Like the slow draw of the tide pulling back into the sea, eventually his blubbering calms to hiccups here and there, a still quivering voice. He's tired himself out, dried up his ducts until there just simply weren't any more tears to give.

With a sniffle and wipe at his damp nose, his still glassy, impossibly weepy eyes meet those of crimson. His lips pull into a pout, his brow creased thoughtfully. Even he isn't naive enough to be unable to thinking what a silly question. Because the list was endless; he missed everything about his Ma.

He gentle voice, her quiet lullabies when he was too fitful to rest, being tucked against her soft belly when he would finally drift...he misses her laugh, her smile. Just the thoughts alone make him want to bawl again.

I dunno, I—I just miss her. His answer is quiet and it is lame, tired. He's never been apart from her for more than a few hours at the most, and he remembers even missing her then.

What he misses the most, if he could pick such a thing, was just the comfort of her presence. Her everlasting love for a coward of a son.

Perhaps he's spoiled. Perhaps if he had siblings, he wouldn't be attached to her hip. Maybe if he had friends that weren't mean, he wouldn't be so heartbroken over her disappearance.

The charcoal boy accused that Llew is far too old to cry. His lips purse, the tiniest, weakest flicker of irate blooming in his chest. He stammered over his words, I can't help it! Ma's never left me before. His chin tucked against his chest, his sniffling ceasing.

...how long have you been alone?