Silverlight Terrace le bouffon

Renoir had always been a precocious thing, even from birth. Sensitive to the behaviors of his siblings, mostly. Careful around them, nervous for a time, and then boisterous and whimsical. He did not carry an aggressive bone within his body, but felt everything keenly, openly. The loss he felt now was akin to losing his sister, his parents, his everything — although Lasher had not been his everything. The boy had resisted temptation when it presented itself. He had done it so that when the losses came, as they always did, the hurt would be minimized. Perhaps this was the only reason he had not fallen catatonic within the groves of sequoias. He was nearly at that point now, but was rooted to the world through his anguish and grief.

As he sat there sobbing in to the new growth, his head tucked awkwardly against the soil while his limbs splayed out around him like immense rivers of gold, he heard a voice. It was familiar but also not - something from days ago - and briefly, Renoir's addled brain misidentified the voice as that of the man he had cared for — he raised his head and expected to see Lasher. But that was nonsensical. While he saw the burly dark figure, he knew it could not be the man who had just recently left this world; yet he longed for it to be him. The boy hastily blinked the tears from his eyes and, sniffling like a child, tried to compose himself.

It was the dark man from the meadow. A kindred spirit. Renoir sighed and pulled himself from the dirt, but did not clean the soil from between the furs of his chest; he was marked with streaks of grime that were unbecoming, but he wasn't thinking about his own image at this point. Ou, he murmured, sniffing sharply, and looked away, embarrassed. I 'ave... Lost someone. It was all he could manage as an explanation, although the dark man had not asked.