Isaiah climbed into bed like a man hit by a stampede of horses. The day had drawn out far too long. Torcher, he was sure. The gods were punishing him by first taking all he loved and then making him stew in the misery. He groaned at the aspect he would be doing this every day until his death and pulled his blanket over himself. Then he curled up, stomach growling demandingly, and hid his cracked face and sore eyes away in the pillow.
And there his tears stopped. Dried out at last. All that was left to prove they had existed were the stains on his cheeks and neck. They ran along his chest.
Please, gods, protect my son, he prayed as he closed his eyes. And for the hundredth time he pictured his son in an alley, hiding behind crates and boxes starving. He wanted to go out and find him, let him know he was safe. But he couldn’t, and the fact his son’s own rogues would most likely not bother to help hurt him even more. His son had been betrayed. He is a good boy. If anything, take me instead.
That final request took him back, to that first night Nicholas spiraled out of control. It led to the next night, and the next.
So many signs my son needed help.
And his chest tightened in grief just as he drifted off.