Whitefish River why we should stop fetishizing having asbestos-free baby strollers

quick post before I'm away for the weekend -- skip me and feel free to mention/notice him pacing and being a wreck in the background

How hard was it to put broken glass back together? Broken glass they'd somehow managed to carry down the mountain and to Kaistleoki, all with (presumably) their willful daughter in tow.

Vercingetorix was panting, wheezing, sobbing, as they reached the border. He set his son down as gently as he could before turning to Aure, who was quiet but clearly, obviously, disturbed. But Ira motioned them on, and so, with a grunt of effort, he bent and slung Dragomir over his burly shoulders -- and walked on.

When they reached their destination, he'd lower Drago once more. . .and then step back, unable to handle the scene before him. He lingered just in sight, just out of reach, close enough if someone needed him --

But what on earth could he do?

He was no healer. He was no botanist. Not a therapist, or a caregiver.

Not a father.

It should be him, mangled and bloodied. It should be him.

He couldn't stop fucking thinking just that, as he stood back and watched, paced, bristled, cried. . .helpless. Useless.