#Chrysalis and Whips | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

irafuwas · 6 months ago

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Love that Lets Go Summary: Lilia Vanrouge has witnessed the rise and fall of great nations, has criscrossed the world, traversing distant realms strange and unknown, but never before in his life has he faced a challenge as grievous as this: parenting a teenager. Or: Silver stops calling Lilia "Papa", and Lilia loses his mind. Content Warnings: blood, explicit language, contains depictions of animals being hunted and butchered, canon divergent Pairings: There's like one reference to past Lilibaul, but otherwise, none. Length: 38k (Header artwork from here)

You can either read it after the cut or on AO3!

A/N: I began working on this fic last summer, right after I finished Electric Dreams, and was able to complete the general outline and write about a third of it before I promptly abandoned the project for over half a year. By the time I started working on it again this past January, Book 7 had progressed greatly on the JP server, and pretty much everything that I'd written regarding Lilia's background and his involvement in Mal's upbringing/their relationship had become uncanonical in the meantime ://// I decided to go ahead and keep those parts in the story unchanged from how I had them last summer, partly so I wouldn't have to rework the plot, and mostly because I am lazy. So the setting is more or less the same as the game, but with some major changes in Lilia and Mal's pasts, with no major Book 7 JP server spoilers for those wishing to avoid them.

It was a speculative day, the kind that could not fix upon a proper humor or color, hesitating in turns between the brilliant bustle of spring and the sultry lull of summer. The morning air was thin and cool, not unusual even that late in May, but several months would pass by that afternoon, so that a sticky July heat would descend upon the valley once the sun reached its zenith. In the evening, there would be a light rain. All this the boy Silver calculated as he stepped outside.

The sky above him was a perfect meadow of morning glory and larkspur, bordered by a flourish of honeysuckle and cockscomb as golden-red as amber sap. He thrust his hand high above him, wishing for a moment he could pluck one of the dandelion clouds from its indigo plot and press it for his collection. It would be his secret treasure, and he would not reveal it until his friend Sebek next designed to inflame him. He carried within his mind a catalog of every expression and shade his friend could take, and this he now opened and paged through while he wandered towards the pig pen and lean-to that stood opposite his home, contemplating what combination of flush and scowl the other boy would respond with. He smiled at his private entertainment while he walked.

He was one of the few beings awake on that land. An industrious blackbird chirped quietly off in the distance, but the surrounding forest was otherwise silent, the pine trees and giant firs still dozing in the early morning shade. He was not, however, lonely; nor was he in want of more. His heart was light, and it gently thrummed with the same anticipation that had slipped into the hearts of all the valley’s creatures as of late, just as the sunlight slipped into their skin. May was an in-between month, an intermission, a time for Nature to enter her great chrysalis and prepare for the summer months to come. She would re-emerge sometime in late June, the earth’s prodigal daughter carrying in her arms the red-ripe wildberries she’d hang in the thicket all around him, the bright yellow coreopsis and vetch of the softest pink she’d set down in the meadow near his home, and the pearl white blossoms she’d drape across the canopies of the sweet bay beyond the fields. And she would beguile, too, the whip-poor-wills into beginning their annual summer serenades, allowing the robins and the orioles to retire from their heraldic duties at last, having spent several weeks announcing the season prior.

“There are two summers,” his father had once explained to him years ago, when he was very small. He held up two fingers while he spoke. “There’s the summer that starts on June 1st every year. That one’s based on dividing the calendar into four periods of three months each.”

“Three months each,” the little boy repeated with a nod.

“And then the other summer, the real one, starts on the solstice.”

“When’s the solstice, papa?”

“Easy,” the man grinned, “it’s when summer starts!”

The boy memorized this and all his father’s other teachings as his catechisms, and he knew, based on his observations, and based on all he'd ever learned from his masters - his father and the stars and the entire natural world around him - that the solstice was but a few short weeks away. This knowledge captivated him, and when he awoke at twilight each morning, he would spend a few minutes lying completely still in bed, nearly holding his breath, listening for those first few notes of the whip-poor-will’s call.

After releasing the animals from their detainment, he watched as the small procession of cows and pigs and chickens trod dutifully into the adjoining pasture. He would wait to fill their troughs later; each creature would automatically find for itself its morning fare amongst the acres of dew-wet grass – on this day the milk cow and her calf selected a patch of dark green clover for their breakfast, and the pigs beside them dined noisily on tall stalks of chicory, their pink brows misting over with sweat as they feverously chewed. The chickens, however, quickly stumbled upon a single, tender petunia they had overlooked all month. Gathered around the shining lilac jewel, they could not decide who amongst them would be permitted to destroy it. A forum was immediately convened, with each hen arguing her case in turn, and Silver gathered their eggs while they debated. Their hues were as soft and as delicate as a watercolor wash; some were tawny brown and speckled, others a faded green or blue. They reminded him of river stones, and they felt as smooth as clay in his work-worn hands. Each one he gingerly wiped against his pant leg before depositing into his wicker basket.

He had, for a time, believed – largely due to his father’s persuasions – that a bird’s diet determined the color of its eggs, and he’d spent one summer collecting armfuls of nasturtium, cone flowers, and bright red peonies every single day from the meadow by their home, attempting to invent an egg as ruby red as his father’s eyes. But while the chickens had delighted in their daily carmine feast, his efforts proved fruitless, the egg shells failing to develop even the slightest indication of a blush. When the truth of his father’s scheme was revealed later that fall, Silver had not rebuked him. He'd only blamed himself for being deceived, and for neglecting to include some beautyberries and rosehips into his mix, secretly believing that this was the true genesis of his failure.

The chickens resolved their quarrel by the time his basket was full. In celebration, he scattered a few handfuls of scratch over the ground for them. The bits and pieces of grain could not have delighted the small party more even if it had been the rice thrown for nuptials, and Silver turned and left them to their devices.

On slow days, when he had little else to do but drink in the air and watch the sun move across the sky, he liked to sit in the pasture and listen to them talk. The tall grass would form four walls all around him, and the hens would often come sit next to his verdant cabinet, offering to him their confessions through the screen of sorghum and fescue. They were perfect in their gesticulations, and he particularly enjoyed the mechanical way they moved their heads; it was as though invisible strings were jerking them this way and that, moving not unlike the marionettes his father had once brought home on one of his travels. There was, overall, a hilarity to their character that he missed in his other animal companions – the cows were too listless, he thought; the pigs, too cavalier.

The pigs he favored the least. He had helped his father erect a new fence along the south side of their property last summer, working sun up to sun down for over a week, and it had taken only a single afternoon for one of the boars - newly purchased with money his father didn’t have to spare - to rip a hole through the wire mesh and lead his brethren into the open forest, never to be seen again. He had been with his father the morning the vandalism was discovered. It was one of the few times in his life he’d seen the man angry, and he had been unsympathetic towards the species ever since.

He glanced at them occasionally while he backtracked to the vegetable garden beside the cottage, quickly looking away when they returned his stare. He walked around the fence that protected the garden, giving it a cursory inspection before stepping inside. There hadn’t been any break-ins yet, but he had noticed the shallow, hoof-like indentations that would sometimes manifest in the soil around the gate, and he could tell, too, that something heavy had been pressing itself against the fence posts lately, evinced by the unnatural angles a number of them were now inclined. However, the pigs defended their innocence with a brazen confidence that stupefied even his father, and the animals had so far been spared of any further interrogation.

He entered the gate and filled the watering can sitting by the pump. The alternating rows of green and orange and red and yellow buds dotting the area convened into a checker pattern, as though one of Ma Zigvolt’s gingham dresses had been spread out over the ground. He carefully stepped over and around and in between every sprout and seedling, dancing, almost, as he worked through each row, providing only just as much water to the young plants as they demanded, pausing only when he reached the tomatoes. His father was severely particular about them, fussing over the vines like a sculptor would his block of clay, and would, at the end of every season, declare that he had grown the "best tomatoes this side of the valley", but as he was one of few fae who grew them, and perhaps the only one who enjoyed their tart taste, his countrymen gladly indulged him in his boasting. Silver tilted his watering can and aimed the stream into the soil around the base of the plants, avoiding the foliage as he’d been instructed. He hummed to himself as he continued his ministrations, his thoughts drifting brightly towards the harvest to come.

Soon, there would be fresh corn pone and hoe cakes and yellow squash fritters fried in pools of marble white pork fat, heaping bowls of piping hot green beans sauteed in pats of golden yellow butter, and tender, fresh baked apple dumplings topped with a creamy homemade vanilla glaze, all washed down with the coldest, sweetest lemonade the valley had to offer. And he and his father would make preserves – of everything; jams and jellies from the wild raspberries and blueberries they’d gather from the forests, and from the bushels of strawberries now growing in their garden, and they’d pickle cucumbers and beets and radishes and fennel and bell peppers and cabbage; the tiny root cellar under their home would transform into a museum over the summer - its shelves filled to the brim with rows upon rows of glass jars containing their colorful fermented treasures, with giant slabs of dark red elk meat and pale pink sausage links hanging from the hooks lining the ceiling, and pounds of wild-caught bass and catfish curing in salt baths on the floor, nearly every specimen in that small space a self-contained microcosm of bacterial delight.

Silver was not one to favor any season over another; he found pleasure in the flora and fauna of his surroundings all year round. But so long as his father was strictly supervised in the kitchen, it was summer fare that delighted him more than anything else, and he wished every day for the watermelon and the strawberries to ripen faster, and for the honeybees to finish constructing their summer combs.

A pine warbler’s sharp trill snapped the boy out of his daydreams. The sun had at last emerged above the umber line of the horizon, and the golden edges of the sky were rapidly fading into a soft baby blue. The land was rapidly beginning to awaken. He could hear the low drone of the honeybees as they pushed past him on their way to the meadow, and the goldfinches warming up for their morning performances in the forest yonder. He hurried to complete the rest of his chores, invigorated by a mixture of excitement and hunger and still that same dull throb of anticipation in his heart.

When he was finished at last, Silver lay down on the grass, tucking himself under the blanket of fog that hung low over the ground. He could hear only the cows lowing and the chickens murmuring and the wind brushing up against the pine trees. And if he lay still enough, he could hear even the earth itself breathing. If he pressed his ear against the damp soil, he could hear the planet exhale, could hear the molecules of water vapor rising through the air, lifting themselves off the slick blades of grass, unifying and condensing into the wave of fog that rolled across his body. His world was now perfect. And it remained perfect for half an hour longer, until his father threw open the cottage door and called him inside for breakfast.

The air grew warmer and warmer as the morning languidly transitioned into afternoon. Pleased that his prediction had been correct, he suggested to his father, Lilia, that they begin making their way to the Zigvolt's before it grew too hot, and the man agreed. The mass of burnt scrambled eggs his father had prepared for breakfast still festered heavily in Silver's stomach, and he quickly wolfed down a plain butter sandwich and an apple for lunch. His gangly body could get by on very little, and the Zigvolts always had refreshments at the ready, anyways. He grabbed his knapsack from his room and accompanied his father out the door. Together, they followed the dirt path that led from the clearing into the forest.

Lilia had settled down there decades prior, appearing in the neighboring town one day with little more to his name than a few gold coins in his pocket and a raggedy shawl strewn across his back. He'd been a drifter for decades, having retired from the local military under circumstances he never cared to divulge, and while some of the townsfolk were glad to welcome him home, most others thought him a stranger. A pack of these skeptics descended upon him one evening, cornering him in the run-down hostel where he'd been temporarily residing. They poked and prodded him with their questions, asking him why he had left and where he'd been to and why he'd now suddenly returned, at times turning away to whisper amongst themselves, as though evaluating a head of cattle. To each of their scathing rebukes he simply replied, "Doesn't matter anymore." He repeated those three words like a mantra, like a prayer to exorcize the specters gathered around his bed. His defense was as solid as a leaden curtain, soundly deflecting each and every one of the inquisitors' attacks, and when they finally scattered that night, rendered stupefied by their defeat, Lilia gathered up his sparse few belongings and vanished amongst them.

He ultimately bought his property from a man who'd recognized the name "Lilia Vanrouge", but not the mysterious little creature attached to it. The landowner was however only glad to finally rid himself of the place; it had been sitting vacant for years, long overgrown with its own miniature forest of brambles and weeds, and he was easily dismissed with what little money Lilia had to offer. There was a dilapidated cottage the last tenants had left behind, as well as the rotting remnants of a barn that hadn't been touched in ages, and the water pump, rusted over from decades of unuse, snapped in half the first time Lilia tried to use it.

He began making renovations immediately. He patched up the roof on the cottage and spent a week removing all the cobwebs and rat nests he could find inside. He cleared out the overgrowth suffocating the area and tore down the old barn, erecting a lean-to for his cows and a coop for his hens in its place. He sectioned off a small plot of land next to his house for a vegetable garden, and sowed his new fields with the fervor of a devotee. Decades of working the land yielded a soil heartier and more robust than anything the locals ever seen, as though the very earth itself was repaying him in kind for liberating it from its long imprisonment. His tomato plants bore him perfect rubies bigger than his fists. His corn and his wheat stood like giants, towering high above his head. He found his heart lifting up and growing lighter and lighter together with the green stalks soaring up into the sky. All these things slowly grew in tandem with his household - he'd added another wing to the cottage when he took in Silver, and the garden, having more than tripled in size since it was first built, now produced a far greater variety of colorful fare than Lilia could have ever imagined. It was, in all, a meager living - a little home with little in it, the glass jar of rainy day funds sitting above the fireplace never to be full, always repairs around the property to be made, always hand-me-down clothes and toys to be mended - but it was enough for the man and his child, regardless.

