Redtail Rise vaterschuld

A jury does not look at a man they have convicted,
so Astraeus' eyes cannot find the flint-chalked Mahler;
“ich will dich nicht verlassen,” and what pseudo stuff, he thinks — the silence thereafter dangles alone like a hanged man on a midsommar night. Mahler examples the biblical patience of a steadfast holy pilgrim, pacific. This boy cannot even pantomime that sought after portrayal of a man:

as Astraeus cannot be a man, no matter how he tries, ever.
Do what he may, in a world where a girl cannot determine the length of her skirt and boys don't cry,
he cannot succeed.

The idea his father may change his love in wild whims makes him clench his teeth and his stomach flipped like churning cheese curds. So in the margin of his textbook, he scrawls on his own ideas and launches into a spiel;
“Lügner,” he breathes, hitched, twinkling, rheumy seaglass eye, “lügner, du hast kein einziges Mal an mich gedacht. W-weil mich niemand sucht. Nur Thade!” his fat-knuckled fist clenched around the handkerchief where he'd worn his heart, sweat clad palms releasing to reveal the wrinkles left behind,

“Phaedra und Wylla wollten mich immer loswerden. Gleichfalls,” just thinking of the cherub and the spade's dislike for him makes him worm in the loam, stabbing Mahler with his whetted words, dressed in poisons from the toxin-limned scabbard,

“Das ist wahr,” and the line had almost died on his tongue, a glum whisper.