As if his wanton cries and half-choked sobs could've gotten worse, the breaths that leave his lungs are agonizing. The tears that wouldn't stop falling painted his cheeks, his feet; they jeweled into the cloak of snow before sinking through the blanket to kiss the frozen ground beneath them.

Oh, this lump of charcoal was so mean. He bit and spat with fire, smoldering heat that scorched the weeping Llewellyn's proverbial bleeding wounds. There was no kindness in him; no compassion his Ma had taught himself to bestow upon others. He was mean and screw-faced angry and it made Llewellyn feel something he'd scarcely felt before; weak.

There'd been few times in his past, perhaps when stumbling across wayward families of wolves that crossed he and his Ma's tundra home, that anyone had made him feel such a way. Boys that he'd come across that would pull at his tail and laugh when he'd cry, or invite him to roughhouse when he wished to pick prairie flowers.

His Ma had always been there to soothe him, to wipe his tears away and whisper into his crown that he was just a boy with a sensitive heart and that it was a gift.

Right now, he feels nothing but a burden, to a boy he doesn't even know the name of.

I—I'm sorry, he hiccuped. Feeble body drawing into himself, as if seeking the warm hug of his Ma. I just m-miss my Ma.

Didn't this boy miss his? Why isn't he scared, too?

Maybe if Llewellyn was braver, he wouldn't be so frightened.

But he's never been brave, not a day in his life.