Chapter Text
DRIP—DRIP—DRIP.
How much longer now?
DRIP—DRIP—DRIP.
How much longer does he have to endure this?
The sound is the only thing keeping time anymore. Each drop lands with mocking precision, plink, plink, plink, joining the dark pool beneath him. Old blood. New blood. His blood. All of it mingling into a filthy, lukewarm moisture that clings to his rotting clothes.
He doesn't even flinch anymore when a drop lands on his thigh.
Drip, drip, drip.
At some point, was it day three? Cycle seven? The fiftieth time they toyed with his body? The anger just evaporated. Boiled away until nothing was left but this hollow, heavy thing sitting in his chest.
Sadness.
Just sadness.
And somewhere beneath that, buried so deep he almost can't reach it anymore:
I want to go home.
Not the mansion. Not the castle. Home. The one with the cramped hallway and his dad's stupid loud voice and the vending machine drink that always came out cold.
"I wanna…" His voice cracks, raw, scraped-out, barely a whisper. "Go back… home."
A wet cough tears through his throat, spraying something dark onto the floor.
"So bad…"
He's crying again. He doesn't notice until he tastes salt mixing with iron on his lips. Tears slide down his cheeks and drip, drip, drip, into the puddle beneath his folded legs. Arms bent behind his back. Chained. Always chained.
But.
His eyelids flutter.
But.
Countless cycles of this, crying, bleeding, dying, resetting, have taught him something. Sharpened something in his dull, broken mind.
He doesn't need strength. He needs timing.
Just a few more seconds. Wait until the guard's footsteps fade, until the Blue gets tired of him. Wait until the chains loosen just one notch. They always do, right before they start again, overconfident, lazy.
Then move.
Just a bit longer now.
His fingers twitch behind his back.
Just a bit…
---
"—eh?"
The sound comes out before he can stop it.
His forehead presses against something rough. Hard. Textured like… skin? No. Not skin. Tree. His hands are gripping it. He can feel the ridges digging into his palms, and his whole weight is slumped forward like a puppet with cut strings.
"…hgnm…"
He pulls back. Or tries to. His neck doesn't want to cooperate.
Where?
Forest. Late at night. The moon is somewhere above, filtering through branches he can't quite focus on.
"Ah…?"
Another silly noise. His hand moves on its own, shaky, barely responsive, and touches his forehead. Warm. Wet. Liquid. His fingers come back red, and then the pain hits like a carriage to the face.
"GHNM…! HN…NMGNM…!"
He's on the ground. Grass beneath his back. His legs kick out, tearing up patches of earth, curling inward, trying to escape the burning thing on his skull that won't stop throbbing.
Not good. This is not good.
His thoughts are slow. Syrupy. Like trying to run underwater.
Want to be far away from the ache…
He sniffs. Rubs his eyes with the heel of a dirty hand. Sits up again, too fast, and the world lurches sideways.
His clothes are a disaster. Mud. Blood. Sweat. They stick to his skin in all the wrong places, stiff in some spots, damp in others.
What happened to me?
Something itches on his torso. He slides a hand under his shirt to scratch, finally, relief, but then the relief twists into burning and aching, and he yanks his hand back with a strangled whine.
Scratching bad. Prodding worse. So what do I do?
He looks down at his folded legs. Then at the bloody tree beside him.
What if?
He unfolds one leg. Then the other. Tries to push himself up, fails, grabs the tree trunk, hard, cold, solid, and hauls.
His knees lock. His calves shake. His ankles threaten to buckle.
But he's standing.
"…Oh."
The word comes out small. Wonderstruck.
He lets go of the tree.
One step. Wobbly. Nervous.
Two steps. Three. Four.
He's walking.
A laugh bubbles out of him, small, breathless, almost delirious. He sounds like a child learning to run. He feels like a child learning to run, every step a victory, every second upright a miracle.
Look at me. Look at me. I'm doing it.
The world tilts. His head throbs. His vision blurs at the edges, and something wet rolls down his face, sweat or blood or tears, he can't tell anymore.
He doesn't want to stop.
He's having fun.
His back finds another tree. He slides down it slowly, legs giving out like someone pulled a plug, and suddenly sitting feels like the best thing in the world.
Just rest a little…
His eyes close.
Just a little…
---
And then sunlight hits his face.
He blinks awake slowly, confused by the warmth, the lack of cold stone beneath him, should there be cold stone beneath him? The way his lungs inflate without resistance.
Oh.
Right. Forest.
He breathes in deep, long, savoring it like the first gulp of water after days in the desert. His body still aches. His head still pulses. But something is softer. More distant. Like the pain is happening to someone else, just out of reach.
He stands up. No tree needed.
Proud of me.
He doesn't know who the thought is for, but he smiles anyway.
The forest is beautiful in the morning. Sunlight filtering through green canopies. Birds he can't name hopping between branches. A squirrel, or something like a squirrel, staring at him from a log.
He's about to wave at it when his stomach growls.
Loud.
Painful.
He looks down, confused. What was that? Did I make that sound?
He takes a step. His stomach growls again, softer this time, almost conversational.
He laughs.
Stupid stomach. Stupid funny sound.
He keeps walking. Every few minutes, his stomach rumbles, and every time, he giggles like it's the funniest joke he's ever heard. He doesn't notice how lightheaded he's getting. Doesn't connect the growling to the hollow ache spreading through his gut.
Hunger isn't a word he remembers right now.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
He perks up.
A shadow moves through the trees ahead, big, much bigger than him. Four-legged. Blue. When it gets closer, he sees its eyes lock onto his, curious and unafraid.
It sniffs his face.
"…Ah."
He tilts his head. The beast tilts its head back.
Should I introduce myself?
"I'm…" He pauses. Frowns. What comes after 'I'm'? "…My… name…"
Nothing.
He doesn't know his name.
That's weird. Everyone has a name, right? So why?
"What's your name?" he asks instead.
The beast huffs.
Was that the wrong question?
"HEY! GET BACK HERE, YOU!"
A man's voice. He turns, too fast, and sees someone in green running toward them, panting, sweating, looking like he just chased the beast for miles.
Green. Pretty color.
The man skids to a stop, pets the dragon, dragon, that's what it is, an earth dragon, and then looks up.
His face goes pale.
"H-Holy!"
Holy? Holy what? Holy moly? Or did he try to say hello?
The man just stares at him. Eyes wide. Mouth open.
Oh. Right. I should say something.
He gives his best smile. Wipes some blood off his cheek, or tries to, but just smears it around. And then waves with a hand that won't stop trembling.
"Hel… lo…"
The word comes out slurred. Wrong. But he meant it.
Hello. That's a good word. Friendly.
The man just blinks. And ■■■■■■ blinks back, lowering his hand.
The earth dragon lowers its massive head and begins licking the blood from ■■■■■■'s face. At first, he giggles, but the moment the sting of his wound sets in after the licking, he winces and tries to pull back.
"Lyle! Get back!"
The man yanks his dragon away, then kneels, scanning the boy with worried eyes. "What the hell happened to you?" His brows furrow deep.
What happened to me?
"I don't know," ■■■■■■ says, staring down at himself. "I woke up here." He watches as the man mutters something under his breath, Gluttony, the word dark and clipped.
"Listen, kid. You need to treat that wound on your head. Urgently." The man crosses his arms.
Self-consciously, ■■■■■■ raises his hands to cover the gash.
The man sighs, shaking his head before reaching for a small pouch strapped to his earth dragon. "Sit down. I'll clean it and bandage it for you."
He grumbles as he speaks, leaving ■■■■■■ uncertain whether it's a request or an order.
What follows is a silence broken only by the earth dragon, now resting its heavy head on ■■■■■■'s lap, grunting and huffing in contentment.
"You're a weird kid," the man murmurs, narrowing his eyes. "No memories. Don't even flinch when I clean the wound. Look around like you've never seen a forest before."
■■■■■■ simply stares at him, unsure how to respond.
"I am sorry," he settles on saying.
The man just grumbles something unintelligible as the dragon nudges for more petting.
When the bandaging is done, ■■■■■■ feels much better. His forehead is neatly wrapped, the pressure soothing.
"I don't know how you got that, but it's gonna leave a scar." The man stands, urging his dragon up with a soft tap. "I have to head toward Lugunica. Can't stay and babysit you, boy."
He grabs a small bag and hands it over. ■■■■■■ rises slowly and takes it.
"Take these coins. Find something to do. Oh, and here, some appas." He adds a smaller pouch of red fruit. For reasons ■■■■■■ can't explain, his mouth waters at the sight. "Keep going straight and you'll hit some villages. Don't wander off the marked paths."