When Silver grew older, Lilia began letting him operate the homestead on his own when he went traveling, a leisure he'd picked up in his older age. He would leave Silver a list of rules to follow and projects to work on while he was gone - in addition to his regular everyday chores - which he adjusted for each season, such as chopping firewood in the winter, and making preserves in the summer. But above all, no matter the time of year, and barring an emergency, he absolutely forbade Silver from leaving their land. Lilia had marked off a boundary for him years ago: the river to the west, a felled oak tree to the north, the meadow to the south, and the base of the nearby mountain range to the east. Lilia trusted his son, minimally, to the extent he had no doubt the boy could procure the food and water needed to keep himself alive when left alone. But the mountains and the deep forest and even the castle town he did not trust, didn’t believe in the sincerity of the light that flooded the silent earth bordering their home.

Five miles separated the Vanrouge’s homestead from the Zigvolt’s home. Five miles that cut through the forest that extended far beyond Lilia’s land. As such, Lilia would supervise his son's travels to and from his friend’s home. They only ever walked - teleportation magic gave Silver extreme vertigo, and Lilia found his powers could no longer cover the long distance as easily as in his youth. But it was a pleasant journey, and the pair quietly admired the same mass of towering pine and spruce trees they'd admired hundreds of times before as they continued down the winding road. The forest was handsome in its late spring attire, adorned in a thick flush of bright green foliage, and the charming white faces of the star flowers and wood anemones peeked at them from amongst the undergrowth as they passed by. Overhead, a symphony of chaffinch and dunnock calls accompanied the gentle stir of the treetops brushing against each other in the wind.

Silver often called on the Zigvolt’s. The youngest of the three children, a boy named Sebek, was the only non-animal companion he had his age. They had first met a number of years prior, when Sebek apprenticed under Silver's father, and while their rivalry had been immediate, their friendship had formed only slowly, over years of tense acquaintanceship. Sebek had held a grudge against Silver since the day they’d met, or possibly longer - that much Silver had been able to determine, but he could never puzzle out what he’d done to injure him so. He was frequently agitated - over Silver’s abilities, his actions, the clothing he wore, the way he walked and the way he talked. He was “wound up tighter than an eight-day clock”, as his father would often laugh. Had Silver grown up interacting with more children his age, had he an index against which to measure his friend’s volatile attitude, then he would have understood that Sebek was simply a very immature boy – he’d not yet outgrown his foot-stamping tantrums and his jealous remarks, but there was never any true venom behind his words, only that primal, juvenile desire to convince himself and the adults around them that he and Silver were equals. But Silver liked him, at any rate; there was only so much one could do to persuade a rabbit or a songbird to gambol with one, or to explore make-believe worlds that stretched far beyond their animal imaginations, and Sebek was as eager a daydreamer as he. Even a child’s heart can be a guarded thing, as Silver’s was, having matured in a world comprised of only a small handful of faces and an even smaller stretch of land, but he’d long placed Sebek in that corner of his heart only his father and Malleus and the blue birds and honeysuckle otherwise occupied, and he cherished his friend for his outbursts and rare affections, both.

It was an “off day” for the boys - neither had any training exercises scheduled, and Silver looked forward to their rendezvous. He figured they'd be spending most of the afternoon outside, in light of the pleasant weather. Later in the summer, when the heat would spoil their entertainment, they'd move indoors, reading comics and old almanacs together in the Zigvolt's parlor, sprawled out like a pair of lazy tomcats on the cool hardwood floor. And if he was lucky, Ma Zigvolt would invite him to stay for dinner (he was always too shy to ask). She was one of his strongest allies, and had rescued him from his father’s well-meaning meals on more than one occasion. He kept his fingers crossed as he walked, hoping she and Pa Zigvolt wouldn't be staying late at the dental clinic they operated.

Once they entered the deepest part of the forest, Lilia cleared his throat, signaling that he was about to speak. Silver braced himself. His father was a habitually cheerful and easygoing man, able to make merry with nearly anyone that crossed his path, but the man's good humor came at the cost of his interlocutor's, at times.

First, Lilia asked what plans he had with Sebek for that afternoon.

"Not much."

Lilia shrugged off the curt response. They'd crossed several miles already, and the afternoon heat was prickling at his fair skin. He chastised himself for neglecting to bring a hat. He next asked, smiling broadly this time, hoping both to coax his son and to take his mind off the heat, if Silver was excited for all the fresh vegetables they'd soon be harvesting from their garden.

"I guess."

Still not discouraged, Lilia dispatched his probes once more, asking if Silver had any requests for dinner, and whether he'd read or heard anything interesting lately, but the boy deflected each one with a “Yes”, or a “No”, or an “I don’t know”. Silver had recently discovered that the briefer he kept his answers, the quicker he could get his father to stop talking, and this observation proved itself true once more, the man quitting his examination a few moments later. A feeling of discomfort prickled at his skin as the heat did his father's; the perfection of that morning a few short hours ago now seemed to him like a distant memory. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

By and by, the dirt road transitioned into a gravel walkway, and the Zigvolt’s farmhouse at last came into view. It was a noble building - tall and spacious, constructed from dense heart pine lumber, the eggshell white finish still shining brightly after so many years, with a towering red brick chimney that rivaled the surrounding cottonwood trees in their noble height. An amber light glowed softly from one of the windows. Silver and Lilia stopped before the stairs leading up to the front of the wraparound porch, where a clothesline heavy with freshly washed bed sheets rocked gently in the breeze. Ma Zigvolt was known to perfume her wash, and sunny notes of bergamot drifted down to them in waves.

The pair said their goodbyes, but when Lilia leaned forward to kiss the boy’s cheek, Silver moved away, ducking and turning around so quickly that Lilia stumbled as he fell through the empty air. He steadied himself hastily, his arms whirling for a moment before plummeting to his sides, his puckered lips collapsing into a frown. The rejection stunned him. His mind hastily reassembled and played back the insult it had just witnessed, finally ascertaining after the third repetition that he had not just been struck.

Wide-eyed, he croaked, “Silver?”

The boy took a step towards the house, his back turned to Lilia. “I’ll see you later,” he grunted, as though struggling under the weight of his father’s heavy gaze. And then he stormed up the porch, threw open the front door, and disappeared inside without a second glance.

Lilia stared imploringly at the silent house, but it offered him no answers. He shook his head and sighed. “The hell’s been going on with him lately?”

Sebek’s older sister Iris emerged onto the back porch carrying a tray of milk and pound cake. She set the tray on a small table by the door and began arranging the glasses and plates. She’d been away from home the past year, busy with her university studies, but had returned for the summer. Her absence had been difficult for the family – for Sebek most of all.

Though he was now the apple of her eye, Iris had been opposed to the idea of a younger brother at first. She’d spent the first few months of her mother’s pregnancy curled up against the low swell of her belly, regaling the child - her new little sister - with all the fantastic plans she had in store for the two of them. But when her parents returned from a doctor’s appointment one day, a set of grainy monochrome photographs in hand, and they announced the baby was, in fact, a boy, she felt the faceless black thing staring up at her from the pictures had betrayed her. She staunchly refused to address her mother’s stomach for the rest of the pregnancy.

Ultimately, Sebek entered the world as an absolute bear of a baby, all rolls and dimples and folds and milk white skin that smelled as sweet as honey. The first time Iris saw him, he was dozing open-mouthed, lying curled up on the pillow of his mother’s breast. He looked like a dollop of pure butter, and with that single glance the girl was thoroughly convinced of his perfection.

As the baby matured, growing conscious of himself and of the world around him, his burgeoning mind, incredibly receptive to every new stimulus that entered his environment, quickly took note of his sister’s eager affections, and it wasn’t long until he ascertained that his incapability was the trick to his own allure. A halfhearted grumble would earn him a kiss, for example; a miserable wail, liberation from his crib. It was almost cunning, the way he’d play the fool for her, wrapping her tighter and tighter around his plump little finger with every feigned ineptitude he devised. “Oh, Sebby!” Iris would laugh, scooping his doughy mass into the cradle of her arms when he'd whine to be held. “You’re just a helpless little thing, aren’t you?” And the baby would bat his cub paws at her and smile his gummy smile, as if to say, “Just you wait and see!"

When their brother Horace, the eldest of the three siblings, moved into his own apartment in the castle town a few years ago, Sebek had been secretly pleased, for their mother now looked to him for help with splitting firewood and mending the fences and tilling the garden. He knew his father could not be entrusted with such things - Linus Zigvolt was a kind and good man, but he was also foolish. And boring. And unforgivably human. Sebek’s mother and his sister - and his grandfather, when the man was in an affable mood - were the center of his juvenile universe. His father and brother merely orbited them. And whereas Horace’s departure had been no more noteworthy to him than the changing of the seasons, his sister had taken with her a sense of stability he still hadn’t grown accustomed to living without.

She was a tall, muscular girl, with a broad, handsome face that was rimmed by the family’s trademark scales. A star member of her school's track and field team, she had recently broken the district's shot put record, a fact which her parents and grandfather had been proudly mentioning at least once every day since. Although soft-spoken, like her father, she was also in possession of a tongue as caustic as her mother’s, and more than one naïve suitor had abandoned his endeavors a much meeker man than when he’d met her. Her long, green hair was bundled in two intricate fishtail braids that trailed down her back – a style popular amongst valley girls her age – and she brushed away a loose strand from her face as she straightened out the napkins. Her mind dimly registered that she'd need to schedule a trim before returning to school.

Content with her work, Iris turned to the garden and cupped her hands around her mouth, shouting, “Sebby! Silver! I brought you guys some snacks!”

The boys rose from behind the jumble of cardboard boxes they’d been working on taping together. They raced each other to the porch, politely offering Iris their thanks as they sat down at the table. Silver gingerly cut into his cake, careful not to scatter any crumbs. Iris had always thought of him as bird-like, with his wiry frame, and his too big head that hung so awkwardly from the end of his long crane neck, and she was struck once again at his meagerness as he pecked at his meal.

After observing them for a few moments, she asked, “Why’d you drag all those boxes into the yard for, anyways?”

“That’s – I mean – ‘Tis our fortress!” Sebek explained between mouthfuls of cake. “We’re defending our home from those wretched ne’er-do-wells yonder!” He pointed towards the garden with one hand and shoveled another piece of cake into his mouth with the other.

Iris followed the line of Sebek’s outstretched finger. Beyond its glaze-covered point lay a pair of rabbits, lazily nibbling on a patch of grass by the boxes.

“Ooh, so you guys are playing pretend again?” She smiled as she put her hands on her hips. “Are you knights this time? Do you want me to be, like, your damsel in distress again or whatever?”

Sebek’s face reddened. “Sissy, stop it!”

Iris laughed and pinched his cheek. He resigned limply.

“Don’t worry, I won’t interrupt your little fun.” She turned away, and then added, “I’ll be in my room, so just shout if you need anything.”

Sebek huffed as his sister closed the door behind her. He scrunched up his round little face and balled his fists. His cheeks were permanently ruddy, flushing darker or lighter depending on his level of agitation, and it was clear by their scarlet hue that Iris's words had hurt him. Silver pushed his empty plate away and stood up.

“Come on, Sebek,” he sighed, rubbing the other boy’s back placatively. “You can be the General of the Right this time. I’ll ask some birds and rabbits to be the townspeople, and you can come save us.”

Often, Silver’s ability to brush off any injury with the placidity of a rock would only inflame Sebek’s rage further, but he permitted his friend to coax him back into the garden. As he watched Silver recruit a regiment of forest creatures for their schemes, he decided there was fairness in the world yet.

Baul Zigvolt was dozing in his rocking chair when Lilia returned that evening. He was perhaps the progenitor of his family members' incredible statures. His wife had been a modest woman, of average height and unremarkable in her build, but he in turn was a veritable mountain of muscle and hardened flesh, so massive that the top of Lilia’s head just barely reached the enormous blocks of his shoulders. He was squeezed into his chair rather than sat upon it, and the wood groaned threateningly as he rocked. The family’s only pet, an equally massive black tomcat with a lone white spot on the tip of its tail, was sprawled comfortably by his feet. The creature was as lazy as it was amiable, having not once dispatched any of the vermin that made merry of its owners’ grain stores, but the children were so enamored with its corpulence that their parents could not bear to rehome it. It shared with Baul a passion for evening naps, and neither of them stirred as Lilia approached.

The two men had served in the Imperial Guard together for centuries, and though they’d stepped down from their posts and re-entered civilian life ages ago, having both established households and produced children, and were now enjoying all the slow pleasures of retirement, Baul still offered advisory services to the Guard on a voluntary basis. The truth of Lilia’s retirement, however, had never been fully absorbed into the folds of Baul’s brain, and he continued to address his erstwhile superior as “General” at their every meeting. “It’s just a bad habit!” he’d defend himself sheepishly when rebuked. But he would soon disremember his error, and would, in the next breath, refer to Lilia by his long-vacated position once again.

“Hello, Baul.” Lilia dipped his head in greeting.

“Evening, General,” Baul murmured, slowly blinking his eyes open with a yawn. “You come to get your boy?”

“Yes, do you know where he is?”

Baul leaned forward and jabbed his thumb behind him. “Yeah, he and Seb are playing out back.” He settled back into his chair and closed his eyes again, opening them once more a second later. “Oh, and while you’re at it, could you tell Seb he needs to get home before nightfall?”

“Oh?” Lilia raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite unlike you to worry about him,” he replied with a smirk.

