyes to his body. It was not without some degree of malice that she examined the lines of his ribs and the sweat that glistened on his neck; but it was not a malice made for him. No, it was for whomever left those bruises, whomever left those cuts (she knew who did it, of course.) (She’d had her fair share of violence in her youth, and knew the sort who chose to do that to their children.)

If she could take the twins away—save them the pain she’d grown up with—would she?

You would, Lilómiel said with more than a hint of pride—but he, he was overestimating her. If she cared that much, she’d do something, instead of standing here in the dark and swallowing her disgust, both loving and hating her nephews so, so much.

None of it showed on her face (of course it didn’t); instead she tilted her head and swiveled her ears forward. I’m just—running, he said to her, his voice still shrill with his youth. Running? Of course he was running—running away, despite what he said. She wondered if he was afraid, like she had been (surely he was); or if he just wanted to dream of a different life for awhile, away from those who would consider dreaming a fool’s errand.

Nymeria felt as if she should offer Kid some form of comfort, but she wasn’t quite certain she knew how.

(Fuck Volterra! If only he hadn’t been laying about…)

The grullo shifted her weight, propping up a hind hoof and lowering her head, embodying casualness. “You know, Kid, if you ever need something… I’m here for you. Family first.” The words felt strange—wrong—given to someone other than Argen or Volterra, but she’d always been a good actor. They sounded as genuine, as honest, as they possibly could.

She hesitated; blinked; let her gaze dance away for a moment. Then she returned her red eyes to him, a faint smile quirking up the corners of her lips. He needs this. “And it’s okay to... run sometimes, Kid. I’ve done it before, and it doesn’t make me any weaker.”

(Or maybe it had. Confutatis would say it had.)

(But he doesn’t need to know that.)