Chapter Text
Picket had seen a lot of miracles in his time.
When he’d stood, paralyzed by terror, at the edge of a wood. Breathing hard, vision blurring, hands rapping out a drumbeat on the rough bark of a tree. When fear had wanted to be his master, and Picket, by what grace he didn’t know, had told it no. Had decided there were more important things at stake than his own weakness and his own cowardice. Had looked at Smalls lying out there all alone, and had had his fear overcome by his anger and his desire to save his friend.
When Picket had flown. When Smalls had been saved. When the Green Ember had risen, and Picket had risen into the sky along with it. That had been a miracle.
(There were different kinds and types of miracles. A different kind came soon after.)
When Picket, through his own choice, had fallen. And, by his selfishness, had caused the Green Ember to fall as well. When Smalls had died and it was all Picket’s fault, he remembered wondering why his friends, why his uncle and his sister and his mentor, didn’t hate him for what he’d done. Remembered thinking it was a miracle they didn’t leave. When they could’ve. Maybe should’ve.
But instead, they had stayed. They had helped him. And Picket had flown again, through the miracle that was Heyward’s genius, dedication, and trust. And he was able get back up. Able to continue on, heavier because of the weight of his mistakes, but still light enough to rise into the air so that the Green Ember, too might rise once more. He had pledged his sword and his life and his wings to Emma and her cause, and this time, he had not failed.
(There were different sizes and shapes of miracles. Some were big. Some were small.)
Picket saw a miracle every time he looked at Helmer. Every time he saw Helmer, despite his barely functioning leg, despite the countless scars, despite everything he had lost and the despair that had spent so long rotting him from the inside out, keep going. Every time Helmer looked at Picket and loved him, protected him, cared for him, accepted him, just like he’d accepted him back on that day on the green, despite him being the spitting image of the traitor who killed his bucks. Helmer, whose last act had been to save Picket and the rest of the young bucks under his command. Who had died the happiest Picket had ever seen him.
Weezie was a miracle in and of herself. She would never stop being that to Picket. He didn’t know how, in a city like First Warren—a city so saturated with sorrow that it oozed like a wet sponge—she had managed to keep the light she held inside her burning, but she did. Weezie’s eyes blazed like a bonfire. She laughed in the darkest places. She had the worst aim with the bow and arrows, but only when it mattered.
(“You know, Weezie, I’m glad you missed my head when you shot that arrow.”
“Me too, Picket.”
“Even if you did end up hitting my heart instead.”
“PICKET!”)
Every single one of the people Picket came to know and love had been a tiny miracle of their own, standing strong, bearing the flame in the dark. He’d been so lucky to have them all.
Even luckier when Smalls came back. He really hadn’t been expecting that, and hadn’t had much time to process it, all things considered. He’d only had time to act.
You can’t have everything. Everyone’s luck runs out sometime. For every gain, there is a loss.
So, when Picket had run at Morbin—wondering if this is what Helmer had felt like when he blew up that dam—he’d accepted it. He didn’t expect anything but death, but it was worth it. If Smalls could kill Morbin and free rabbitkind to enjoy the Mended Wood, it would be worth it. In his head, he’d apologized to Weezie and hoped that she’d understand.
(Sometimes, it turned out, you could have everything.)
When Picket’s father wrote his history, he called it a “miracle of survival.” After all, Picket had lost an arm, and so much blood that not even the water he almost drowned in could completely wash it away. But he survived.
And it turned out his family had, too.
When Picket woke up in that bed, covered in more bandages than he could count, and saw his family—Mother and Father and baby Jacks, Jacks, except he wasn’t a baby anymore and Picket had missed it and missed him—he’d thought, well, that proves it. I’m dead. He’d wondered if they were all in heaven now and had almost expected to see Helmer, hale and whole and alive, join the group and rib him about lazing about in bed.
Instead, Heather had rushed over and immediately started checking his wounds and asking him if he could hear her or talk. And it had occurred to him that, if this was heaven, why did he hurt so much?
(Sometimes, miracles hurt. But they’re the better for it.)
That was the best day of all the days.
Until, this day.
Until, on the little farm he and his wife had been given as a wedding gift, on a summer evening with the crickets singing and the setting sun spreading light like golden honey over the rippling fields that Picket tended with his own one hand, Airen handed a little bundle to Weezie, and together they looked at the most beautiful sight Picket had ever seen.
Picket looked, and his heart swelled, soaring like the wings of a glider, burning like the fiercest ember, blossoming like the undefeatable and ever-renewing green of life itself.
Picket leaned forward, his arm encircling Weezie’s arms encircling the tiny, tiny kit that lay sleeping on her chest.
As he held his wife and his firstborn child, Picket thought,
This is the best miracle yet.