■■■■■■ nods, looking at the man for a long moment before offering a small smile. "Thank you."
The man just sighs. "Don't thank me. I'm basically leaving you to die out here." He pauses, jaw tight. "Actually, don't die, kid."
■■■■■■ nods again.
The man climbs onto his earth dragon, and within moments, both vanish into the trees.
Looking down at his hands, ■■■■■■ tucks the coins away, pulls out an appa, and takes a bite. Juice floods his mouth. His eyes light up with quiet delight, and soon he's devouring the fruit as he begins walking again, one small step after another.
---
When the sun starts to set, ■■■■■■ has already finished the bag of appas. His legs ache from the constant movement, but he finally spots a sign of civilization, a small village it seems.
He looks around, resisting the urge to nervously scratch his bandaged forehead as he realizes some of the villagers are staring at him.
Before he knows it, he's already trying to run away, walking down the path that leads back to the forest. But someone stops him, a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, where's your earth dragon, kiddo?" An old man asks, making him turn around. "You just walked inside the village without it, so…" He trails off.
■■■■■■ blinks up at him, nervously scratching his arms as he shakes his head.
"I have no earth dragon, sir," he murmurs, watching concern stretch across the man's face.
"You came walking?" The old man doesn't even try to hide the way he looks up and down at ■■■■■■'s body. "From the forest?"
He nods, holding the empty appa bag against himself.
"And you're just heading off? It's getting late." The man crosses his arms.
■■■■■■ nods again, giving a little smile free of any worry.
The man looks at him for a couple more seconds, then shifts position, standing by his side and gently patting ■■■■■■'s back.
"Come on, kid. You can continue your trip after some rest." He furrows his brows as he guides ■■■■■■ back toward the village, heading for a house.
The man, Cedric, kindly offers him a place to stay for the night, refusing, wide-eyed, the full bag of silver and copper coins ■■■■■■ offers, unaware of how much less these services cost.
But he does pay for new clothes and bandages, just a couple of coins, courtesy of Cedric's kindness.
And now, after a good bath, wearing nice, comfy clothes and bandaging his forehead again, ■■■■■■ lies down on the soft bed, curled into the covers while keeping his things hugged against himself: the bag of coins and the now-empty bag of appas.
At first, ■■■■■■ rests pleasantly. But he wakes feeling restless, his chest aching with sharp pains. It's difficult to keep his eyes open; the dizziness threatens to make him throw up on himself.
He tries sitting up, but it only makes everything worse, so he lies back down. Ignoring it doesn't help either. The malaise and muscle pain only worsen.
And what does he do then?
Simple. He cries. Sniffling quietly to himself as he hugs the two gifts, not really gifts, he got today, unsure of what to do anymore.
What happens when someone feels so much pain? Does it never stop?
He wants to be far, far away from the pain.
But even as he wishes for it, it doesn't happen. His body grows heavier and heavier, the sharp pains in his chest worsening even further.
Then something catches ■■■■■■'s attention: small, shiny orbs floating just above his body, descending upon him until they're close enough, seemingly watching as he breathes raggedly in pain.
And then he feels the pressure lessen. The pain subsides. His tears stop flowing, because he feels no more pain. Instead, a sense of relief floods his body.
"Ah…" He looks at the floating orbs that must have helped him, smiling, awed, as he watches them circle over his head. "Thank you."
He murmurs, sitting up to watch them more closely. But as soon as he does, he feels them pulse uncertainly, and then they disappear as fast as they appeared, much to ■■■■■■'s sadness.
He even tries looking around the room to see if they hid, and waits to see if they'll come back, but all that does is make him drowsy again. And so, against his desire to see the ones who eased his pain, he lies back down and falls asleep, much more comfortable now that his pain has disappeared.
---
Morning comes gently.
Soft and warm, spilling through a curtain he doesn't remember closing.
■■■■■■ blinks.
The ceiling is wooden. Unfamiliar. He stares at it for a long moment, waiting for something. He's not sure what. Dread? Fear? A reason to be afraid?
Nothing comes.
His chest rises. Falls. Rises again. Just the quiet rhythm of breathing, easy as a lullaby.
Oh.
He's still in the bed. Still wearing the clean clothes. The bag of coins is still pressed against his stomach, clutched there like a lifeline sometime in the night. His other hand is empty. The appa bag must have fallen somewhere.
