Haunted Wood whistlin' past the graveyard

Titmouse did not know her well enough to cast judgement, but he would cast it nonetheless. The boy saw her as an escaped victim just like himself, but the more he lingered here with her, listened to her rambling, felt the stirrings of pity, his natural reaction was to resist. He wouldn't feel pity for this girl. Whatever had transpired to lead her to Blackfeather had been her own fault - just as it had been his own fault that he'd ended up there with a broken leg. But the way she seemed to plead with him for safety did tug at his heart strings, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. 

I am a coward, she had said. That hurt the most - he knew exactly what that felt like.

After a moment of thinking, of listening, he finally turned around and faced her in the silence. Then, advancing towards her, Titmouse came to a gradual conclusion; although his anger had not been contained yet and his voice seethed, he did the only thing he coudl think of: he made a promise. Again.

Stay with me then. Not at the caldera, not in your woods. Wherever I am -- we could stay here. Or we could go somewhere else, but it'll be safe. It was a stupid idea. Something a child would concoct before understanding the world as they ought to. Maybe Titmouse was just as much afraid, but he was still a child at heart. He couldn't resist the chance to save a damsel in distress the way he'd always wanted. We can go anywhere, Cass.