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Cutthroat sent out a quiet prayer for the rain to stop, but it only fell harder, pelting both their bodies mercilessly. With a swear, he pulled his coat tighter around his son, and quickened his pace.

Stupid boy. Weak, pathetic idiot boy. The runt couldn't have picked a worse time to get sick- anywhere but here, miles away from the foggiest goddamned hint of civilization, caught in a freezing torrent. Cold and wet were a deadly combination for anypony- Cutthroat knew this- and Bruce was only a child.

...He looked so wretchedly small in Cutthroat's arms. The brat had been born that way, a tiny, feeble parody of Cutthroat's first son, his real son. Butch had been a real colt- strong, healthy, perfect. Butchie would have never-

Cutthroat swallowed hard. Don't. Nothing will bring him back.

He turned his attention back to the brat, and for the first time....the silence of the moment hit him. The little runt loved to yammer on a mile a bloody minute, chattering excitedly about everything from grasshoppers to great whites, and normally, Cutthroat would have traded anything for even a second of quiet- but now the boy lay slumped against him, silent and still. A bolt of fear snaked through Cutthroat's gut.

"Boy. Wake up." Cutthroat shook him, none too gently. The colt stirred weakly, but didn't wake- so Cutthroat jostled him again, an edge of panic slipping into his voice. "Boy. Bruce. Brucie, wake up."

Bruce's ear twitched, and he coughed- it sounded wet. Cutthroat's ears pricked. Fluid in the lungs? Blast it, this was just supposed to be a summer cold- how could it be progressing into pneumonia?

"Daddy...." Bruce's little face crumpled, and his blue eyes welled up with tears. "D-don't feel good...."

"Quiet." Cutthroat hated crying of any kind- the reprimand was a reflex. He winced. "I......I know, lad." He felt at Bruce's forehead with a rough hand. The flesh there blazed hot against his palm. Fever.

Fear made Cutthroat's heart lurch, and he directed it the only way he knew how- as rage.

"Stupid, stupid boy." He hissed. The corners of his eyes pricked with heat. "How many times have I told you not to play in the rain?"

His crew thought he was so brave and stoic. Unflappable in the face of the mightiest storm. Cutthroat was almost proud of how well he'd fooled them all, how well he'd hidden the weakness that lurked in his core, had been there since Butchie died.....he couldn't do it again. Not this. He wasn't strong enough. Not another son. Please.

"Forgot." Bruce sniffled. "M' sorry, dad...."

Ishmael, please, Fey always begged. You can't be so harsh with him. He's still just a baby.

Fey was a fool. After the loss of their first son, his wife had become a doddering phantom of her former spirited self. Dropping dishes, falling asleep in the middle of chores, reeking always of cheap red wine. The sight of her always made something buried deep in Cutthroat’s chest ache. But she adored Bruce and doted on him to the best of her ability....which was too much, Cutthroat thought. A colt shouldn't be bloody coddled.

A colt shouldn't be coddled.

Bruce reached out with a tiny, trembling hand. Madness must have seized Cutthroat's mind- because he felt his own hand move to close around his son's, trying to steady it.

A colt shouldn't be coddled.

"Daddy." His boy was crying again.

Damn it all. In a heartbeat, Cutthroat's forehead bumped against his son's, and he squeezed that shivering, terribly weak little hand. "Hush." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. "It's alright. I'm here. Dad is here."

Bruce quieted at that, just a little. "I wanna go home."

Cutthroat let go of his son's hand, then moved to bundle him tighter within his coat. A fierce flame of determination had ignited in his heart, and he hoped it'd be enough.

"I'll get you there."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something Bruce doesn't remember.

related:

textures borrowed from here: Rain Texture

Description

Cutthroat sent out a quiet prayer for the rain to stop, but it only fell harder, pelting both their bodies mercilessly. With a swear, he pulled his coat tighter around his son, and quickened his pace.

Stupid boy. Weak, pathetic idiot boy. The runt couldn't have picked a worse time to get sick- anywhere but here, miles away from the foggiest goddamned hint of civilization, caught in a freezing torrent. Cold and wet were a deadly combination for anypony- Cutthroat knew this- and Bruce was only a child.

...He looked so wretchedly small in Cutthroat's arms. The brat had been born that way, a tiny, feeble parody of Cutthroat's first son, his real son. Butch had been a real colt- strong, healthy, perfect. Butchie would have never-

Cutthroat swallowed hard. Don't. Nothing will bring him back.

He turned his attention back to the brat, and for the first time....the silence of the moment hit him. The little runt loved to yammer on a mile a bloody minute, chattering excitedly about everything from grasshoppers to great whites, and normally, Cutthroat would have traded anything for even a second of quiet- but now the boy lay slumped against him, silent and still. A bolt of fear snaked through Cutthroat's gut.

"Boy. Wake up." Cutthroat shook him, none too gently. The colt stirred weakly, but didn't wake- so Cutthroat jostled him again, an edge of panic slipping into his voice. "Boy. Bruce. Brucie, wake up."

Bruce's ear twitched, and he coughed- it sounded wet. Cutthroat's ears pricked. Fluid in the lungs? Blast it, this was just supposed to be a summer cold- how could it be progressing into pneumonia?

"Daddy...." Bruce's little face crumpled, and his blue eyes welled up with tears. "D-don't feel good...."

"Quiet." Cutthroat hated crying of any kind- the reprimand was a reflex. He winced. "I......I know, lad." He felt at Bruce's forehead with a rough hand. The flesh there blazed hot against his palm. Fever.

Fear made Cutthroat's heart lurch, and he directed it the only way he knew how- as rage.

"Stupid, stupid boy." He hissed. The corners of his eyes pricked with heat. "How many times have I told you not to play in the rain?"

His crew thought he was so brave and stoic. Unflappable in the face of the mightiest storm. Cutthroat was almost proud of how well he'd fooled them all, how well he'd hidden the weakness that lurked in his core, had been there since Butchie died.....he couldn't do it again. Not this. He wasn't strong enough. Not another son. Please.

"Forgot." Bruce sniffled. "M' sorry, dad...."

Ishmael, please, Fey always begged. You can't be so harsh with him. He's still just a baby.

Fey was a fool. After the loss of their first son, his wife had become a doddering phantom of her former spirited self. Dropping dishes, falling asleep in the middle of chores, reeking always of cheap red wine. The sight of her always made something buried deep in Cutthroat’s chest ache. But she adored Bruce and doted on him to the best of her ability....which was too much, Cutthroat thought. A colt shouldn't be bloody coddled.

A colt shouldn't be coddled.

Bruce reached out with a tiny, trembling hand. Madness must have seized Cutthroat's mind- because he felt his own hand move to close around his son's, trying to steady it.

A colt shouldn't be coddled.

"Daddy." His boy was crying again.

Damn it all. In a heartbeat, Cutthroat's forehead bumped against his son's, and he squeezed that shivering, terribly weak little hand. "Hush." His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. "It's alright. I'm here. Dad is here."

Bruce quieted at that, just a little. "I wanna go home."

Cutthroat let go of his son's hand, then moved to bundle him tighter within his coat. A fierce flame of determination had ignited in his heart, and he hoped it'd be enough.

"I'll get you there."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something Bruce doesn't remember.

related:

textures borrowed from here: Rain Texture