“Hell if I care!” Baul huffed, crossing his arms. “We’ve been seeing bear tracks around here lately, and I don’t want him to come crying to me if he runs into one of the dumb bastards. That’s all.”

“I see, I see,” Lilia laughed. He reached out and stroked the cat’s head, cocking his own head as he did so. "Well, I don't hear them close by. Can I wait here until they come back? They're probably off playing in the woods somewhere."

Baul huffed again. "I certainly wouldn't mind any if you'd like to take a seat."

Lilia stepped onto the porch and lowered himself into the chair across from Baul with a groan. He was occasionally stricken with bouts of rheumatism, and the frequent trips to and from the Zigvolt’s that year had been taking their toll. Baul raised an eyebrow as Lilia pawed at his back, but made no comment on the subject, electing instead to remark on how nice the weather had been lately, and how excited his grandkids were to go swimming in the river that weekend. Lilia offered in turn the latest updates on his own son. The men exchanged these little stories about their children and grandchildren as passing travelers exchanged their wares. They would file away each anecdote into their hearts for safekeeping, and take them out later to smile at when left alone.

Their habitual pleasantries concluded, Lilia asked Baul if he'd noticed anything unusual about Silver that afternoon.

"Unusual?" Baul frowned. "In what way?"

"Ahh, was he..." Lilia searched for the right word. "Quiet at all?"

Baul scoffed. "He's always quiet. Never met a child made so little noise in my life. I always wondered how he turned out like that, being raised by a loudmouth like you."

"Hey!" Lilia frowned.

"Hah! Sorry, sorry," Baul replied with a laugh, throwing up his hands in defense. "But I mean, other than that, only thing I noticed is the kid's been growing like a weed lately. Guess that's one more thing where you don't have to worry he'll take after you. Heh."

Lilia paid no heed to his baseless fibbing, and instead concentrated his thoughts towards one of his oldest pleasures: finding ways to agitate Baul. He never wished to start any real fights, but was simply possessed by the natural urge to tease him, as a child might like to prod a sleeping bear. Baul found the topic of his son-in-law particularly sensitive, and Lilia grinned as he formulated his attack.

"And how's dear Linus? I heard from Silver the clinic's been pretty busy lately."

Lilia's ploy worked immediately. A vein throbbed on Baul's forehead. "That human is fine, far as I know."

"As far as you know?" Lilia looked at him quizzically. "Aren't you here almost everyday? When's the last time you spoke with him?"

"Hell if I know. I don't give a damn what he has to say."

Lilia rolled his eyes. "Will you ever get over yourself?"

"No!" Baul grunted automatically, flushing hot red once he understood Lilia's insult. "The hell's that even supposed to mean! General!"

Lilia laughed. "Oh, come on! Why can't you just cut him some slack already? I still can't believe he agreed to take your last name like you wanted, with the way you treat him."

"Hmph! One of the few things he's done right by me."

Like so many of his fae brethren, Baul did not favor humans. He and Lilia had witnessed their evils firsthand during their time in the service, and they had watched, powerless, as so many of their friends and comrades, so many of their hopes and dreams and aspirations were crushed and destroyed under the iron heels of their enemy. Over time, after peace treaties had been signed and all the war flags had been taken down and neatly folded and put away, Lilia's heart had softened enough to accept humans with a frivolous neutrality, going so far as to adopt one to raise as his son, but Baul's had not. He was immediately suspicious of the handful of humans that came to live in the valley after the war, turning up his nose at their strange wares and customs and ways. When even more of them began to pour into the castle town, he and his wife sold their house and fled to a small homestead in the forest.

But fate continued to torment him, and he ended up a widower shortly after their first and only child, Thalia, was born. Even through all of his pain, he found his daughter was perfect - more perfect than anything he had ever seen. He was at first cautious in his parenting, aware at all times that he might one day lose her, too, as he had lost so many others before, but the child embraced all the challenges of her life with a ferocity that stunned him, and his concerns quickly proved themselves unwarranted as the years went by. She grew to be a tall and proud woman - she was heavyset, soft and plump in all the places her father was lean and hard, and more beautiful than a dahlia in full bloom.

They remained close after she moved out, meeting together for dinner most nights, and he thought nothing of it when she mentioned she'd started working at a local dental clinic. She would now and then talk about her boss, a human who'd immigrated to the valley some years ago, and to Baul's dismay, her innocent admiration quickly burgeoned into something more serious. Her infatuation with the human felt to Baul like a betrayal. He and Thalia fought when she announced she was courting him, they fought when she announced her engagement, and they fought when she announced she was pregnant. It was Horace's birth that finally allowed for their armistice, and his arms trembled the first time he held his newborn grandson. A child's eyes are the truest mirror one can face, and when Baul gazed into the wet emerald panes peering up at him, he realized for the first time in his life how ugly he had become. He locked himself in his room when he returned home that night. All alone, he reached as far and as deep as he could into his heart and ripped out the black seed of his hatred, casting it far away - farther than Zeus could launch his bolts of lightning or Thor his hammer.

But even though he'd finally been able to make peace with his daughter, nothing could be done to mend his relationship with his son-in-law. Linus had been intensely curious of the world around him from a young age, and the interest he'd developed in fae dentition during his studies had drawn him across the ocean and into Briar Valley upon his graduation, where he established a successful dental practice that treated both human and fae patients, alike. He was a pinched and narrow man, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, and his heavy-lidded eyes had never lost the childlike spark that so often betrays us as we grow older. It was this spark that had first piqued Thalia's interest, and he was just as obsessed with his wife as she was with him. There was very little of him to see in their children - they had inherited neither his shaggy black hair nor his brown eyes, neither his wiry frame nor olive complexion; their mother's genetics had overpowered his so completely it was as though Thalia had simply sculpted each child from the white clay of the earth by herself. But he fiercely adored them, regardless, showering them with praise and affection, and with an abundance of sugary treats that would make other members of his profession light headed. Over the years, Baul had grown to appreciate Linus for his kindness and for his intellect, and for his devotion to his family, but still could not stand how weak he was, and how small. He was a foot shorter than his wife and several hundred pounds lighter - a miserable twig next to a glorious oak tree, and Baul often complained that he would "snap in half if he sneezed too hard." Worst of all, he was magicless - a transgression Baul knew he would never be able to forgive. He could only tolerate the man, and offered him no more mercy than that.

Lilia shook his head, exasperated. "My god, I'll never understand how Tally puts up with you. Woman has the patience of a saint."

"Yeah," Baul murmured. "Yeah, she does." He folded his hands in his lap and contemplated.

They rocked in comfortable silence. The sun drifted leisurely towards the horizon, and the golden-orange sky looked as soft as an oriole feather. A nightingale, determined to outwit its rival suitors, began his serenade an hour early. Lilia had come to that place with the sole intention of retrieving his son, but the evening breeze dislodged that singular thought from his mind, and it floated away to join the cloud of fireflies gathering in the front lawn. The cat observed all of this with great interest. It was suddenly wide awake where the two men beside it were growing slowly unconscious, its body twitching with the primordial knowledge that night would soon fall.

Silver and Sebek found the pair fast asleep when they returned an hour later.

II.

Sometimes, when the sun seems to hang frozen above him, stubbornly refusing to give up its domination to the pleasant respite of night, when there are no chores to distract him with and his boy isn’t around to tease, Lilia will wander - usually carelessly, at times with a pointed determination - into the dim labyrinth of his mind. It would always astound him how, despite nearly seven hundred years of escapades and follies, despite almost a millennium of joy and heartbreak and unrest and sorrow, there were so few memories for him to parse through. Some of them had simply faded away as he grew older, others had burst into his consciousness and then vanished like spring lightning, dragged down by his heart into an unknown place where they could no longer hurt him. When he’d at last reach the center of that great maze, he would cling onto the earliest memory he could salvage from its shadowy depths, and always he would find himself next blinking his eyes open into the dull light of the castle barracks. He was no longer certain if the memory was from the day he’d enlisted, or if it was from a time much later in the service. He only knew that he must’ve already been an adult then, that he must’ve already accepted all the solitude and responsibility that had been thrust onto his small shoulders by the forces that determined his life.

He'd been told by the queen, along with all the lords and ladies and every other manner of noble and aristocrat he had ever served, on numerous occasions and under no pretense of kindness, that the royal family had taken him in as a young orphan, but he could not remember if that was true. He was certain, at least, that they had given him his name. "Lilia" was derived from the fae word for lily flowers, a plant whose legends and symbolism encompassed grand ideals of hope and purity, and something about it - the sound of it, its grandiose meanings, the way it would catch itself on his teeth, as though his body could not recognize what it was he was trying to say - had always felt wrong to him - foreign, even, so that he always felt like the people addressing him were talking to someone else. Out of discomfort, he often went by his last name, instead. "Vanrouge" had a sharpness to it that he found suited himself much more - both the sharpness of his temperament, and of his body. He was bony and stunted in height, his back no broader than the sticks used for kindling, and he stood shoulder height or lower to most adults his age. The nobility was not beyond recoginizing his strength and his talent in magic, however, and for all that his self-proclaimed benefactors gave him - a place to call home, people he could call family, military prestige beyond his wildest dreams - they took away just as much. Their orders came down like axe heads, and for centuries he dutifully served under their beck and call, acting as a guard dog for them one day, a scapegoat another, an undertaker the next, folding for them like a blade of grass forced flat by the wind.

He stumbled through the years as haphazardly as a tightrope walker, going only where he was told to go and doing only what he was told to do. He worked to the point that he could work no more, and when his incapability was discovered, he was immediately ordered to resign. It was one of the few times in his life he had ever felt afraid. Each and every one of the sovereignty's commands had been a link in a long fetter that bound him to their sides, but it had also been his lifeline, and without it, he feared he would be lost. The day of his resignation, he received one final order to remove his things from the barracks before leaving. The truth of it all pierced his mind like an arrow just then. He realized all at once that the tiny room with its cot and its chest and its wardrobe would be his prison cell no more, that the four walls that had been closing in on him for centuries had finally halted in their paths. He realized the thing that had been beating in his chest all his life had not been stamped out, had not been taken away from him - he had lost his dignity, his strength, even some of the people he had permitted himself to love, but not this. He smiled as he left the castle, made giddy by the greatest secret he knew he would never be able to tell. The discharge papers in his hands suddenly seemed to him like a pardon.

However, he had spent so many years bowing down to others he found he did not recognize the world when he finally stood up and looked at it again. With nothing more left in his life to guide him, he left his homeland shortly after his expulsion. He traveled from country to country with no real destination in mind - if a locale displeased him, he simply packed his things and departed for the next. As the years went by, he gradually began to operate with less and less reason, doing everything and anything he could "just because". Time had molded the clay of his person into a confusing and crude shape, and after decades of slow disentanglement and reformation, of reclaiming all the good things he had been forced to cast out of his heart, he discovered that his truest pleasure was to simply live by his whims. When he at last exhausted his traveling funds, he returned to the valley, settling down only because he'd never done so before, and was curious how well it would go. The people around him pitied him, as one often does those whom Life seems to have forgotten in its haste, but he was far too absorbed in his newfound self-indulgences to pay them any mind.

Even the acquisition of his son had been unplanned. He'd periodically scavenge from the ghost towns that dotted the countryside, in search of tools and good lumber he could use for his repairs back home, and on one such excursion, while searching through the rooms of a crumbling little cottage located deep within the valley's eastern forests, he found a human baby, fast asleep in its cradle. It was gaunt, with an evident pallor to its face, and Lilia quickly concluded it had been abandoned; the stagnant air in that place told him no other living being had been there for days. When he turned to leave, not wishing to disrupt Nature's process, an idea struck his mind so suddenly and so violently he had to steady himself against the doorway before he fell. What if he were to keep the child? What if he, a fae, were to raise the very flesh and blood of his nation's most ancient enemy? The notion intoxicated him. His head spun as he slowly returned to the crib.

"Now wouldn't that be a lark," he murmured as he raised the child. It blinked up at him weakly with eyes the color of the aurora, and Lilia was immediately convinced of his own genius.

"Let's get you something to eat, you poor thing! I'm quite famished myself, you know. You have excellent timing," he said with a wink. The baby watched him silently as he carried it back home.

He thought it would be simple. He knew from his time watching over the infant Malleus that babies needed little more than food, play, clean diapers, and naps. His first charge had flourished splendidly in his care, and he had no doubt his second would do the same.

But Silver was difficult. After its initial, desperate feeding, the baby, seeming to finally remember it was in possession of lungs and a vocal instrument, began to cry incessantly. If it wasn't in Lilia's arms, it cried. If it went a moment too long between feedings, it cried. Even when it slept Lilia was not safe. If he set it down for a nap and attempted to leave the room, it would awaken immediately, understand it had been abandoned once more, and would cry. There were times - random, and frustratingly rare - where it would suddenly stop in the midst of one of its fits, and smile at Lilia so sweetly he'd wonder if someone had snuck in and swapped the child for another when he wasn't looking. Once he realized his legendary frivolity had met its match, he began consulting with the Zigvolts on a regular basis, as Pa Zigvolt was the only human in the valley he trusted. It was the height of summer then, a time he'd usually spend taking refuge in the cool shadows indoors, but he did not mind walking the five long miles back and forth between their homes, preferring even the heat over the child's endless screaming. Pa Zigvolt assisted him to the best of his abilities, imparting to Lilia all the knowledge he had acquired over the years as a then-father of two, and Silver's fits ended a few months later as abruptly as they'd started.

