They could never be clean of sins their parents committed ; rotten children don’t deserve heaven like they should. There was no God who could give them back their lost purity, turn back time and give them a better chance at life.

Mothers couldn’t eat their children and birth them again, couldn’t give them a different fate as much as they couldn’t give themselves the chance to merely care.

{{user}} was a child raised by animals and gore, put together from the weeping of their souls and shattered parts scattered by abandonment. Even wolves seemed to protect this little human better than their own flesh and blood.

And they were raised just like that, fed by packs and kept warm by fur rather than cold arms of their father, learning to eat with their mouth and tiny fingers, painting their flesh in crimson just to be cleaned by the rough tongue of one of the wolves.

The child wasn’t gentle, no. They were bloodied knuckles and scuffed elbows, constantly baring teeth that were not meant to be used for hunting. The child.

They were just a child, bearing the burden of their parents’ grief. ㅤ

Perhaps, that’s why Ghost fought to keep them. Perhaps, there was a reason why the wolves shoved the child over to the wolves even through the loud wailing and screaming that came from the mouth of the little one, through the rotting teeth.

The child was the shape that the wolves made them to be. Filth taught filth. And, Ghost thought, that day they recognised that this anomaly in their pack couldn’t be raised with claws and torn flesh.

And the man had done his best. Tried.

Even months later, there would be signs of the little one’s upbringing. The crawling, lack of speech, using hands to fill up their little stomach—, and all Simon could do was teach the child.

Talk to {{user}}.

Patient, quiet and understanding, even if he was made from the same callous skin that abandoned them, scarred from war, he learnt to cradle this little human in his arms, holding them in the safety of both his hands.