Rune Of The Day And Random Stuff

And his action figure tumbled to the floor at another clash of thunder. He shut the window as quietly as he could before sprinting to his bed and shoving himself under his blanket.

His breath huffed against the sheets.

Briar sighed and pressed his forehead to the mattress. He was being such a little kid about this. Something out there might've really needed his help, but here he was, doing nothing. Suddenly the blankets felt stuffy, so he poked his head out and frowned when he noticed the lump of the superhero figure he'd abandoned.

Heroes were strong and brave. They always saved the weak, no matter how scary the bad guys were.

A stern older voice rose in his thoughts to berate him. The "sound" had probably been a figment of his overactive imagination. It lied to him all the time, after all, telling him he could feel other people's emotions, read their thoughts, and loads of other nonsensical things. He'd probably been making it up, like Father always said he did.

Another wail drifted up through the rain.

He sat bolt upright and gripped the edge of his blanket. There'd been no imagining that! Something out there did need saving, and Briar was the only man for the job! He leapt out of bed with childish enthusiasm and grabbed the stash of hero gear he'd hidden behind his dresser: the miniature flashlight he used to secretly read comics at night, a stick that kind of looked like a gun, and a frayed old bedsheet. He tied the sheet around his neck and tucked the stick gun into his waistband, feeling extremely brave as he crept out of his room with his flashlight in hand. Thunder rolled outside, but he stayed steady as he tiptoed down the stairs toward the living room.

All that courage drained the moment he passed the dining area.

Father wasn't in his bedroom like he'd thought. Briar found him slumped over the table, his white lab coat stretched across his back like a sunbleached battlefield. A mug of dark liquid stood guard on the tabletop next to his head. Scattered tablets blinked around him, each flashing a different screen more urgently than the last. He'd curled one long-fingered hand by the closest one.

It looked like he was asleep. Briar had barely considered his Father actually did that sometimes. If he woke up...

The boy felt his cape brush against his calves. Well, heroes always saved the weak, no matter how scary the bad guys were. He swallowed, sneaked to the door, and slipped out into the night.

The rain made the blackness as thick as stew. His curly hair stuck to his neck within seconds. He turned on the flashlight and swept its hazy beam over the pavement, fumbling, his fingers already turning numb. It was so much colder out here than it'd seemed at his windowsill.

Thunder cracked directly above his head; Briar buckled into a crouch, shuddering in the wet shell of the bedsheet draped over his back. That voice rose up in his thoughts again, telling him this had been stupid, babyish, immature, ridiculous. He should've stayed in bed, he had school tomorrow -

A cry pierced through the voice. This time, it was quieter than before.

The boy somehow found the strength to stand up against the ice-chip rain. He followed where the cry had come from and turned the corner, sliding the flashlight beam along the base of the house. It stuttered on a pile of matted brownish fur. The rain must've mushed a bunch of dirt and hair together to make it.

And to his horror, the pile stirred, looked at him, then let out a very weak mewl. It was a kitten! Unthinkingly he scooped it up in one arm, letting it shiver into his chest.

Briar put away his flashlight and drew his stick gun, feeling a gust of wind blow his cape backward with a satisfying snap. He protectively hunched his shoulders and set off around the corner again, back into the darkness with his charge and his weapon, water dripping around his cheeks and off the end of his nose. Not a drop fell on the baby in his hand. He didn't so much as spare a thought as to whether he'd done the right thing. He knew that unquestionably.

Until he reached the front door and found a shadow standing in his way.

He couldn't see Father's face in the blackness, but he still imagined his pursed lips, the gash of an anger line between his angled brows, his stark gray glare that almost seemed to glow white. But what pinned Briar to the spot was the rust-harsh spikes of the man's disapproval. He couldn't ignore them shredding his confidence to tatters, even if Father always said they were just in his imagination.

Briar was nothing more than a little boy with a frayed sheet and a piece of wood. Not a hero. Father didn't even have to say anything for Briar to feel that.

"It is 3:37 in the morning," the man said, his growl as rigid as his posture.

The kitten cried out again, and those spikes of disapproval dug so deep that Briar couldn't help but whimper.

"Put that back where you found it," said Father.

"B-but she'll die."

"That isn't up to you. Come inside and let nature take its course."

"Nature's gonna kill her - "

"Come, Briar."

Tears made their perilous climb up Briar's throat. Protests hunkered on his tongue and wouldn't leave, but he knew if he didn't say anything, the unmoving life in his hands wouldn't last much longer.

Heroes always saved the weak. Always.

His cheeks stung and his eyes shone as he looked up into the dark of his Father's face. "I heard she needed me and wanted to help her," he forced through a closing throat. "Just once, I wanted to save someone. Like you do at work."

Thunder cracked the world in two, the kind Briar felt before he heard. He barely noticed it. He'd seen his Father's eyes actually widen under the twitch of his brow, painted white by lightning. The spikes of his disapproval went brittle, snapped, shattered.

He pinched the space between his eyebrows and said, "Stay by the door when you come inside."

Wearily, he turned and walked back into the house.

Briar shut the door behind him when he followed him inside. This didn't feel like a victory, more like some kind of shift. He just wasn't sure what that meant. He pushed it from his mind and dutifully sank to the ground with his back against the door, his heart leaping when the kitten stirred in his hand. She was going to be okay. He'd make sure of it.

Father had gone off down the hall, and when he returned, he dropped a bath towel on the ground beside him. "I won't have it dirtying up the house," he said.

Briar didn't look at the towel at first. He was fixated on the hem of his Father's lab coat, which brushed against his calves the same way the bedsheet had against Briar's. For some reason that was what pushed a single tear over the edge and down his cheek.

"Thank you," he said, daring to glance up.

He held his breath as Father's weariness hardened again. The man met his eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away and donning his usual cold mask of a face.

"If I ever see another tear fall again," he said, "that cat is going out on the street. Is that clear?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

Without another word, Father snatched a tablet off the table, grabbed his mug, and stalked up the stairs to his bedroom.

Briar let out a breath. He wiped the tear away - as much good as it did him with his otherwise drenched face - and placed the kitten as gently as possible into the bundle of towel fabric. It yawned, waved its little paws around, and snuggled into its new bed.