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

Rapt was never good at violence, not directly. It wasn’t his nature, to hurt.
It was his nature to serve, which is how he’s ended up this way, with an impossibly-conceived child and skin wore bare on his knees, that shivering desire to kneel before monster a crawling constant in his skin. He watches as Noah speaks to Cringe, head at his level, and softens further.

She asks of their origins, and Rapt considers how to answer – he’s the distant prince of a dead kingdom, and Cringe is of himself and a monster. No place has felt like home, not truly, and Rapt is content to wander so long as his son is beside him.
“More or less,” he says, then amends, “I was born in Beqanna, but have never been pledged to any kingdom. Most of my time’s been spent in the forest, or the meadow.”
He overexplains, as if she cares precisely which land he calls home. He’s out of practice, with normal conversations, too used to serving, to begging on his knees.
“What about you, Noah? Are you from here?”

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