The second hurdle arose when the little boy began to talk. His first, crude word was "Ba pa", and it took several days for Lilia's mind to finally register that he was the intended recipient of this title. He'd planned to have Silver call him by his first name, just as he'd been forced to do when Malleus was little, and hearing the child acknowledge him as its parent made him uncomfortable, as though both of them were breaking a rule he didn't know the name of. The baby, however, refused his every plea for reconsideration, and gradually figured out all the tricks of human speech as he grew older, learning to perfectly pucker his lips, and mastering the rhythm of the two syllables he so desperately wished to string together. He would repeat "Papa" throughout the day, singing out "Papa, Papa, Papa!" with the joy of a hymn. But for Lilia, each utterance was like a stone launched against the walls he had built up around his heart, and when they collapsed and faded away into nothing, he realized his discomfort had vanished with them.

He would later realize, too, that where he'd long forgotten much of his early life, he found he could now remember, to an almost startling degree, much of what he'd seen and experienced ever since he took in the boy. He could still remember a freezing day in January over a decade ago, when Silver had chanced upon a lone snowdrop shivering off the cold in the meadow near their home. The flower had fascinated the boy severely; he sat before it, stone still, tilting his heavy head this way and that, trying to understand the small creature’s drooping frame. Eventually, Lilia came over and accompanied him in his study. He had seen snowdrops countless times before, while marching through the countryside, while working on the clearing, but only then, as he knelt in the snow with the young boy at his side, both of them shivering quietly in the late winter light, only then did he finally realize its perfection. He could still remember, too, the snow slowly melting later that year, and Silver pointing out to him the magnolias blooming in the copse behind their shed, and the daffodils and tulips breaking through the frost that blanketed their small garden, and the linden trees releasing their sweet perfume. He could remember Silver revealing to him with a boyish surety the strangeness of rain showers on sunny days, and the comfort of the mist that lingers on cool autumn mornings. So many sights and sounds and sensations had passed by him all his life in a blur - colorless and dull, abstract and undefined, and when his son entered his life, it was as though a bolt of lightning the color of the aurora had struck the earth and finally given all these things their color and meaning.

But Silver had begun to change recently. Not physically - no, he still had the same rosy, cherubic little cheeks; the same bright blue-grey eyes; and the same sweet, half-crooked smile that Lilia would proudly boast about to all who would listen, and even to those who would not. It was his attitude, his tone of voice, his humor that had changed, and Lilia had not noticed it willingly, at first. Where he'd always been so agreeable and forthcoming, so that Lilia was unsure if the boy had ever kept a secret from him in his entire life, he was now secretive and temperamental. At times, Silver would whirl on him like a wildcat, his eyes narrowed, his thin lips pulled back into a snarl, upset at something Lilia could not understand. There was always a strange look to his eyes during these flares, not quite panicked, yet not angered, either. He looked, if anything, confused - as though he could not believe the truth of the thing he'd just done. When he was amicable, he was as loquacious as a monk. He'd also been showing a newfound apathy towards Lilia's jokes and teasing, and to his presence overall, expressing more and more his desire to be left alone. Most alarming of all, Silver had recently stopped addressing him as "Papa", and now called him "Father", instead. It felt as unnatural as if a songbird had stopped singing. He found it vulgar. "Father" was harsh, adult, stern - formal and distant where his previous moniker had been so intimate and sweet. He'd pleaded with Silver more than once the past month, asking if anything was wrong, demanding to know why he was acting like this, but the boy was unwavering in his defiance, curtly assuring him each time that everything was fine, before excusing himself to go be alone his room once more.

Lilia ultimately decided not to push the matter further, presuming Silver would recover his good attitude in due time, and had instead been focusing his attention on preparing the homestead for summer. The garden work and other miscellaneous chores had all been welcome distractions, but an incident the past week had revived his concerns.

He and Silver had gone to the Zigvolt's for dinner. Ma Zigvolt prepared a feast of grilled corn cobs, roast venison slow-cooked with creamy golden potatoes and carrots, and a whole pile of her buttery homemade biscuits. The pair ate heartily, having both worked up a respectable appetite from hoeing weeds together all that morning, and as usual, they stayed with their hosts late into the evening, if only so Lilia and Baul could talk, and so Silver and Sebek could listen. It was the boys' greatest pleasure in the world to gather in the parlor and listen to them talk. Sometimes, they would simply muse on the recent weather, or discuss local politics. Other times, they'd tell stories - the boys always begged for a story. The former war heroes would weave tales about all the faraway lands they had journeyed to and the greatest enemies they had ever faced, and about fearsome beasts the children had never heard of and stars they'd never seen - “Men’s talk”, as Ma Zigvolt would scoffingly call it. But there was always softness in her voice whenever she rebuked their late-night gatherings. Horace and Iris used to join the small audience, too, but gradually stopped as they grew older, claiming the men's yarns had lost their appeal. It was one of the few things Sebek disagreed with his sister on - he worshiped her, but understood at his young age that even an idol's opinions could be wrong, at times.

The boys' habit was such:

Sebek would sprawl on the bearskin rug before the fireplace, and Silver would curl up against his father’s chair, his head resting on the man’s lap. Lilia would play with his son's hair absentmindedly while he spoke. It could’ve been the shining hands of the angel Gabriel himself carding those gentle fingers through his hair and the boy scarcely would’ve noticed a difference. This was his great reprieve, the most delicious reward after a long and tiring day of chores and training and schoolwork and hard labor; a time for him to sigh out all the aches and pains that gripped his thin body and a time for him to rest.

Lilia knew all this. He had always known this. His son’s heart was a rose; he needed only to whisper the boy's name and its petals would unfurl for him.

The meeting last week had proceeded as usual, at first. Dinner was enjoyed by all, the fireplace was lit, Baul and Lilia took their seats in the parlor, and Sebek planted himself on the bearskin rug. But when Lilia smiled at Silver and set his hands on his lap, his palms upturned, the boy turned away, sitting down in front of the fireplace next to Sebek, instead.

In that moment, Lilia realized Silver's strange behavior the past month was a symptom of an issue far graver than he could have anticipated. When they returned home that night, he consulted his trove of parenting books after Silver went to bed. He'd bought a number of them when the infant Silver had begun his fits, turning to them for advice whenever the boy fell ill or reached a new developmental milestone. He hadn't read any of them in ages, and he sneezed as a cloud of dust billowed when he pulled them down from the shelf.

He flipped through the yellowing tomes one by one, smiling whenever he came across a dogeared page. Each bookmark and scribbled note he could trace back to a specific period in Silver's life, and the memories of those first few stressful years he now counted amongst his greatest treasures. He worked through the tall stack throughout the night, giving up at dawn with a sigh. Were he a more sensible man, perhaps he would've taken note of the fact that his entire collection was made up of books concerning a human's first few years of life, and that his son was now thirteen.

III.

A massive thunderstorm exploded into the valley in early June. It seemed to have materialized from nothing, catching the residents off guard like a cottonmouth's strike. On the first day of the storm, Lilia presumed it was nothing more than a typical summer shower, and felt confident it would quickly pass. On the third day, he remarked he had never seen anything like it before in his life. By the fifth, he was too stunned to speak again. The rain fell down in sheets as thick as pure marble. The sun and moon and stars all vanished beneath a sky as dark as bruised flesh, and only the candles melting above the fireplace gave any indication that time had not stopped. Some days, the rain would harden into hail, and it would pelt the earth like white meteors for hours on end. The deluge pounded on for over a week. The first morning after the storm, the valley denizens stepped cautiously into what seemed like a brand new world. Entire villages had been washed away in some areas, and miles of farmland now stood underwater in others. The river, engorged with rainwater, had flooded over, transforming large swaths of the surrounding forest into a veritable swamp. Carcasses of the animals that hadn't escaped the disaster - deer, boars, turkey, elk, wolves, snakes, predator and prey, young and old - drifted in a black line down the muddy waters. Buzzards whirling their death dance filled the skies.

The Vanrouge's clearing, located uphill, had been mostly spared - a drowned chicken the lone fatality. But the corn fields had been left flattened, and the thatching on the cottage roof lay in shambles. Silver and Lilia worked quickly to dig a maze of deep trenches to help drain the excess water from the garden and pasture. They ripped out the molding stalks of corn and salvaged as many of the clean cobs as possible, hanging them to sun-dry from a wooden rack they'd erected in the yard. "The animals will be glad to have them, at least," Lilia had sighed.

Realizing they were quickly running out of nails and boards to finish making the repairs, Lilia decided one morning to head into the nearest town and replenish their dwindling supplies. Before leaving, he found Silver lying on his stomach in the living room, peering intently into a bird identification book he'd received for his birthday. He called out to the boy while he finished getting dressed.

“Silver, darling?”

Silver’s face, framed on one side by an illustration of a juvenile blackbird peeking out from its nest, and on the other by an adult in flight, emerged from between the pages of his book. Without looking up, he replied, "Yes, father?"

He still on that “father” thing? Lilia swallowed the annoyed groan building in his throat. “While I’m gone, could you butcher one of the shoats, please? I just noticed we’re about to run out of pork belly.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it today.”

“Perfect, thank you.”

Lilia grabbed his leather coin purse from the table by the door and secured it to the hook on his belt. He threw a light cloak over his shoulders, anticipating more rain, and glanced at Silver across the room while he fussed with the clasps.

The boy had retreated into his book.

Lilia sighed. The past week had been quiet. Even with the hail exploding all around them and the wind howling and the rain pounding like sledgehammers against their home, it had been quiet, because Silver had hardly spoken a word the entire time. The child's voice seldom rose above a pleasant murmur as a habit, and yet its absence had made the little cottage seem so much vaster and emptier than it really was; there were times during the storm Lilia had felt like the only living thing in the world trapped within its black fury. He hovered at the door for a moment, debating if he should try to kiss the boy goodbye, but his every attempt at parental affection the past month had been met with hostility, scorn, and disgust, and he feared any further attempts would only end the same. Electing for the path of least resistance, he opened the door and departed without another word.

Silver waited for the door to click shut before he pushed his book aside, sitting up with a grunt. He grabbed his pig sticker from his room and slipped on his work boots and gloves. Butchering was laborious work, more so than even his father's rigorous training regimes, and he gripped his knife expectantly while gathering his things.

The clearing glittered with rainwater as he stepped outside. The air was heavy, weighed down by a thick layer of petrichor, smelling somehow both earthy and sweet at once, and it felt like he had to push through it as he walked, as though he were swimming upstream. While struggling towards the pig pen, he contemplated his soggy surroundings. The wet ground was as dark as umber. The chickens, equally as wet and as dark, were scratching dejectedly at the mud, and the cows looked on wisely from underneath their dripping lean-to. He was thankful the garden hadn't been harmed. The brightly colored heads of the newborn squash peeking out from their leafy cradles lifted his heart where the rest of the world drooped and dripped so miserably around him. On the second day of the storm, when it was evident the rain and the wind would not soon abate, he and his father had rushed to cover all the plants with heavy sheets of plastic in a last-ditch attempt to save them. The covers had served them well, having prevented the incurrence of any vegetative losses, and though they now sported deep abrasions where the hail had struck them, Silver found the markings as noble and as handsome as any other battle scar.

Upon reaching the pen, he selected the smallest of the shoats, doubtful he could handle one of the larger animals on his own. The blade of his pig sticker shone dully in the dappled light. The mahogany handle felt cool in his sweat-slicked hand. With a practiced surety, Silver plunged the knife up into the pig’s rib cage, and the animal collapsed to the ground. He cleaned the blade in the grass while he waited for the body to stop moving. After the shoat finally stilled, he hoisted its heavy body onto the metal gambrel hanging from the tree by the shed, and then he began the long work - extracting the tender leaf fat hidden deep within it.

He grabbed the set of butcher knives from the shed and used the longest one to cut into the hide. The skin was rough against his hands, coated with a thick layer of wiry hair, and he grunted as he ripped it off. The head and wet mass of guts and other organs he removed from the torso as quickly as possible, discarding them in a pile far behind them, where he did not have to look at them and remember what he had just done. He slowed down to a comfortable pace as he began removing the leaf fat. The pigs had been enjoying a hearty diet of sweet potatoes, mulberries, and corn for most of the year, and the shoat he'd selected was richly packed with thick sheets of candle white fat. He plunged his knife into the carcass and began separating the fat from the muscle, working in a rhythm, stopping at times to put down his knife and use his hands to tear back the white slab, then picking it up again to continue cutting. He dislodged the mass with one final flick of his knife and deposited it into a bucket by his feet. Once rendered, it would be used not just for cooking, but also to make soap and candles, as a poultice for minor burns and wounds, and as lotion for chapped skin.

After swapping his knife for a bone saw, he split the carcass in half, and then hung both pieces inside the smokehouse. In a few days, once the meat had tenderized, he and his father would finish quartering them and divvying up the meat, grinding some of the portions to make sausage, and putting aside others for bacon and jerky.

He could feel beads of sweat crawling down his back like a line of ants as he plodded over to the water shelf to wash his hands. He figured by the sun's position there were still a few hours of morning left. Might as well see if I can't hunt something he thought, having already exhausted all the distractions the clearing and the cottage could offer.

He washed himself hastily, glancing in the mirror as he dried his hands against his pant legs. He was a demonstrably plain boy – not outstanding in height or wit or strength or speed. His body was lean and wiry, his hands prematurely calloused from years of grueling work, and only the few meager lumps of baby fat that clung to his face protested weakly that he was, indeed, just a child. The only remarkable thing about him was his eyes – they were a brilliant blend of amethyst and steel blue, almost prismatic in nature, seeming to change color with the rise and fall of the sun. The few adults in his life often remarked on their beauty, but Silver never paid their compliments any mind - in truth, he rejected them. He'd always thought his eyes plain, just as he thought the rest of himself plain, especially in comparison to the fae, and if there was any one thing he begrudged Sebek for, it was the serpentine pupils he'd inherited from his forefathers. He frowned at the mirror, then averted his gaze from his dissatisfied reflection.

