Emberwood being born with a talent or an inclination for goodness is the aberration

forward-dated several days, staying vague about some things

he's wounded and he shouldn't be wandering from absynthe, but he does it anyway. he sees flashes of red fur at the edges of his vision, he scents the stranger on the breeze; he can't breathe, and his brother's presence does not help. murderer, the wind whispers as he slips between trees in search of what he needs.
the seeds go down as easily as ever — that is, not easily at all. when his choking subsides he can only lay himself down gingerly on his side, as if the action might shatter his threadbare figure. he breathes heavily. i love y-you. slowly he closes his eyes and water fills his lungs, for a moment he's suffocating, for a moment there's relief—
he sucks in a ragged, gasping breath and it's gone, as fleeting as peace always is.