Firefly Glen the groan of mortal terror

Cypress listened attentively as the sumac-eyed wolf described his goddess, the boy’s eerie lantern-yellow gaze likewise firecaught with the fervent desire to seek, find, and keep. He observed with characteristic intensity the way Cesario’s breath caught in his throat, tangling with the words that were helpless to encapsulate his Juno, and there was a vulnerable, desperately lonely part of Cypress that was terribly moved by the man’s moment of weakness. Bright eyes misted over with tears as his breathing stuttered and skipped before regaining its regular rhythm; he was, after all, just shy of four months old. I want my brother back! His young, wildly aching heart drummed painfully as he cast his gaze down to his paws. He wanted to find Lucy and Rannoch; he wanted Scimitar to come home; he wanted to leave all three of them behind so that they would know how it felt to be the one who didn’t get picked. When he’d steadied himself, “Thanks,” Cypress intoned huskily. “I’ll keep my eye out, too.”

The fledgling fell silent again as Cesario spoke of Odysseus and Polyphemus, his mouth rounding into a fascinated “o” even as his brow furrowed in thought. Perhaps sometimes being smart was as good as being strong — better, even! An ordinary man had tricked the son of a god and survived to become a hero. “I like that story,” he said, reworking the tale in his mind and adding detail and color to the flat, unenthusiastic telling. He ferreted away phrases like “eyes so bright and fierce they put the sun to shame” and “a coat the color of fog” to use in his own speech, relishing the bright and thrilling way they sounded. “Cesario,” he said suddenly, “don’t worry. You’ll find Juno. I mean, she has to be looking for you and missing you, too. We…we can’t give up hope.” He did his best to stand straighter and taller, though it made him bashful to use the word “we” when he and Cesario were clearly worlds apart. Deep down, it was what Cypress wanted to believe of Rannoch and Lucy — that they wanted to find him just as badly as he wanted to find them. Though hurt and worry had created a veneer of angry bitterness behind which he concealed his deepest fears, Cypress could not deny that he needed them.

Lucy, where are you?

The boy had lingered too long — with a briefly uttered, “I have to go now,” he made a graceless exit, loping on gangly legs not toward home but deeper into the glen.