Before leaving, Silver printed on the back of a used envelope a short note for his father, letting him know he was going hunting, and that he would return home before supper, and this he left on the counter, held in place with a coffee tin. He then retrieved his crossbow from his room, and left the clearing, cutting a path straight North, far away from the bloated river and its poisons. Huge puddles of muddy water dotted the trail before him, and the damp ground squelched noisily under his boots. The trail was bordered by a lavender frame of honeysuckle in full bloom, but the trumpets sagged poorly, still heavy with water. His father had said it would likely take another week or two for the land to dry completely.

Silver had observed the storm with great interest. Pa Zigvolt had once told him how people in other countries conceived of the beginning of the world, and in one version, he spoke of when the planet was all water, and a god had sculpted the land and the sky and all living creatures, and Silver had wondered during the storm if this was how the world had looked during those primordial seven days, or if perhaps that wrathful god had come back to restart its creation. Never before in his life had he seen so much rain, so much wind and lightning and hail all at once before. The sky was one ocean and the land was another. The rain seemed to move back and forth between them, falling and rising, the drops of water shining like the million wings of a dragonfly swarm. He processed novelties such as these almost programmatically. If he understood something, then he determined he would not fear it. His comprehension was a beam of light he could shine upon his abhorrations, it would cut through the shadow of his uncertainty and allow him to see the face of the thing, to touch it, and to understand it. He was afraid of very little: the forest at night, adders (he'd been bitten once as a small child), all the various tinctures and teas prescribed for his occasional afflictions, and his father's Halloween performances. Darkness was one thing he'd studied and studied since he was very young, but had never been able to puzzle out, perhaps because it did not end. It was too broad, too immeasurable; he could lift up one corner of it and step underneath it and walk a thousand miles and still never glimpse its face. Even when it receded during the day, he felt it prowling beyond the safety of the clearing, like a panther in waiting. The storm, too, had seemed infinite in its wrath, but it had ended, and now it was gone. Now there was only a liquid world, shimmering, iridescent, like one great droplet of water sitting on an endless spiderweb.

The frenzied drumming of a male grouse sounded off in the distance, beyond a thick wall of fir and aspen. Following the clamor, Silver slipped into the underbrush. He moved over the wet leaf litter as quiet as a shadow. The performer soon came into view, perched atop a fallen cedar tree. It was in the midst of a thunderous crescendo, beating its spectacled wings so feverously the air around it seemed a solid tawny blur. Silver dropped to a crouch, stalking slowly forward until he reached a mass of undergrowth tall enough to conceal him. Kneeling in the grass, he loaded an arrow into his crossbow, disengaging the safety as he raised it to his shoulder.

A noise above drew his attention. A red squirrel, high up in the tree beside him, was glaring at him, its eyes blazing as fiercely as its bright copper fur. Silver held his breath. If the squirrel let out a warning bark, the grouse would surely hear it and scatter. His gaze flew between his observer and his target - the bird had paused in its performance, its small black eyes scanning the tree line where he was hiding.

After a few tense moments, the squirrel disappeared into the privacy of the canopy with a huff. The grouse cocked its head, alert, but not alarmed, and then resumed its drumming. Silver quietly let out the breath he'd been holding and moved his finger over the trigger. The arrow soared through the air and struck the grouse with a heavy thud. It fell to the ground, disappearing behind it's earthen stage.

Silver stood up and thrust his crossbow behind him. He rushed in long strides to the log and hoisted the grouse's limp body with one hand, his own body still thrumming with adrenaline. A scarlet blot bloomed in the animal's chest where his arrow had pierced it. The sight of the blood immediately muted all his excitement. He whispered an earnest "Thank you" to the creature before slipping its thin neck up under his belt and turning around. As he stood there, awash in the late morning light, contemplating the still-warm body resting against his thigh, his mind finally acknowledged that he knew this place.

One day, a few months ago, on his way home from collecting armfuls of wild sorrel and burdock in the forest, Silver had discovered a great horned owl sitting atop a towering oak tree while passing through there. The creatures were rarely seen during the day, typically active only during crepuscular hours, and Silver carefully set down his leafy bundle upon spotting it, taking the opportunity to quietly study the bird for as long as it allowed him to. He concluded that its long, brown ear-tufts reminded him of the projections in his father’s hair, and he smiled, pleased by the genius of his observation. When he walked up to the tree and craned his head back, the owl slowly blinked its yellow eyes down at him in perplexment.

“Could you please help me?” Silver asked.

“Whooo?”

“You, silly bird!” he laughed. He explained that he'd learned a new word recently, and desired an audience before which to practice his pronunciation.

The owl obliged his request and swooped down to a branch directly before him. He unfastened his cloak and draped it around its neck, carefully hooking up the fastener so as to not pinch its feathers.

He stepped back to admire his work. “Looks good to me,” he murmured to himself, nodding. “Now, I want you to please pretend to be my papa- I mean, my father.”

The owl stared at a toad loitering by Silver’s feet. It looked up and blinked its spotlight eyes at him slowly.

Flustered, Silver continued. “Oh, if you just sit there, that should be okay! I’ll go ahead and start now. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

He cleared his throat and straightened his back, crossing his arms. “Hello, Pa-, erm, Father. Today, I’m going to go play- I mean!! I’m going to go train with Sebek. I’ll be back for dinner. Farewell!”

He spun around and marched off, swinging his arms importantly, just like he’d seen the imperial guards do on his rare trips into town. After a few heavy steps, he stopped and turned around again, nervously searching his spectator's face for any sign of reproach.

“...How was that?” he asked after a moment.

The owl bobbed its head excitedly, but Silver could not determine if the gesture was meant for him, or for the toad that was now clinging plaintively to his feet. He reset his stance and repeated the exercise from the beginning. Again and again he stuttered through his short speech and pumped his arms and stomped across the ground, and then turned around to be greeted by a feathery face as unintelligible as some ancient cipher. This cycle continued for so long his pile of greens had begun to wilt by the time he was at last satisfied.

His request had been sincere, if not misguided. The new moniker he'd chosen for Lilia sat as heavy and awkwardly as a foreign word on his tongue, and he'd often lapse into calling the man "Papa" as a course of habit, which he'd aimed to rectify through this practice. But there was another, graver reason why he'd felt so anxious that day - a secret dilemma had been plaguing him for weeks.

He had discovered, unwillingly, and to his great alarm, that the adults in his life had suddenly developed an irritating air about them. He wished, for example, to push away Ma Zigvolt’s pinching hands when they reached for the roundness of his face and to flee from Pa Zigvolt’s awkward attempts at conversation. Baul and his father’s stories had lost their wonder, too, no longer coloring the quiet expanse of his dreams. And his father, by far, presented the most extreme case of this mysterious ailment.

It was as though, after thirteen long years of worshiping the very ground he walked on, Silver had woken up one day with his mind rewired to find everything the man did purely annoying. When he'd suddenly start to sing in that strange, deep voice he could conjure on a whim, or when he’d pester him with questions, asking him how his day was, and what he and Sebek had gotten up to, or when he'd declare to the world what a splendid, hardworking boy he was, instead of laughing or smiling or nodding along, as per his customary response, Silver instead found himself praying for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

Even Malleus had changed. All his life, Silver had approached the young prince unabashed and forthcoming, as he was never taught the fear that lurked in the hearts of many of the valley’s citizens. Indeed, for Silver, Malleus was one of the precious few cornerstones of his meager world – he was a comforting shadow in the dim haze of Silver's infantile memories, and the green glow of his magic was as reassuring to him as the North Star’s guiding light. More than anything, he was someone - the only one - who’d come visit Silver when his father was away.

Lilia had resumed traveling for leisure after Silver was old enough to look after the homestead on his own. He was never gone long, in his own opinion, only a week or two at most. He'd pack the fridge full of questionable food for the boy, leave him a list of chores and rules to follow that was, at times, as questionable as the food, kiss his cheek goodbye, and then promptly disappear to whatever locale he'd selected for his itinerary that month. He'd always send Silver postcards of the places he'd visit. They often arrived faded and torn, or sopping wet from the rain, but Silver kept each and every one of them, regardless if damaged or illegible, or otherwise totally destroyed, in a little box underneath his bed. When he lay down to sleep at night, in his mind he would reach his hand underneath his bed, open his box, and quietly step into the distant worlds contained within the postcards.

Some nights, he and his father would stroll through the glass-topped bazaars of the Shaftlands, their arms heavy with paper shopping bags filled to the brim with newly purchased clothing and trinkets and toys, slowly moving through the crystalline cloud of cologne and parfum drifting out from the stores and boutiques, each establishment a gem of its own, the arcade an endless line of diamonds, amethysts, pearls, topaz, and rubies; then this vision would vanish, and he and his father would be pulled another thousand miles away to the golden plains of the Sunset Savanna, where sky touched the earth, where a boiling sun raged like an angry god above a scorched plateau of rock and grit and sand and red clay dust, and they would journey across this shimmering land marveling at all the beasts and vegetation Silver had only ever read about in his books, and would likely never see for as long as he lived.

He'd spend the entire night thus traipsing from one postcard to the next, so that by the time he awoke in the morning, he'd crossed nearly half the planet in his sleep.

This habit he continued for over half a year, at which point Malleus at last learned of Lilia's departures. Often kept detained at the castle by mountains of paperwork and other bureaucratic trivialities that left him too exasperated and too occupied for leisure, he did not regularly call on the Vanrouges, and when he'd taken a rare opportunity to drop by their cottage one day, many years ago, he was surprised when Silver opened the door and informed him that his father was gone. Silver did not notice anything strange about Malleus's reaction, at first. He'd gotten another postcard recently. On the front, an image of massive, stone towers rising high into a cloudless turquoise sky, their spires terminating into crowns shaped like pyramids; on the back, in his fathers prim script, a short note explaining the structures were called "obelisks'', and that they were monuments dedicated to the local gods of that region. All of Silver's dreams lately had been of endless deserts and great golden towers and the ancient kings and queens that once ruled over them, and when he saw the pair of black obelisks that were concealed in Malleus's slit pupils, his fantasies materialized temptingly in his mind once again.

But Malleus's low voice, inquiring on Lilia's return, pulled him back to the clearing and the small cottage and its plainness for a moment. Trying to focus, he stated bluntly that his father would not be back for another week.

"A week?" Malleus said, his tone halfway between a scoff and a cry.

"A week," Silver repeated absentmindedly, busy trying to determine how a pharaoh's headdress might sit between Malleus's horns.

When his gaze drifted lazily back to Malleus's eyes, he finally realized the man was angry. The black obelisks had vanished, and all the kings and queens in his mind bowed their heavy ornate heads, crumbling away to nothing in the face of the prince's quiet rage.

From that day on, Malleus dedicated himself to visiting Silver as much as possible when Lilia was away. He would bring with him cakes and pies he'd stolen from the castle's kitchen, and books he'd snuck out of the royal library, and they would sit together and enjoy these treasures in the living room, or stroll through the forest when the weather was fair. These visits made Silver feel very important, a sensation he seldom had the privilege to enjoy, and he'd imagine he was a duke welcoming a fellow aristocrat to his palace whenever Malleus stopped by. The lonely late-night journeys through his postcards melted away into this new pleasure.

As Silver matured, he slowly began to comprehend the gravity of Malleus’s periodic decampments. It first felt like nothing more than a small discomfort, as though he were wearing a garment a size too small. As time went on, the discomfort only grew, transforming from a minor inconvenience into an ever-present malaise. But Silver was attentive as he was reticent, and he’d noticed how, when he’d caper with Malleus through the forests, the pixies living in the oak trees and the river would whisper and whisper all around them, their high voices a chorus of reproachful chimes. And he’d noticed, too, the confusion that had flashed across his father’s eyes the day he’d confessed to these secret visits. Silver collected these observations as his evidence, examined them, and concluded that Malleus was doing something wrong. But to accuse their crown prince of misconduct required a level of brazenness that far exceeded his capabilities, and he'd waited several months until he finally voiced his suspicions.

He broached the topic the spring prior, when his father had departed for a week-long sojourn in the Shaftlands. That first night, Malleus appeared at the cottage door with a pan of freshly baked apple strudel in hand. After they were sat at the table and Malleus began cutting their portions, Silver at last revealed all his concerns.

When he finished speaking, he watched Malleus’s hand slow down as it moved the knife through the steaming pastry.

“I…” Malleus pursed his lips in thought, lifting them into a soft smile a moment later.

“I remember how I felt whenever Lilia would vanish on one of his excursions when I was little, and I suppose I simply wish not for you to feel the same.”

“But that’s-”

“You needn’t worry, Silver.” Malleus laughed gently, pushing a plate heavy with warm strudel towards him. “I shan’t get into any trouble - so long as my grandmother remains none the wiser about all this, that is,” he finished with a wink.

Silver was at once overcome by a rush of joy and shame and guilt and relief all combined together. His body, unable to process this strange emotional amalgamation, resigned to color itself with a vicious crimson flush. The chameleonic display was so severe it shocked even Malleus, and he spent the rest of that evening marveling at the different shades of red human skin could take.

