you know there's a place in the sun; any

[rapt]

rapt

rapt.

there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail
the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream

He had never had a home, not truly, home was a series of places with a series of faces (a woman who dreamed him into loving her, a monster, a woman victim whom he had brought before the monster). He’d been born to the deserts, to a kingdom that has long since crumbled, his own father a fleeting prince, but the shifting sands had never felt like home, his blood had never called him there.
He doesn’t know what his son will call home – he was born in the meadow, but has known only the nomadic lands. He hopes there will be belonging in his son’s future, but he cannot make promises.
(A dark part of him wonders what hope there is, for the illicit child of a monster and his worshipper. But oh, he loves him so.)

He sees the red mare before Cringe does, ears pricking forward. She does not seem a threat, wings folded at her sides, body passive, so he relaxes. Cringe has noticed by then, muzzle flecked with river-water, and the boy smiles and greets her before Rapt has a chance to.
“Hi,” says Cringe, “I like your wings.”
Rapt intervenes then, stepping closer, keeping himself between her and his son. Not that he thinks her a threat, but it’s instinct, such possessiveness. He smiles, dips his head to her.
“Hello,” he says, “I’m Rapt, and this is Cringe. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Cringe echoes, a hesitant smile and a glance at his father, made more nervous now that Rapt stands between them. Rapt touches him briefly, a silent reassurance that the boy dud nothing wrong, and then his gaze returns to the red mare – Noah – watching her curiously.

but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever