Luneshale Pass you keep sayin' that i'm nothing like my father

fiamma would not bear children this year.

or, at least, she assumed not. nothing had changed—no quickening in her womb, nor desperate appetite. all was sadly normal, and thus, life went on.

with no litters to look forward to, she instead turned her attention to a different kind of sprout. literal sprouts, at that. she stood over the seedling she'd noticed on her quest with soto, steadily growing. brought her muzzle close; perhaps her warm breath would stir it further.

others, too, would emerge soon. but this one was hers, and fiamma crouched beside it like a mother on watch. sheltering it, shielding it. . .

she would appear a madwoman to most souls spotting her from afar.

He hadn’t seen his mom in days. Bushtit missed her—pined for her, even—but he told himself it was past time to gain a little independence. At least sometimes, he thought a little guiltily as he strode along the sparse riverbed. He was over halfway to adulthood!

He actually expected Towhee to turn up here eventually, cross with him for leaving her on her own. But she hadn’t yet. Maybe he ought to be worried, though he remembered she’d lived for, like, a hundred years on her own before he’d come along. She’d be fine…

He caught sight of something that scattered his thoughts. Bushtit halted, then scrambled toward the familiar figure, crouched over something on the ground. He peered down to where Fiamma’s snout pointed but didn’t see much aside from a tiny sprout of green.

Hola, he said cheerily, happy to take an opportunity to practice his father’s tongue. ¿Que… pasta? Bushtit queried, unsure if that came out quite right.

"hola," a voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to find the pale, patchwork boy blinking in friendly manner toward her.

ah. . .the amazon's child. 

hola, she replied, knowing enough about verapaz now to understand that was a customary greeting. her voice was cold but not completely unkind. where's your mother?

no doubt growing soto's children, or perhaps tangled in intimate embrace with the man. the rejection stung greater than she could have even imagined, and it was difficult not to turn her ire upon this innocent boy.

fiamma managed, though, even if her watery smile was more grimace.

The question made his ears splay. He didn’t know. Well, he supposed she was still at the caldera, waiting for him to show up again. And he would! If she didn’t come find him, he would go back to her in another day or two…

She’s not here right now, he stated the obvious, unaware of how much he sounded like an answering machine. ¿Porqué? Do you have a message for her? I’d be happy to deliver it when I see her.

His head cocked. Bushtit couldn’t imagine with Fiamma might want with Towhee, though perhaps she wanted to pass along something from the Segundo. That would make this quite the game of teléfono—ah, if only he knew.

her nose wrinkled in response, and she shook her head, turning away. no, she replied, her jaw instinctively clenching at the thought of that hag. no, i was just curious why you weren't with her. that was all.

fiamma turned instead to the seedling. the only new life she could put her name to. . .at least this year.

please grow, she whispered, eyes almost closed in her desperation.

then she turned to the youngster, face impassive. what do you want? she asked curtly.

she was not happy with her rival's virility thrown in her face, innocent as the boy was in all of this. bushtit represented everything she could not produce; she couldn't help but treat him with a certain measure of disdain.

She dismissed his offer, unsurprisingly. Fiamma then turned her attention back to the green sprout between her forefeet. Bushtit looked at it too, wondering why it had captured her attention. His ears twitched as she whispered to it.

Before he could ask why she was doing that, her eyes cut back to him and she spoke so harshly that Bushtit took a backward step. A hurt look flashed in his eyes as he took another, more consciously this time, and shook his head.

Nada, he said. He paused, still so curious why she was talking to an inanimate object, but Bushtit sensed she might snap at him if he asked. I can just, he said instead, jerking a paw and leaving the rest unsaid as he turned to go.

she saw the flash of pain in his gaze and immediately felt awful for it. as he turned, she stood up straight and said, wait.

if he stopped, fiamma would continue. mi dispiace—i am sorry, she told the boy, as maternal instinct won out over sour pettiness. that was rude of me.

he was just a child, after all. the foibles of his mother were not his cross to bear.

i'm fiamma, she introduced herself, even though it might have been said already, when she had translated for soto. come ti chiami? he seemed to have his father's tongue, though maybe only a few words by assimilation.

She asked him to wait, so he did. He planted his feet and looked over his shoulder, only turning his body when Fiamma offered an apology. He quickly shook his head as if to say it wasn’t necessary, though the heartened gleam in his eye showed his appreciation for the sentiment.

Yeah, he agreed stupidly when she reminded him of her name. I’m Bushtit, he thought to add, incidentally speaking right over her. That led him to blurt, Sorry, what? Oh, I’m not very bueno at speaking Soto’s language yet. But yeah. I mean, si. Mi nombre es Bushtit. Wait, were you even speaking…

He fell silent, flustered. His dark eyes dropped, falling to the small sprout beside Fiamma. He stared at it, still curious why she spoke to it like it was sentient. Bushtit’s cheeks warmed as he realized how foolish he must’ve sounded just now. Perhaps the seedling had more brains than him.

they spoke over each other, which left her chuckling as the boy stumbled over his words to explain himself.

tutto bene, she assured him, grinning. a pleasure to meet you, bushtit. soto—is he your padre? ah, your father? fiamma amended, in case his grasp on the tongue still lacked.

why else would the amazon's child learn soto's language? and she had come to witness fiamma's heat, and unsuccessful coupling. . .

it's not his fault, she told herself, despite the ugly envy that rose in her breast at sight of him. children shouldn't bear the sins of their parents; she knew that all too well.

you live nearby? fiamma asked, cocking her head.

Padre, Bushtit repeated, biting back a laugh because it sounded a little silly to him. Si, he’s my padre, he confirmed, dark eyes glimmering. Not really, he added in reply to her next question. Me and my mom travel wherever we want, so we don’t live anywhere, technically. Anyway, how do you know So—my padre? How’d you meet?

bushtit confirmed what she already suspected; she nodded, casting it aside. it seemed that he and his mother wandered. 

perhaps, with luck, they would wander. . .far away from here.

he had questions for her, too, and she smiled in reply. it is a long story, fiamma remarked. i don't think you're old enough to understand. all i will say is that my life's path brought me here, to soto, and to soto i am loyal.

she cast a quick glance at the little sprout. in another universe, someone might tell her that a watched pot never boils. she could not will the thing to grow, no matter how much attention she lavished upon it.

Try me, he implored when she insisted he was too young to understand. In case she intended to continue refusing him, Bushtit added, Have you met my mother? Do you think she ever censored anything? Besides, I’m not that young.

He was here on his own, wasn’t he? Ignoring the little flicker in the pit of his stomach, he cocked his head at Fiamma. But she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her attention had returned to the sprout. He really should leave her alone with that thing…