Chapter Text
andrew spent the next few days working on the fox’s house. he’d turned a part of the barn into a workshop when he’d been fixing the fence and it was there that he spent hours hammering away. it was long, thankless work, demanding hours of patience and precision, but he found a sense of a fulfilment in it anyway, reveling in the stretch and burn of muscles long accustomed to heavy-lifting.
whenever he tired of sawing and hammering, he went outside and tended to his plants and cows. the orchard’s fruits were almost in their final bloom, making his mouth water with anticipation every time he thought of them. he’d harvested half of his crops already, storing the seeds and dividing them to go into storage and to sell in the town’s annual fest.
as the days grew shorter, the fox recovered. it spent most of its time sleeping or nosing around the kitchen, keeping its weight off the bad leg, and let andrew inspect the leg and pet it on occasion. he had weighed it twice already and was pleased to see it gaining weight. the bath he’d planned was still remaining, but he decided to wait until the splint was off, certain it would throw a fit and injure itself if he didn’t.
on the night before the full moon, andrew settled in the kitchen after dinner and cracked open the book of poetry abby had gifted him several months ago. he’d made a habit of reading a new poem on the full moon’s eve, remembering her instructions to practice reading regularly.
like always, king joined him, curling up on his lap and purring. he scratched her chin with a finger, flipping through the pages until he found a new poem.
“those winter sundays,” he said, slowly following the words with a finger. “robert hay… hayden.”
king meowed, nudging her head against his hand. he petted her absent-mindedly, squinting over the words as he read them out loud.
“Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well...”
andrew paused, then, raising the book to look closely at the last line. “what did i know,” he read, “what did i know of love’s—”
he stopped, staring at the new word. he spelled it out in his mind, frowning as he tried to understand how to pronounce it. “au… stere,” he tried. “aust… er’. what did i know of love’s… aus-ter’ and lonely… offices. what did i know of love’s auster' and lonely offices.”
his eyes began to sting. embarrassed and humiliated, he shut the book with a snap, hiding the words from his sight. he’d been reading for so long now, long enough that it was rare to find a word he didn’t know the meaning of, let along struggled with pronouncing. but no matter how infrequent, the experience still filled him with a consuming bitterness, anger curling in his throat as he remembered days of being known as 'that stupid country bumpkin’.
for almost his entire childhood he hadn’t known how to read; had barely known how to write. how could he? he’d been nothing more than a farmhand; nothing more than a servant to be kicked at, spit at, beaten at will, and worse. nobody cared for him—nobody even listened to him. he’d been the boy calling wolf until the wolf had devoured him and stolen the words from his lungs.
and even now—even now… he was all alone. still unheard—still ignored. he’d fought so hard for so long—had thought he’d found himself a family at last—but it was in vain. it was always all in vain.
what did he know of love’s lonely offices? he knew it all. was both the boy fearing cruel anger and the father tending to the hearth with bruised, dry hands. it hadn’t mattered in the end; he was only alone again. and nicky… nicky had tried so hard to be what he needed. andrew had loved him for it—loved him with ferocity, with protective violence and calloused hands that gripped and tore and bled like a martyr’s. but it hadn’t been enough. how could it be? when it paled in the face of his brother’s cruel indifference, his broken promises and cutting words. when it paled in the face of his own despair, the loneliness filling his lungs like poison. persisting in its wordless agony until he had no choice but to pack his bags and leave lest he lose himself.
the memories pulled andrew under, as they always did. it was only when king began meowing that he realised he was crying. with shaking hands and a blurry vision he opened the book and tried to read it again. sundays too my father got up—sundays too my father—
pain enveloped him, his sobs making it impossible to continue reading. why couldn’t he ever know a father’s love? a father’s protection? where had he gone wrong—what had he done to deserve this life? what had he done to be abandoned at birth? to only know cruelty and soul-crushing loneliness, paired with the worst horrors humans could inflict? he hadn’t sinned—had attended mass and said his prayers and listened to the pastor. had tried so hard to be good. why, then? why—?
he fisted his hands in his hair and tugged, ripping out a few strands with the force. he wept so hard his entire body shook, throat burning with the volume of the agonised wails that tore out of his chest. in his heart he was no longer himself, no longer a man—rather, he was the same boy muffling his sobs as he poured bucketful after bucketful of water over himself; the same boy slicing lines into his arms with the kitchen knife he’d stolen; the same boy curled up in the barn with the cows, wishing for a tender touch, a moment’s respite, a mother’s hands, a family to call his own. in his heart he was a small child deprived of touch once again, alone and surrounded by voices which burnt and hands which took; quivering as he waited for the next bout of cruelty with a twisting heart.
when would he be free of this? when would he be free? he’d been good, he promised, he swore—
sudden pain on his hand yanked him back into his body. king had bit his hand, almost hard enough to draw blood. he whined at the pain, pulling it back. she let go at once, meowing rapidly as if she was talking to him and butting her head against his chin and cheeks.
“king,” he mumbled, pulling her closer. she purred loudly in response, rubbing her head against him.
just then, something brushed against his leg, nearly making him jump out of his skin. it was the fox, watching him steadily with its icy gaze. when their eyes met it yipped and rubbed its head against his leg.
to his utter astonishment and delight, it was wagging its tail. it yipped again before turning in a circle, dragging its injured leg on the floor. then it looked at him expectantly, thumping its tail.
“what?” andrew managed, voice rasping. it whined in reply, pressing its head against his hand. “you want me to pet you?”
more thumping.
“fine,” he said, pleased and suitably distracted. he petted the fox, watching it lean into its touch with its tongue lolling out.
no, he thought. he wasn’t alone. he had king and idiot and his cows. plus—even if temporarily—a new friend. and maybe it wasn’t the same as having a person to call his own, but did that matter anyway? when there was no need for deals or words or the vigilance against being hurt and abandoned.
maybe it wouldn’t be a lot to someone else, but it meant something to him.