The cloak weighs heavy on his shoulders. Objectively, it does not feel different from his previous one. Perhaps the gold trimming is more intricate and the faded symbol on the back of his cloak appears different somehow, larger and grander, but the size and feel is exactly the same. But somehow it hangs uncomfortably; it billows loudly and snags onto branches and corners. Each time Wilson looks back to unsnag it, his cheeks feel just a bit warmer.

When he tries to clean, he only creates a larger mess, and when he fights he can only bring himself to fight from the rear, and sometimes even then his arrows refuse to meet their mark. He cannot understand why he is allowed to stand above the rest.

Eyes are squeezed shut as he tries to notch an arrow, but somehow it moves through the bow as if it was never there to begin with. The ringing metal and dying screams drown out his own. In his panic he grabs the arrow in two and he just kneels down, throws himself into a ball that sinks underneath the weight of his cloak.

He cannot understand, why—

--

He wakes up with hands in his hair and nails digging into his skull.