He turns his head slowly, neck stiff but cooperative, and spots it on the floor. Crumbled. Empty.
He should probably pick that up.
...Later.
For now, he just lies there. The blanket is tucked around his legs, soft and heavier than he expected. His hair is messy, falling across his bandaged forehead. He can feel the fabric wrapped around his head, dry now.
Cedric. The old man's name surfaces like a bubble. Kind. Grumbly. Gave him a place to sleep.
■■■■■■ smiles at the ceiling.
Thank you, Cedric.
A sound drifts in from outside. Voices. Quiet chatter, the clunk of wooden buckets, someone laughing. Morning sounds. Village sounds. They don't frighten him the way they did last night. They just... are.
■■■■■■ decides to listen, trying to understand what they're talking about.
"Did ya hear? That half-elf's expedition to the Watchtower failed miserably."
"That surprised you? I know she might have done a bunch of stuff with her camp, but even Reinhard wasn't able to get there."
"I know, I know... I just thought that since Anastasia was following along they'd have some luck, y'know?"
"I understand, it's really sad... They were trying to find something to help the Gluttony victims, right?"
Gluttony? He heard Lyle's owner talking about it, his friend.
"Yeah... Apparently they got a royal knight."
"Yikes... What are they planning to do now..?"
"I dunno, I just heard they were forced to come back and-"
■■■■■■ gets tired of listening, he didn't hear anything else about that Gluttony thing, so he decides to get moving.
He stretches.
His arms go up over his head, fingers splaying, and a long, involuntary sigh escapes him. His back pops. His knees crack. He feels like he slept for a very long time.
When he lowers his arms, he notices something.
His hand.
He holds it up in front of his face, turning it over. Palm. Then the back. Then palm again.
Small. There's a scrape on his knuckle he doesn't remember getting. A crescent of dried something under his fingernail.
He wiggles his fingers.
They move. And ■■■■■■ giggles for some reason.
Good. That's good.
He doesn't know why that feels like an achievement. But it does.
He decides to pick the empty appa bag from the floor, it was a gift, and they must be treated with care.
He thinks.
And then a knock comes at the door, interrupting his thoughts.
■■■■■■ flinches. Hard. His whole body goes tight, shoulders hunching, hands gripping the blanket—
Wait.
It's just a knock. Just wood on wood. Friendly. Probably.
"...Boy? You awake in there?" Cedric's voice, muffled through the door.
■■■■■■ opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He tries again.
"Y-yes."
His voice is small. Croaky. But it works.
The door creaks open. Cedric pokes his head in, squinting. When he sees ■■■■■■ sitting up in bed, blinked and alive, his weathered face softens.
"Ah. Good. You had me worried, sleeping so long." He pushes the door wider, stepping inside with a small tray. "I brought you something. Eat slow. Don't make yourself sick."
The tray has a bowl of something warm on it. Porridge, maybe. Steam rises from it, carrying a smell that makes ■■■■■■'s stomach clench with sudden, desperate hunger.
He stares at the bowl.
That's for me?
Cedric sets the tray on the bedside table, then pauses, looking at ■■■■■■'s face. "...You alright, kid? You're staring at it like it bit you."
"It's..." ■■■■■■ swallows. "It's warm."
"Yes. That's what food's like when you cook it."
"No, I mean..." He trails off, not sure what he means. Just that warm food feels like a miracle. Like something he forgot existed.
Cedric watches him for a moment, then sighs. He pulls up a wooden stool and sits down heavily, rubbing his knee.
"Eat first. Talk later. You look like a stiff wind could knock you over."
■■■■■■ doesn't need to be told twice.
He takes the bowl in both hands. The ceramic is hot against his palms, but he doesn't mind. He brings it close to his face, breathing in the steam, and for a moment his eyes sting.
Don't cry over porridge. That's silly.
He picks up the spoon. Takes a bite.
It's plain. A little bland. Maybe some salt, maybe some milk. Nothing special.
It's the best thing he's ever tasted. Even if he only remembers tasting the appas.
He eats slowly, like Cedric said. Each spoonful is careful, deliberate, savored. His stomach doesn't growl. It just accepts the food, grateful and quiet.
When the bowl is empty, he sets it down and realizes Cedric has been watching him the whole time.
