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You are a palisman, and there is a boy who desperately needs you.
This is how you phrase it in your mind. It has been a long, long time since you have taken on a child. You have been longer without than you have been with, because it leaves aches in your little wooden chest that you cannot ignore, a reminder of what you have lost, of what was taken from you.
You are damaged. There are cracks in more ways than one.
But you are a palisman, and there is a boy, and he desperately needs you.
He looks like the boy who was yours, a very long time ago, and you notice, because of course you do. Because even all these years and years later you love that boy who loved you, who died with you cradled to his chest.
This boy is different. He is angrier, and harsher. He has scars and hurts and fears. Sometimes you think this is why the bond works, the fact that you are both a little broken, both a little cracked.
He’s very wary. He watches you. He gives you berries you don’t like. You find your new funny cloth nest smashed on the floor, your boy standing panting and vindictive a few feet away. He yells at you, sometimes, tells you to go away. He tells you that you are evil, and bad, and tricking him.
But you are patient, because you are a palisman, and you know know know your boy is good. You know it the way you know magic. It breathes in you.
So you share the berries, because he is too skinny, your boy. Muscled but lean in ways that worry you. You put your nest back together without even an upset tweet, and graciously accept when he comes by with the setting sun with a tiny, poorly stitched pillow to rest your head. You tell him that he is a good boy, a sweet boy, your boy, and that he is loved loved loved.
He doesn’t seem to understand it. You give him kindnesses he does not know how to hold. You say good job and good work and you do not ever hurt him, not ever. He is carrying enough hurts. You are learning this. There are so many hurts, inside of him and out. That is why he breaks your things and calls you names. He does not understand that there is nothing he can do that will make you hurt him.
This is okay. You are patient. You will show him.
Your boy is also very stupid sometimes.
It is not his fault. He was taught stupid things. Somebody took the time to grow it in his chest, seeded the fields and harvested bitter, vile things. He talks about an Uncle. You do not like Uncle very much.
But you do love your boy.
So you stick with him. You fight with him, even against your friends, and it works because a long time ago you spent years figuring out how to do magic with the boy who once was yours but now is gone. Both of them let loose the same, breathless laugh the first time the magic thrummed through you and then into the air. You try not to think about it.
You try to teach him right from wrong. You try to show him how to pull out the weeds choking his lungs. You think sometimes that it is working. You think sometimes that the roots are so deep, and feel bad for it. Missions come to fruition, others fall apart.
He won't take you to see Uncle, even though he is pale and scared. You hold bandages in your beak as the blood escapes from him after the bad visits, useless when it comes to healing him. You are not made of that kind of magic.
“It’s okay,” he says, your boy, your sweet boy. He is trying to comfort you. His hands are shaking and red. “I messed up. I’ll do better next time. It’s okay.”
You make sure he wraps all his wounds. You tell him, I love you I love you I love you. You tell him, I’m sorry. You tell him, next time, next time, I come with. Protect you.
He tells you, like a secret, “I love you back.”
He tells you, quietly, “Don’t be sorry.”
He tells you, terrified, “Absolutely not.”
He is shaking so hard when he tells you to stay away from Uncle that you agree, if only so he will breathe. You spend the night cradled in his hands, pressed against his chest, and even though he has cleaned them all you can think of is the red on a set of fingers of another boy who used to love you. Who held you just like this even as he stopped breathing.
You do not sleep. You sit with your boy and listen to his heart beat. It is loud because you are small. You wish you were smaller, so that the steady rhythm could be louder. You want it to drown out all the hurts in your head. You want the reminder; alive, alive, alive. You promise yourself you will not lose him. You will not lose this boy the way you lost the last one. You will not fail him.
When you next dream, it's of gardening. Your boy laughs. You do not know which one. You fly up in the sky and realise the whole field is red, red, red.
Your boy comes out of Uncle’s mind. He does not want to stay with Kind Lady Who Is Cursed. He does not want to stay with One Who Calls You Rascal. He runs.
Your boy desperately needs you, and you follow him. You find him a hollow in a tree and stay with him. Rubbing against his neck, ruffling his hair, tweaking his ear. He is shaking and swallowing air, chest heaving. His heart beats fast, so fast, and you do not know how to help him. You are again useless in keeping him safe.
“I’m not even real,” he rasps, head buried into his knees. You squirm into the small space so that you can lean into his cheek, his nose, wherever there is space for something other than panic.
Real, you tell him. Real. You’re mine.
The school is an hour away. You know it is safe. You get him to his feet and you take him flying. You find him a place to hide. You find him food to eat. You kidnap clothes from the place of lost things. He needs you, and you love him, and that is all there is to it.
(He tells you about grimwalkers. Shows you pictures. He calls Uncle new names, stumbling over them until they run smooth. He calls him Belos. He calls him Phillip. There were bodies in the man’s head, your boy says. There were so many bodies, and they were all him.)
(He tells you about grimwalkers. He looks so much like the boy who once loved you. The boy who once loved Phillip. The boy who is now dead.)
(You know that if your boy knew, he’d be hurt. There are already so many hurts inside of him.)
(You decide to keep it to yourself.)