Larksong Grotto Send in the Clowns

"you know avicus isn't going to let me stay. and i don't plan to walk off. where does that leave us, masque?" ancelin's voice was conversational, but his eyes were empty, fixed ahead upon nothing but visions, sensations.
anger, anger, anger; why was he so angry?
why shouldn't he leave now?
because it would be abandoning lilia, saying 'tough luck, you're on your own.' leaving her to —
maybe you should be wealda, a tiny voice told the listening ear now thirsty for whatever control he could take.
he almost said it out loud; maybe i should be wealda.
i'm a redtail too. don't want to be. but i am. if it means so much that they need to
rebuild in peace.
he was wounded. he hated this. he hated the feeling of his gut dropping, his breath ballooning and then torn away; had he really always mattered this little?
unloved boy, unwanted son.
"go see augur or leave."
now it was a command. "i never left," ancelin growled, gazing beyond masque's shoulder toward the outlands, toward his lands, searching for that familiar red frame. 
"i was always here." nonsensical, maybe, though it was only golden truth to ancelin. "so. i'll let you stay long enough to talk, and then you will leave."
his. his. he had something avicus wanted.
ancelin frothed the nearby foliage with piss and stalked over it, daring masque to follow with a hard shift in his hips.