Something shifted in Silver's relationship with Malleus that day. He felt it before he understood what it was. When his father returned from his trip, he revealed to Silver the truth that had been looming over him all of his life, and explained to him all the different rules that Malleus had been egregiously breaking for him for years on end. When the lecture was finished, Silver asked his father to leave his room so he could ruminate. He concluded that if it was wrong for Malleus to show him this kindness, if it had to be locked away and kept a secret, then he would keep his own secret - he would take his love for Malleus, for his brother, and he would bury it. He would construct a pedestal in his heart, as all the other valley citizens had long been taught to do, and place upon it the man he'd been too ignorant to realize had never truly been his equal and his friend.

He was bothered greatly – by his father’s antics, by the dullness of the adults around him, by the solitude of his strange and sudden affliction – and yet he never could find a remedy for his discomfort. It was like an insect had stung him in a spot his hands couldn’t quite reach, and the words to describe how he felt evaded him just the same.

All of this he considered once more as he left the forest, stumbling back home in a haze of speculation. By the time he reached the clearing, the darkened sky looked like a giant raven's wing stretched out over the land, and the treefrogs had already begun their evening serenade. Even in the low light he could feel their beady eyes staring at him as he approached the door.

Inside, the cottage was warm, and his father's humming radiated quietly from the kitchen. After slipping off his muddy boots by the door, he set the limp grouse on the counter and went to wash his hands at the basin.

His father stood before the cookstove, stirring a pot bubbling with a substance as black as tar. He looked up, and the smile he’d been planning to offer Silver rapidly faded away. Knitting his brow in concern, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

Silver swallowed thickly and nodded. “I’m fine.”

IV.

Summer crept forward like an inchworm. The land dried out completely within a matter of weeks, as Lilia had predicted, and one could now comfortably move around outside without fear of the humidity's oppression. The linden trees, made anxious by the pounding wind and rain, had been steadfastly clutching their bright yellow flowers against their leafy breasts since the start of the month, and had only recently just begun allowing the satiny petals to unfurl, as though acknowledging the valley's languid recuperation. Their delicious perfume billowed out across the entire nation, eventually overshadowing even the contaminated river's foul odor.

The Zigvolts had fared well through the disaster, their tall, white house still standing proud and pristine amongst a mess of downed trees and waterlogged foliage, not a single red brick from the chimney missing or otherwise harmed. Their neighbors, however, had not been nearly as fortunate, and the elder Zigvolts had agreed to close the dental clinic while they helped their friends repair their homes. The children eagerly assisted wherever possible, and they spent the better part of June lugging armfuls of wood and shingles, readjusting crooked fences, and clearing out dripping debris from the trails that weaved around their home. The entire family would work from morning until late at night, reserving one day a week to either relax or to see to any high-priority dental cases.

It was on one of these holidays, in late June, when Lilia and Silver dropped by in the morning for a scheduled call. The two families gathered in the parlor, the adults chatting amicably, while the children competed to see who'd had the most interesting experiences during the storm, but as noon rolled around and the boys lost interest in conversation, Baul suggested they go outside for an impromptu sword fighting lesson. The group thus disbanded, Lilia remaining with Pa and Ma Zigvolt in the parlor, while Iris joined her grandfather and the family cat in supervising the boys, taking turns cheering for her brother or for Silver as she saw fit.

After they left, Ma Zigvolt went to the kitchen and refilled the pitcher of ice tea she'd prepared that morning, topping up Lilia's glass for him before retaking her seat. Looking at him expectantly, she asked, "Now what were you saying before? About Silver."

“Ah, about Silver acting strangely during the storm?” Lilia waited for her confirmation before continuing. “Well, there was this one day I was able to get the fireplace going and I gathered up some blankets on the couch. And when I asked Silver if he wanted to come cuddle with me for a bit, he… he…”

Ma Zigvolt balled up her apron in her hands and leaned forward, wide-eyed. “He what?”

“He said no!” Lilia cried, throwing his arm over his face with a flourish.

“No?!” she gasped. “Not Silver!”

“Yes! I could hear my poor heart breaking in two on the spot.” Lilia slumped back in his chair. It was the first time he'd spoken to anyone about the problems he'd been having with his son, and he felt somehow encumbered by the weight of his confession.

Ma Zigvolt gently asked if he'd had any luck talking to Silver about his behavior, and he begrudgingly shook his head.

"He always says he's fine, and that's about as much as I can get out of him." He sipped his tea, setting his glass down on the table beside him with a frown. "It almost feels like he doesn't even like me anymore..."

Pa and Ma Zigvolt exchanged a pointed look. It was not unlike the one they'd share with each other at the clinic, when a patient, complaining of mysterious symptoms that had "simply popped up out of nowhere!" would throw themselves into the examination chair with a huff, only to confess after much prodding that they had been consuming a poor diet, and had been practicing even poorer dental habits.

Pa Zigvolt spoke first. “It’s normal for kids Silver’s age to go through a phase like this. It just means he’s growing up.”

Lilia blinked. “Growing up…?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ma Zigvolt continued. “We went through the exact same thing with Horace and Iris. Horace especially had it rough, the poor thing. You remember, honey?”

“Yeah, I remember it clear as day." He nodded solemnly. "He’d stay holed up in his room all the time, and trying to get him to talk to us was harder than pulling a tooth. It’s like he thought we were the most embarrassing people in the world.”

“Oh, but he still thinks that way about you, dear.”

“Tally!”

Laughing, Ma Zigvolt reached over and patted his knee soothingly.

Lilia considered their words. “If that’s the case, then I suppose I just don’t understand why he’s trying to grow up so quickly. For most of his life, I pushed him much too hard, had him undergo training better suited for soldiers thrice his age. The day I finally realized what an awful mistake I’d been making, I don’t think I’d ever felt so ashamed of myself in my life.”

“From that moment on, I swore to ease up on him and just let him be a kid, and to make sure he could enjoy his childhood as much as possible. Especially since I… Ahh…”

Lilia thought of the castle barracks. There had only been one window in his room, a pitiful little square cut high into the stone wall adjacent to his cot. It faced East, and for a few, meager hours in the afternoon, when the sun was positioned directly before the castle, a singular column of light would enter the window and illuminate that small, dark space. He thought of how he would lay transfixed in bed, watching the light glide across his body like a golden serpent, how he would thrust out his hands, trying to capture it, trying desperately to stop this one thing from exiting his life as everything else had, and how each time it would slip through his groping fingers like water and evaporate into nothing. He thought of marching for days, of the sharp iron stench of the battlefield, of the bone-deep ache that would weigh heavy like a stone over every fiber of his being. He thought of all the things he experienced growing up that he never wished for his son or any other child to go through.

Lilia swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Looking past Ma Zigvolt, focusing on the wall clock behind her, he finally continued, “When I was a child, I didn’t have the… the kinds of opportunities that he has, so I just want to make sure he makes the most of them while he can.”

"I see..." Ma Zigvolt sighed, folding her hands in her lap. She had grown up knowing Lilia to be an evasive - if not frustrating - man, and her father had warned her repeatedly over the years to be cautious in her prodding. He was like an uncle to her, and she dutifully acknowledged his seniority, if only in regards to his age, but he was also a fellow parent, and her neighbor, and where the wellbeing of children was concerned, she was known to reveal the full extent of her caustic rhetoric, so that more than once she'd had to quit all civility and rebuke Lilia for his parental failures. Still, she considered each of her questions carefully, as though treading across a sheet of ice, knowing full well that if she chose her next step incorrectly, it would shatter the man's trust and terminate the conversation.

After a moment, she asked, “And you two haven't had any fights recently? You don't think you've said anything that might've upset him?"

Lilia paused for a moment, and then shook his head again. “No, not at all.”

Ma Zigvolt pressed further, sensing his hesitation. “Well, regardless, you don’t think there’s anything you’re doing that might be making him act this way?”

She'd stepped too far. Lilia frowned. “I think I know my own child, Thalia. If he had a problem with me, he’d say so.”

"I wasn't trying to insinuate anything, Lilia."

“Alright.”

Pa Zigvolt glanced rapidly between his wife and Lilia. Confrontation historically made him nervous, and it was clear from their stony faces they'd reached an impasse. He rubbed his clammy palms against his pant leg and rose from his seat, asked politely if anyone would like another round of refreshments, and fled to the kitchen before receiving a response. Lilia's gaze followed him as he walked off, his thoughts drifting away together with the man's receding figure.

He could hear the children's laughter floating in through the open windows, Sebek's loud and exuberant, Silver's quiet and breathless. Other sounds poured in, blending together like a symphony. There was the harsh percussion of their wooden swords clashing together, ringing out at times as viciously as gunfire; there was Baul's voice, low and clear, gruffly barking out his commands in tune with each thunderous strike; and there was the shining thread of Iris's singsong voice, interweaving amongst the clamor as she called out her gentle encouragement.

But still through it all his son's voice came to him, as direct as a beam of light, sounding sweeter and brighter than the goldfinches chittering away in the cottonwood trees.

It'd been so long since he last heard his son's laugh he'd almost forgotten what it sounded like. For over a month, he'd failed to elicit from the boy anything beyond the faintest imitation of a grin, yet here he was, just out of arm's reach, laughing and smiling so freely it was like his body demanded it more than breathing. He looked away from the window and glanced at Ma Zigvolt. She sat with her back erect, her hands folded primly in her lap, her eyes closed, awash in her children's joy, her round face as radiant and golden as the sun. Lilia fought back the urge to call out to Silver, knowing he would only destroy this moment.

He thought again of the past few weeks, scrutinizing everything he'd said and done to his child. He sifted through his memories, upturning each one and twisting it around and inspecting it from every angle, but still he could not find any evidence of his error. And he couldn't make comprehensible, either, the notion that his son was "growing up", as the Zigvolts had claimed. How could he, when Silver only had taken his first, wobbling steps just the other day, when it was only just yesterday that he'd learned to string his words together and share his quaint little thoughts, when he was still so small - his body, his voice, his hands, all no greater now than they had ever been before in his entire life? Lilia bit back an incredulous scoff, humored greatly by the absolute absurdity of the notion. And yet - his son's laughter drifted into his consciousness like a spring breeze. Why this drastic change in his demeanor, then?

Maybe there is something I'm doing wrong. But I just...

Lilia cleared his throat. "I'll certainly need to mull this over some more, but if you have any advice, I'm all ears."

“Well…” Ma Zigvolt smiled, smoothing out her apron before folding her hands in her lap again. “I know I’m no expert, but I’ve found that sometimes, being a good parent means you gather your babies in your arms and you hold onto them as tight as you can. And other times, it means you let them go. And he's at a point in his life where you might just have to start letting him go.”

"Hm."

The Vanrouges departed for home that afternoon. Before they left, Pa Zigvolt pulled Lilia aside, and let him know he was more than welcome to come speak with them again about Silver's behavior at any time. Lilia thanked him, reassuring him that his wife had already given him more than enough to think about for a while yet, and politely declined the couple's offer to meet for dinner later that week. As he stepped through the door, he winked at Ma Zigvolt, and she grinned at him audaciously.

Silver retreated into his shell as soon as they stepped off their neighbor's property, but Lilia was for once too occupied to take offense, busy ruminating on his conversation with the Zigvolts. Their dinner that evening was silent, and he later fell asleep dreaming of the boy's twinkling laughter.

Lilia would come to regret rejecting the Zigvolts' offer. Over the next several weeks, Silver seemed to burrow deeper and deeper into himself with each passing day. The boy's emotional carapace was thicker than any suit of armor or garrison Lilia had encountered during his time in the service, and some days he receded so deeply Lilia would have to call his name multiple times and rap his hand against the table just to wrest the child's attention away from himself. It was all Lilia could do to maintain the fraying strand of his composure from completely snapping. He'd been hotheaded as a youth, and positively vicious to his troops as a general, but had sworn off his every inclination towards corporal punishment once Malleus was born. During this period he often found himself questioning the rationality of his vow, and would sometimes envision giving the boy a lashing, only to immediately chide himself for his own weakness.

Something sinister seemed to be building up inside their little home. It was as though there was a great coil lurking underneath the floorboards, one that wound itself tighter and tighter with each of their disastrous interactions. The palpable tension only further stymied Lilia's every attempt at repairing their relationship, and the blowout he'd been fearing finally materialized one afternoon in early July.

Silver had spent the better part of that day in a state of quiet agitation. He would approach Lilia, open his mouth, close it, open it again, and then spin around and march off to his room, proclaiming hastily he needed to close his window, or make his bed, or any other excuse he could find to justify his escape. Lilia would only laugh in response. The previous day, while cleaning the kitchen, he'd glanced out the window and noticed the boy speaking animatedly with the chickens. He watched for hours as Silver paced back and forth before them, waving his arms and moving his mouth rapidly as the birds pecked indifferently at the ground.

Since then, Lilia had been eager to learn the truth of Silver's recital, but he did not press the boy, choosing instead to bide his time sprawled out on the couch, flipping through a stack of traveling magazines he'd been meaning to read.

After an hour of consternation, Silver planted himself before Lilia, his spine erect, his shoulders drawn back, and stated with perfect confidence, "Father, there's something I'd like to ask you!"

"Hm?" Lilia lowered his magazine, his eyes peeking over an editorial on deep-sea diving in the Coral Sea. "What is it?"

Silver's shoulders slumped. He'd not gotten this far in his rehearsals.

"Erm." He nibbled on his lower lip. "Is it okay if I go to the Zigvolt's by myself today?"

Lilia blinked. He'd been hoping - expecting, even - to hear from the boy a teary-eyed apology for how poorly he'd been acting recently, or perhaps a plea for his forgiveness, but not this. After a moment, he muttered, "What?"

"Is it okay if-"

"Sorry, I heard you." Lilia sat up and placed the magazine on the coffee table. "Why are you asking that?"

