The fire was beginning to die by the time he came out, and after he kicked aside the metal and dumped the sand it was entirely done. He used a stick to fish the half-melted lump out of the smoking ashes, then donned a thick leather glove and picked up the steaming, useless weapon. He carried it all the way to the hole in the fence, then outside a little ways, where he dug down beneath a tree with his bare hands until he gauged it was deep enough. It left his fingers sore and bloodied in a couple of cases, but he relished the pain. He dumped the dagger in, kicked dirt over the hole, and tamped it down with several hard stomps. A discarded branch served to mask the spot, and he scuffed a few pine needles and leaves over it for good measure.<br/><br/>He hadn't spoken about his mother to anyone. He hadn't thought about that day intentionally in a very long time. The sacrifice she had made--the sacrifice he would have to make someday himself--it hung over him like a cloud. He returned to the Wood House as the sun neared the horizon and stopped in the kitchen to wash his hands and face, and realized his shirt had become utterly filthy in his efforts to cope with the bad memories. He peeled it off and dropped it in a bucket of water to soak, the easier to clean properly the next day. He heaved a sigh and looked down the hallway, the only place aside from the basement that he hadn't seen yet. He took his boots off and left them next to the rest of his pack before he went that way, again rubbing his neck.<br/><br/>He paused in front of her door, the other just slightly offset from it. He glanced at the closed door, then in at Malia as she sat staring at the raven pin. He was quiet as he watched her, again admiring her looks, the way her hair fell and her body curled around the memento. He knocked softly at her door to call attention to himself before he got caught. "You gonna be okay?" he asked, leaning in the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.