Moonspear by a route obscure and lonely

Grateful that she’d asked him something he could answer definitively, Cypress swallowed the blurt of a chuckle whose origin confused him utterly and said, “A brother’s the same as a sister, only a boy.” Lest she not quite understand his meaning, he elaborated: “If Rannoch was a girl he’d be my sister. If Lyra was a boy she’d be your brother.” Her second question was more difficult to answer, and the weight of it had his muzzle dipping down. This time when he touched her, his chin hovering just above the divot between her eyes and his throat flush against her crown, he didn’t move. In truth, maybe there was part of him that drew strength from her nearness as he replied. “I only really knew Rian,” he mumbled, his baritenor muffled against the velveteen between her ears. “I didn’t see my aunt or uncle much; can’t even remember what my uncle looks like,” he reminisced, “but, Alya — I know he left to look for my brother or maybe my paw, and if I’d taken better care of Noch maybe he wouldn’t’ve left and maybe none of this would’ve happened. My cousins have no paw because of all this.”

His throat worked as he made his confession, and for a long while after he said nothing.

Then, out of the blue, “LeastImetyou,” he muttered, his words slurring together as absurd tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away. Alya felt so good here, closer than Lucy had ever been.

He let himself feel good — let himself enjoy it.

Then the guilt kicked him straight in the gut.

“I better go,” he said hastily, honest regret in his voice, as he pushed himself up and away from her. “Will you remember about the leaf?”