"I dunno. I just thought I-" Silver licked his lips. "I guess I just thought I could go by myself now. And I know it hurts your back to walk all that way, so."

"Oh, you don't need to worry about me, darling." Lilia said, inwardly cursing at himself for allowing the boy to notice his infirmity. He made a note to check the bathroom after they were finished talking, wondering if he'd neglected to put away his pain relief balm and bottles of medication where he typically hid them, at the back of the medicine cabinet.

Sitting up as straight as his bruised back allowed, he offered Silver a smile so brilliant it was as though he wished to expunge the shadow of the boy's doubt with its radiance. "I'm fit as a fiddle!" he proclaimed through gritted teeth.

Silver returned the smile, unaffected. "I'm glad. But I still wanna start going by myself."

Lilia's lips dropped into a frown. He shook his head and sighed. "I'm sorry, Silver. But the answer is 'no'."

Had Silver heard those words at any other point in his life prior to that moment, he would have conceded, and bowed out of the conversation in recognition of his father's perfect judgment. But this time, rather than his usual disappointment, he felt a strange anger welling up inside of him, instead. He clenched his fists and set his jaw, ignoring the hiss of his instincts warning him that he was about to step into a fight.

"No? Why not?" he asked, interrupting Lilia as he reached for his magazine.

Lilia leaned back into the couch and bit back another sigh. "Simple, because it's not safe for you to go all that way by yourself." He spoke slowly and carefully, hoping an air of manufactured calmness would mask his irritation.

Silver's voice, in contrast, blatantly swelled with indignation. "But I stay home by myself when you're gone."

"Staying home by yourself is different. My magic is all over this land. Magical beasts and fae know not to come here, and you know that, too."

Here, Silver paused again. The hiss of his instincts had at that point deformed into a mangled screech, which he knew would soon summon the animal panic that had struck him before a handful of times in his young life - once when he'd gotten lost in the woods as a small child, and another when his father had fallen gravely ill after returning from one of his trips, and Silver had been powerless to help him. There was one, final question that he now wished to ask the man, though he knew the answer to it might hurt him. As his mind frantically tried to draw back the words already forming on his tongue, he hastily wrenched them out and spat:

"Well, what about when you drop me and Sebek out in the middle of nowhere for our training? We always get along just fine without you."

Lilia crossed his arms and looked away. "That's... different, too."

Silver's heart skipped a beat. "...How?"

"It just is-"

"How!" the boy cried, his voice bursting into a screech.

"Because I watch you guys the whole time! I've always been watching you when you train. I would never leave you alone like that, you're just a child."

Lilia realized too late the poison of his words. It spread immediately into Silver's heart. His eyes were two perfect shining wet opals; his tears fell silently - gliding, almost, lifting off as they fell from his face, as though afraid to mar his skin. He turned and ran to his room, hesitating as he took the door into his hand before, for perhaps the first time in his life, he slammed it shut. Lilia leapt from the couch and raced after him, hissing out a choked "Damnit!" under his breath as he tried the knob and found it locked. He pressed his ear against the door and called out Silver's name. At first, he heard nothing, and feared for a moment the boy had slipped out his window and fled into the forest, in repeat of that awful, wretched night from so long ago, but then he heard it - it was like a whisper at first, nearly as imperceptible as the clap of a butterfly's wings, but still he heard it, heard the stifled, quiet sobs drifting through the heavy panel of hardwood separating him from his son. Lilia stood there, petrified, listening, feeling as each of the boy's sobs pierced his flesh and bore down into the deepest folds of his heart, as if seeking him; as if they were his own.

Once a month, when the moon casts aside her shadowy veil to grace the valley with all her beauty, the Zigvolts and the Vanrouges and their neighbors gather together in a log cabin at the edge of the forest, and they dance.

Regular merriment was a necessity for the fae - mirth coursed through their bodies like the blood in their veins, and any opportunity for celebration, any chance they had to raise their voices together and join hands under the soft light of the stars, they would take it. Baul would scoff and say they were all plagued by a sickness, Ma Zigvolt would click her tongue at him and say it was rather an inclination.

The monthly dance was a rare opportunity for Silver to socialize freely with the townspeople. His father had always been honest with him about his species' general attitude towards humans, and the boy understood very well that the glint in their gemstone eyes - some of them deep ruby red like his father’s, others mesmerizingly green like polished emeralds, or as molten as bright blue sapphires - was not always a kind one. Only on those full moon nights, when the whine of the band’s violins accompanies the forest symphony of nightingales and tree frogs calling out their lonely verses, when the humans and the fae breathe each other in and twist and turn and dip and whirl and spin each other out, only then was it safe for Silver to take their clawed hands into his own and look unabashed into the fire of their eyes. They could and they would return to their quiet judgment and whispered denouncements later, but not on those nights, not when their bodies burned hot with jubilation and the music bewitched them so.

It was for this reason, and for his love of the communal mirth he habitually longed for, as isolated as he was at home, that Silver looked forward to the dance each month with great excitement. The night before the July dance, however, a war had raged inside the Vanrouge household.

Partway through their silent dinner, just as Lilia had gotten up to refill his glass of water at the sink, Silver had announced, plainly, and without a moment's hesitation, that he would not be participating in tomorrow's festivities, and offered neither an explanation nor any willingness to compromise when prompted. But Lilia was equally insurmountable in his parental concerns, and he questioned the boy until his blood boiled. The conversation rapidly crumbled into an argument, before further disintegrating into an all-out screaming match.

They volleyed their rebukes at each other from across the dining table, both unbending in their determination, Silver deflecting each of Lilia's pleas and demands with an iron-clad defense that bordered on hostility.

"You're going to that dance whether you want to or not!" Lilia had nigh snarled at one point as he launched his next attack.

But his words had ricocheted off Silver as harmlessly as though they were filled with air, and he ultimately fired back a retort so scathing it made even Lilia's marble white skin flush in mortification.

Their clamor poured out the open windows and flooded the clearing, where the sows and the heifer in the pasture looked at each other in concern. A songbird that had perched on the windowsill for a moment’s respite burst into the sky a second later, alarmed by the ruckus within. After an hour of tense contestation, they finally reached an agreement: they would go to the dance, but would not stay the entire time. But the foul atmosphere from the great storm of their quarrel lingered in the small cottage, and the pair kept to themselves the next day, Silver sulking in his bedroom, and Lilia fussing in the kitchen, busy preparing a dish for the dance's customary potluck.

They convened in the evening. The partygoers traditionally wore their Sunday best, and Silver and Lilia both donned their black slacks, white button up shirts, and leather-soled shoes. Their jackets and vests they left hanging in their closets, the threat of the summer heat overpowering any inclination for gaiety. When Silver emerged into the living room, he was finishing buttoning up his shirt, and did not look up as he called out a quiet greeting to his father. It was the first time Lilia had seen him all day, and once the boy had completed his toilette and finally met his gaze, Lilia offered him a reconciliatory smile, which Silver at first returned, reflexively, then retracted a moment later, substituting it with a scowl in its place.

Shortly before dusk, underneath a blue-gray sky streaked with clouds of pure amber, they departed for the cabin, joining up with the Zigvolts as they neared the edge of the forest. Baul was not with his family, having excused himself to instead partake in an evening nap, and the small troupe reached its destination just as the last golden wisps of the sun had withdrawn into their equatorial den.

While Ma and Pa Zigvolt and Iris set off for the dancefloor, Lilia headed towards the tables at the back of the one-room cabin, Silver and Sebek in tow. He gingerly set down his tray of charred cookies amongst the other desserts while the boys took a seat. As Sebek gazed at the rows of meat pies and pound cakes spread out before them, Silver fidgeted in his chair.

The last of the partygoers having finally assembled, the band picked up their instruments and began to play. There was no electricity in the valley, and aside from the small handful of families that could afford imported record players, music was traditionally played live, both for private enjoyment, and for public celebrations. Most fae children, as a result, learned to master at least one instrument as part of their general education, and while Lilia and Malleus both were highly skilled in a wide variety of stringed instruments, Silver could play only a few, clumsy chords on the guitar - and nothing else - having suffered greatly under his father's abstract instruction.

The theme that night was "Rhythm and Blues", and the band played a selection of human songs that had lately entered the valley's cultural zeitgeist, a record-short 50 years after first debuting overseas. The partygoers danced uproariously, all of them eager to show off the new steps they'd been practicing the past month - twisting and turning and stomping their feet so thunderously the entire cabin shook from their gesticulations.

After the first song ended and a transitory lull settled over the party, Silver took the opportunity to finally voice his discomfort. Sitting up straight in his seat, he said, “I’m gonna go sit outside, it’s hot in here. You wanna come, Sebek?”

Sebek tugged absentmindedly at his suspenders while he thought. “I should like to partake in some of the fare, so I shall remain here with Sir Lilia for now.”

“Okay,” Silver replied with a shrug. He walked into the swarm of dancers just as the next song began, vanishing amongst the undulating crowd a moment later.

Lilia wished desperately to follow after him. He'd apologized repeatedly for snapping at Silver the other day, and for their fight the evening prior, both times attempting reparation through the offer of a new sword or other training implement, or ordering dinner from Silver's favorite restaurant in town - methods that had always proven successful in the past - but the boy had shot down any notion of making peace. Deciding to allow Silver his space, Lilia rose from his seat and cut a large piece of cake for Sebek, grabbing for himself a glass of berry juice before sitting back down again. He drank deeply; a familiar warmth began to pool in his stomach and radiated pleasantly into his skin, gathering up and pushing out the restlessness that had been plaguing him since the night prior, so that it lifted away from his body like the mist after a rainstorm. He downed the rest of his glass lethargically, only getting up to move whenever Sebek politely asked for another slice of cake.

The pair observed the dancers in silence together, Lilia apathetically, Sebek with great interest, his bright eyes jumping excitedly between his parents and his sister, narrowing in contempt each time the latter's current dance partner whispered something in her ear that made her smile. He resolved not to dance with the perpetrator, a young woman he recognized as one of his sister's classmates, if offered, and the prospect of this future rejection delighted him even more than his final bite of cake.

Half an hour later, Pa Zigvolt came staggering over to their table, his pinched face dripping with sweat. He stood before them for a moment, swaying slightly, trying to catch his breath, then cleared his throat and announced, meekly, “Seb, your ma said she wants to dance with you next.”

Sebek's heart plunged into his stomach. He nodded and slowly stood up, wobbling a little as he marched stiffly towards the dance floor.

After watching his son leave, Pa Zigvolt sank down into one of the empty seats with a groan. He took out his handkerchief, and as he began dabbing at his wet face, a pained smile formed on his lips. “What a woman!” he panted, amazed. “I’m telling you, she’d go all night if you let her.”

Lilia smirked. “Sounds like she’s just like her father.”

“Yeah,” Pa Zigvolt sighed. And then he frowned. “Wait, what…? What do you mean by that?”

“What did you mean by that?” Lilia countered with a gentle smile.

The color drained from Pa Zigvolt’s face. The layer of sweat he’d only just managed to wipe off suddenly rematerialized across his skin, and he nervously balled his soaked handkerchief in his hands. “I- I was just talking about dancing!!” he stammered in defense.

Lilia laughed. “Then we’ll say that I was, too.”

Exasperated, Pa Zigvolt clicked his tongue. He timidly glanced around the room, and, upon confirming none of the other partygoers appeared to have heard them, deflated in his seat once again, kicking out his still quivering legs in front of him to let them rest. He set his used handkerchief on the table and extracted a fresh one from his crumpled breast pocket while scanning the dance floor, and quickly spotted the shock of his son's bright green hair weaving through the crowd, heading towards Ma Zigvolt at the front of the cabin, where she stood towering above the other partygoers. Smiling, he resumed mopping his face, and quietly breathed a prayer of good luck for the boy.

“There you are, honey! I was waiting for you.” Ma Zigvolt smiled brightly as her son approached, and Sebek nodded in greeting. In stark contrast to his father, whose haggard breathing still rang out far behind them, his mother was the very definition of radiant; the cabin walls were lined with rows of glass lamps, each one burning a magic flame of an amber hue, and where their dim incandescence reached out and cupped her rosy face, her skin seemed to effuse its own milk white glow in return. She grabbed his arm and drew him flush against her, causing him to yelp in surprise, but he quickly regained his composure, and placed his trembling hands on her broad waist as she instructed.

They stood directly before the band, so close that Sebek could see his warped reflection in the gleaming brass of the saxophones; next to his doppelganger, within the piano's raised lid, was an umber copy of his mother, smiling gently at him. Turning his gaze, he watched as the singer stepped forth and clapped his hands, casting a simple spell to amplify his voice. The band members, thus signaled, each became animated in turn; one after another the horns swung in golden arcs up to their players' lips; the drummer and the pianist sat rigid in their seats; the guitarist and the bassist hovered their fingers over strings that seemed to vibrate in anticipation; finally, the singer, glancing around him, issued with a nod of his head a silent affirmation of their readiness, took a deep breath, and began to sing.

“Here they have a lot of fun

Puttin' trouble on the run

Man, you find the old and young

Twistin' the night away”

The dancers convened before the band immediately, some forming pairs, others choosing to shuffle on their own. The song called for a basic step, if danced solo: one need only to dig one's foot into the floor and twist it, as though "squashin' a damn bug", as Baul had once commented - with the elbows and hips swung in a similar, rhythmic fashion. Those who'd coupled up alternated this movement with a variety of turns, spins, and other footwork predominant in the swing style of dance. As they moved, the sound of their shoes scuffing and squeaking against the hardwood floor became a backing beat to the music.