"...Cedric?" ■■■■■■ calls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Hm? What is it, boy?" Cedric answers, turning his head to look at him.
"What is a 'Gluttony'?" ■■■■■■ asks, tilting his head and watching as the man frowns at him.
"Gluttony is a Sin Archbishop." He says with a sigh. "And assuming you don't know what that is either, I'll also let you know that Archbishops are members of the Witch Cult. Stay far away from them. They're bad people."
■■■■■■ nods in understanding, looking down at the empty bowl in his hands.
"Understood. Thank you." He rubs his eyes, trying to chase the tiredness away, then yawns.
Cedric frowns heavily at him, clearly worried about the survival of a boy like this. "I'm assuming you got attacked by Gluttony, then?"
■■■■■■ tilts his head, mistaking the look on the old man's face for anger. That makes him feel slightly bad.
"How do I know that?" he asks, words slurring slightly.
Cedric sighs.
"Do you have any memories of yourself or others?" ■■■■■■ shakes his head.
"Gluttony, then. It eats your memories, or the memories the world has of you." He crosses his arms. "And where are you headed now?"
■■■■■■ actually considers his choices. Then he remembers something: there were people trying to get to a tower to help someone who got attacked by this... Gluttony.
He doesn't remember the names. Were they even told? No matter.
"I want to get to the Tower," he says, looking up at Cedric with quiet confidence.
The man's eyes widen in alarm.
"Wait. Tower? You mean the Pleiades Watchtower? You can't be serious." He grumbles, shaking his head. "You've already got that wound on your head. No food. Not much money either. People far better than you have failed."
■■■■■■ tilts his head again, looking down at his hands.
"But I want to try."
Cedric groans, shaking his head before standing up and taking the porridge bowl from ■■■■■■'s hands.
"Then you need to at least be prepared." He urges him to stand up as well. "Come on. You're picking an earth dragon. Food, water, and some clothes too."
Startled, ■■■■■■ scrambles to his feet, trying to keep up with the man. His vision darkens slightly, and he stumbles, but after a moment he manages to follow Cedric out the door.
---
The village market is small but lively. Stalls line the dirt road, merchants calling out prices for vegetables, cloth, and tools. A few earth dragons are tied to posts near the edge of the town, their scaled bodies basking in the morning sun.
■■■■■■ stares at them with wide eyes.
They're bigger up close. Much bigger. The one that licked his face in the forest was one thing, but seeing several of them lounging around, tails swishing, jaws opening in lazy yawns... it's different.
I'm supposed to ride one of those?
Cedric doesn't stop at the first few. He walks past them, nodding at a few familiar faces, until he reaches a smaller pen near the edge of the market. Inside are three earth dragons, none of them looking particularly energetic.
"This is where you'll find the cheaper ones," Cedric says, leaning on the wooden fence. "Old. Stubborn. Not pretty to look at. But they'll get you where you need to go."
■■■■■■ steps up to the fence and peers inside.
The first dragon is gray, nearly white with age. It doesn't even lift its head when they approach. Just breathes, slow and heavy, one eye cracked open.
The second is smaller, a muddy brown color. It flicks its tail once, then goes back to sleep.
The third...
The third is looking at him.
Its scales are a dull green, chipped in places, and one of its eyes has a pale scar running through it. But its gaze is bright. Alert. It watches ■■■■■■ with a kind of quiet curiosity, head tilted slightly.
"...Hello," ■■■■■■ says softly.
The dragon huffs. Not aggressively. Just... a greeting, maybe.
Cedric raises an eyebrow. "That one's called Scrap. Been here longer than the others. No one wants her because of the eye."
"Why?" ■■■■■■ asks, not looking away from the dragon.
"People think she's blind on that side. Or that she's weak." He shrugs. "She's neither. Just ugly."
■■■■■■ reaches out a hand. Slowly. His fingers tremble a little, but he doesn't pull back.
Scrap sniffs his knuckles. Her breath is warm and smells faintly of grass. Then she presses her snout against his palm and closes her eyes.
"...Oh." ■■■■■■ breathes.
She's soft. Not the scales. The nose part.
He scratches gently behind her jaw. Scrap makes a sound, a low rumbling purr that vibrates up through his arm and into his chest.
Cedric stares. "Well. That's settled then."
■■■■■■ turns to him, confused. "What is?"
