It's late. Rain begins the patter on the sliding glass door to his back yard, and Strickler can see the heavier storm rolling in from that direction.
Angor is gone, and so is the ring.
ClÃo is quiet, attentively watching the TV, curled up against her mother's chest and nawing at a corner of the blanket surrounding them.
Strickler looks down at her, grabbing one of her tiny, tiny alabaster paws--he smiles when she squeezes it around his finger, but it is tense, too much so to be one of plain happiness.
He feels alone. He feels vulnerable. Without the ring, he cannot call for help if he--... If ClÃo is ever attacked.
It hurts to think about the distinction. But Angor made it clear, and Strickler knows he must abide by it. ClÃo is the only reason Angor let him live. She is what Angor cares about. Not him. Never him. Not after what he's done.
It takes a concerned whimper from his fawn to pull him from his thoughs. She is looking up at him, frowning and clutching the soggy blanket corner in one hand tightly. It takes seeing a droplet fall onto her arm for him to notice that he is crying. Because of course he is, over something so trivial and pointless, no less.
He sniffles roughly, leaning his head back and wiping his face clean with his wrist, groaning a curse at himself for this ridiculousness.
"Pathetic..."
The second he utters the word in an attempt to make himself laugh, he is wrought with a sob instead, lurching forward as more tears spill in spite of his wishing. ClÃo flinches away from the sound, her whimpers changing to distressed and worried cries of confusion. She puts her hand up, reaching to her mother's face to try to comfort him.
Strickler leans into the touch before louder sobbing starts, and all he can do is hug her as tightly as he can, like his life depends on it--because, for all he knows, it does.