"She picked you. Dragons don't do that unless they mean it." He pulls out a small pouch from his belt, counting coins. "Scrap it is. Let me go talk to the owner."
Cedric walks off toward a nearby stall, leaving ■■■■■■ alone at the fence.
He looks back at Scrap. She's still pressed against his palm, eyes half-closed, looking perfectly content.
"I'm going to the Tower," he tells her. "I don't know where it is. Or how to ride you. Or... a lot of things, actually."
Scrap opens one eye.
"But I want to try." He smiles, small and uncertain. "Is that okay?"
The dragon huffs again, then licks his fingers. Her tongue is rough, like sandpaper, but the gesture is gentle.
■■■■■■ giggles.
Okay. We're doing this.
---
Cedric returns a few minutes later with a rope halter and a worn leather saddle. He hands both to ■■■■■■, then shows him how to put them on. It takes three tries. Scrap is patient, standing still even when he pulls the strap too tight and has to loosen it again.
"There." Cedric steps back, wiping sweat from his brow. "She's not fast, but she's steady. Keep her fed and watered, and she'll take care of you."
■■■■■■ nods, running his hand along Scrap's neck. The scales are rough here, warmer than he expected.
"One more thing." Cedric pulls something from his pocket. A folded piece of paper, creased and soft from handling. "This is a map. Not a good one, but it'll keep you from walking in circles. The Tower is... here, on the desert." He points to a small marking in the corner of the page.
■■■■■■ stares at the map. It doesn't make much sense. Lines and symbols, names he doesn't recognize. But he takes it carefully, folding it again and tucking it into his shirt.
"Thank you, Cedric."
"Don't thank me yet." The old man crosses his arms, jaw tight. "Listen. The road to the Tower isn't safe. Bandits, beasts, worse things. If something feels wrong, turn back. No shame in living to try another day."
Cedric goes quiet.
Then he sighs, long and heavy, and pats ■■■■■■ on the shoulder. "You're a strange kid. Too blind for your own good." He lets go. "Just... be careful. Alright?"
"I will."
Cedric doesn't look convinced. But he steps back anyway, giving ■■■■■■ room to climb onto Scrap's back.
It's awkward. His leg won't lift high enough at first, and he nearly slips twice. Scrap stands perfectly still, waiting, until he finally manages to throw himself over and land in the saddle with an oomph.
He's sitting sideways.
"...This isn't right, is it?"
Cedric pinches the bridge of his nose. "Turn around. Facing forward. Legs on either side."
■■■■■■ scrambles to adjust, face burning. Eventually he gets it. His knees grip the dragon's sides, and his hands find the rope tied to the halter.
"Like this?"
"Close enough." Cedric hands him a small bag. "Food for three days. Water too. Don't waste either."
■■■■■■ takes the bag and secures it to the saddle. Then he looks down at Cedric, who suddenly seems smaller. Older.
"...Thank you," he says again. He doesn't know what else to say.
Cedric waves a hand, shooing him. "Go on. Before I change my mind and prevent you from leaving."
■■■■■■ smiles. He pats Scrap's neck, gentle and uncertain.
"Um. Go?"
Scrap doesn't move.
"...Please?"
Nothing.
Cedric groans. "You have to nudge her. With your heels. Gently."
■■■■■■ presses his heels against Scrap's sides. The dragon lurches forward, and he yelps, grabbing the saddle with both hands.
They move at a slow walk. Wobbling. Unsteady. The other villagers stare as he passes, some laughing, some just looking confused.
■■■■■■ doesn't care.
He's moving.
Forward.
He looks back once. Cedric is still standing by the fence, arms crossed, watching.
■■■■■■ raises a hand and waves.
Cedric doesn't wave back. But he doesn't leave either.
The village shrinks behind them. The road stretches ahead, dirt and grass and scattered trees. Scrap walks on, steady and patient, carrying him toward somewhere he's never been.
■■■■■■ doesn't know what's waiting at the Tower.
He doesn't know if he'll make it.
But for the first time since he woke up in the forest, his chest doesn't feel hollow.
I'm going somewhere, he thinks. I'm doing something.
His two friends... He thinks they're friends... Told him not to die. He doesn't think he knows what that is but...
His friends don't want him to, so he doesn't want to find out.
He pats Scrap's neck again.
Scrap huffs, picking up the pace just slightly, and they disappear into the trees.