The cabin was formed from stacked logs of hewn pine, affixed together with a mixture of mud and clay; the night's heat slipped through any miniscule gaps it could find in this rudimentary sealant - through the walls, the flooring, the roof - combining with the warmth that radiated from the mass of bodies packed together in that small space, so that the air within the building was as heavy and hot as the air without. Sebek's face quickly bloomed bright pink from the heat, and then dark red and splotchy; the impudent strands of hair he’d spent over half an hour in the bathroom slicking down fell limp over his eyes, heavy with perspiration. He understood at once his father's fatigued condition, and discarded the disgust he'd felt when he saw the man staggering to their table earlier, a newfound compassion taking its place.

“They're twistin', twistin'

Everybody's feelin' great

They're twistin', twistin'

They're twistin' the night away”

It was all Sebek could do to brace himself against his mother's thunderous exuberance. She swept him across the dancefloor as though he were a leaf caught up in a storm. His gaze shifted rapidly between her smiling face and his own shuffling feet, worried he might stumble and fall. Noticing this, Ma Zigvolt’s heavy body shook with laughter, her voice deep and rich like a dove’s call, and Sebek decided that he would never hear a more wonderful sound in his life. He soon forgot all his apprehensions; his shining white smile accompanied his reddened cheeks, and he nuzzled his face below the swell of his mother’s breast, as content as a nursing kitten.

A moment later, several of the dancers detached themselves from their partners and floated away. One of the Zigvolts' neighbors caught Sebek's mother, and his sister drifted over to take her place. He steadied himself against the thick trunk of her arm. She was wearing a pleated, pearl white dress, with a floral pattern sewn in golden thread along the neckline, the bottom falling down to just below her knees. The dress billowed out as she twirled, so that the hem unfurled around her like the petals of her namesake. Her pretty face was just as flushed as his, and her bright green eyes shone like pure jade; it was as though she had grown several years younger that night, no longer appearing to him as the young woman who had departed for college a year ago, but like the little girl of his infantile memories. They whirled and whirled, giggling until their stomachs hurt, as if sharing together in some great secret.

The floor groaned under a storm of stomping feet, the windows shook precipitously in their crudely cut frames. The crowd roared, voices low and high emerged from the swaying mass to accompany the singer at the end of each verse. Though there was not a drop of alcohol to be found in that cabin, many of them moved belligerently. They were intoxicated purely by the clang of the drums, the blare of the trumpets, the rumble of the singer's low voice - each of these more potent a drug to the fae than any other known substance on the planet.

At the back of the cabin, Lilia and Pa Zigvolt laughed and clapped along from their seats. Lilia's eyes darted around the room as he clapped, trying to locate his son, but the wall of dancers surging back and forth blocked his view.

“Lean up, lean back

Lean up, lean back

Watusi, now fly, now twist

They're twistin' the night away”

Outside, Silver sat alone on the doorstep. The sounds pouring out of the cabin washed over him in tumultuous waves. He'd heard many of the songs before, at prior dances, or on Pa Zigvolt's record player, and the familiarity of the music felt like a reassuring hand on his thin shoulders that night. He swayed gently to the beat, noticing at times how the slurred voices of the partygoers would rise above the band’s thunderous performance, and at one point he looked up and wondered if they had all grown drunk on the wine-dark sky.

He yawned loudly. The hot anger from his father’s recent injury still burned dimly in his stomach, and he wavered between his desire to snuff out the last few dying embers, or to let them fester still. He wasn’t used to this feeling, this irritation that clung to his tired flesh like a tick. His father had upset him before, over trivial matters that had seemed substantial to his child’s heart at the time – and once over something he understood was sincerely very grave – but he could not recall ever feeling truly angry towards the man.

All his life he'd thought himself plain and unmemorable, a pale, living blemish upon the fair folk and their preternatural beauty. But that day, when his father had revealed the truth to him, that was the first time in his life he'd ever felt ugly. The lone attestation to his maturation - all those miserable nights he'd spent in the wilderness as part of his training, often alone, other times accompanied by Sebek, cast hundreds of miles away from the clearing and all its conveniences, relying solely on his magical prowess, his wit, and a small set of tools to make it through the night - had all this time been a lie. Had any of his accomplishments been real? Had a single jot of his father's pride for him ever been genuine? What good was the torture of his training! What good was the endless exhaustion, the cold fear wrought by those awful, lonely nights, all the callouses and scars he'd been led to attain as a child and would now forever mar the alabaster of his flesh! To have ascended the black crags of the Forbidden Mountain, to have crossed endless deserts and forded raging rivers with trembling arms and legs, and yet to have failed to notice his father had been there with him the entire time! Or, perhaps he had noticed, perhaps he had noticed and merely pretended not to, to assuage the frightened little boy he now realized he truly was. Or, perhaps the man had secluded himself somewhere far beyond Silver's reach, perhaps he'd been observing him from behind the stars or the moon. But this last thought only wounded him further, as though even the heavenly bodies had betrayed him, too. He turned away from them now, not wishing for them to see him cry.

Humiliation is one of life's cruelest teachers, and that day it had taught Silver that nowhere in his house, nowhere in that land was he safe. Nowhere could he escape from the prison that was his father's gaze.

The dance proceeded languidly, drawing on as the stars drifted quietly through the night sky. Pa Zigvolt, having at last recovered from his wife's fervor, had left Lilia to go dance with his daughter. Alone, Lilia remained in his seat at the back of the cabin, tapping his feet on occasion, or humming along to the songs he recognized, but did not otherwise participate any further in the festivities. He tiredly declined each of his neighbors' offers to try their cakes and their pies, raising an eyebrow when he noticed, an hour into the party, that his own plate of cookies was still untouched. He angrily crunched one of the charcoal black disks - frowning not at its flavor, which he found as decadent as anything else his impotent taste buds could detect, but at his neighbors' general ignorance towards good food.

Upon exhausting their repertoire of fast-paced numbers, the band called for a short interlude, at which conclusion the singer cleared his throat and announced, “Alright, ladies and gents. We’ll be slowing things down a bit for these last few songs.” The band behind him reassembled itself; the guitarist and the bassist returned their instruments to their cases, trading them for a pair of violins, and a portion of the brass section retired entirely. The violins, perched proudly on their players shoulders, let out a long, plaintive note, and then the singer parted his lips once more.

His voice hitherto had been brash and booming, a perfect accompaniment to the vibrant music, but now it melted into something as smooth as velvet, flowing like a summer breeze over and around the audience, dripping into their hearts with the sweetness of honey. The thunder of shuffling feet was no more. There was only the slow swaying of couples - lovers with their partners, mothers and fathers with their children, and neighbors with their friends.

“I wish you bluebirds in the spring

To give your heart a song to sing

And then a kiss

But more than this

I wish you love”

Lilia perked up as the first verse concluded, his gaze darting immediately to the front of the cabin. He recognized the song; he'd first heard it decades ago, while on a weekend trip he'd taken to the Queendom of Roses. It was during a period of his life where he'd been "going through the motions", as he'd regularly complain to Baul, plagued incessantly by an ennui that so often strikes those transitioning into their twilight years. In desperate need of a distraction, he spontaneously booked a flight to the nearest country - he didn't care which one, only that the ticket was cheap enough to justify paying for a farmhand during his absence. On the evening of the first day of his trip, while having dinner in his hotel, he learned from the waiter that there was to be a jazz orchestra - or "big band", as the humans called it - hosted in the ballroom located on the establishment's ground floor, and that patrons could attend the performance for free. His interest piqued, he rented a suit from a local tailor, freshly pressed, and perfumed with a crisp eau de toilette he'd brought along with him, and ordered a bouquet of fresh roses sent to his room, the brightest of which he trimmed and placed in his lapel.

Fae and human relations had long cooled down to a congenial level by then, and he danced comfortably with a number of human partners that night, free from the vicious admonishments that had disturbed him on his prior travels. They danced the same dances the fae before him had been dancing all night, and the performance concluded with the same song the band at the front of the cabin was playing now. It was the only number he'd sat out for, not wishing to engage in the cumbersome intimacy that slow dances demanded, and he'd observed the other couples with great interest; they all swayed in a gentle unison, moving like the fields of tall grass that grew near the meadow before his home, so that he felt like he'd been cast under a trance while watching them. When he returned to Briar Valley later that week, he promptly disremembered everything about the song - its lyrics, its rhythm, its melody - his attention wrested first by his responsibilities on the homestead, and then by his young son.

It was a few months after his acquisition of Silver, when he and the child both were still suffering from the boy's interminable fits, for which Lilia had long exhausted all his patience and energy into locating a cure, that he finally recalled the song he'd once heard all those years ago. One morning, with the wailing infant in his arms, its little face bright red and puckered, he was despaired to find his usual consolation tactics - rocking the baby, swaddling it, offering it a moistened rag to suckle on - had all lost their effects, and he paced back and forth across the living room, debating if he should call on the Zigvolts again, or attempt to find an alternative solution on his own.

He was tired, both mentally and physically; the weeks lately had been passing him by in an endless, uniform blur, each day demarcated by whatever twilight hour the baby would surrender to its circadian needs and drift off to sleep. In the midst of his fatigued panic, something that had for decades been slumbering in the recesses of his mind finally awoke then; the lyrics and melody he'd long forgotten burst forth from the cerebral pit they’d been cast into, reassembling themselves as brilliantly as the molten birth of a newborn star. Parting his lips, his voice nigh higher than a shaky whisper, he began to sing, “I wish you bluebirds in the spring…”; by the end of the first verse, the child's loud cries had hushed into a quiet whimper; before the conclusion of the song, it had fallen fast asleep. It was like he'd discovered a panacea; from then on, any time Silver was upset or fearful, or on stormy nights when the thunder was too loud and the lightning too bright for him to be able to fall asleep, Lilia would gather the boy into his arms and sing to him, dispelling the child's every perturbation with the low hum of his voice.

Lilia's heart sank, realizing in that moment just how long it'd been since he'd last sung it for Silver, likely not for months, or for a year, even, and yet - he smiled; this was their song, and now here was the perfect chance to finally reconnect with his withdrawn and sullen child once more!

Trembling with excitement, he shot up from his seat. He fought his way through the throng of dancers until he found Silver, still sitting alone on the stoop outside. He grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him back into the cabin, but Silver dug his heels into the ground as they reentered the crowd.

“Stop it, I don’t want to dance,” Silver said with a glower.

Lilia sighed. “Oh, come now. Can’t you entertain your old man just for one song?”

“I don’t want to dance!” Silver repeated louder, putting as much stress on each word as he could muster. Some of the partygoers turned to look at them, and their curious stares made him flush.

Lilia tugged on the boy’s arm and offered him a reassuring smile. “Just this one song, and then we'll go home and you can sulk all you want.”

Silver ripped Lilia’s hand away, his face contorting into an angry grimace. “I said stop it! You’re embarrassing me!”

“But Silver! This is-!”

He pushed past Lilia and stormed out the door. Outside, the sky and the ground below it had merged into a single, black swath, so that his white head contrasted like a point of light against it, appearing like a star floating through the darkness. Lilia watched him walk away from where he stood frozen in shock, his rejected hand still hanging in the air. He did not move as the dancers silently drifted all around him; most of them did not turn to look at him, as though he were nothing more than a small obstruction in a stream.

“I wish you shelter from the storm

A cozy fire to, to keep you warm

But most of all when snowflakes fall

I wish you love”

Later, long after the last notes of the music had faded away, Lilia whispered, “But this is our song.”

VI.

Silver awoke the next morning long after the songbirds had concluded their matinal performance. The world outside was grey and silent, and he stepped through it as quietly as the pine boughs brushing together in the wind. He moved with confidence, his eyes habitually adjusted to low light, and followed a patch of wild coreopsis and daylilies that spread lace-like on the ground before him. They appeared to have claimed for themselves all the meager drops of sunlight that percolated through the clouds, shining like gemstones in the dim darkness.

He'd slept poorly last night, plagued by dreams of the dance, and his thoughts once more drifted away from him while he plodded through his chores, traveling far beyond the clearing, down to the cabin just past the forest's edge, where they pooled within it alongside the stagnant summer heat. Last night at the dance, a warmth had flowed from his father and into him where his fingers had touched his arm, and again and again, as he lay in bed upon returning home, he'd felt it anew, felt it erupt into the hot rage that had coursed through his veins when he'd stormed out the door. A part of him was sorry to have upset the man, having now belatedly realized his harmless intentions, but a greater part of him was struck by a deep frustration - his body ached with it; it prickled at his skin as though he'd bathed in poison oak, so that more than once he felt his face twist into a scowl while he worked.

The animals, too, noticed his contortions. The chickens coalesced at his feet as he gathered their eggs; the pigs butted him gently as he refilled their trough; and the young calf, renown for its stubborn shyness, detached itself from its mother for once and loitered by his side, unsure of what to say. Silver sighed at all of this. His whole life he'd had a peculiar connection with animals. They would sense his vexations and his fears, and would come to him, unbidden, offering him their crude affections in a variety of forms - sometimes pinecones or hickory nuts covered with specks of leaflitter, other times poorly picked wildflowers still dangling with heavy roots, each of these gifts held with utmost tender in their mouths or little hands. But he had not the patience for their ministrations that day, and he dismissed the chickens and the pigs and the calf each with a scoff and a wave of his hand. The heifer, however, he failed to evade.

She was the eldest of the Vanrouge's livestock - a wise, if not shrewd, creature; only a year younger than Silver, they had tumbled across the clearing together in their infancy, and most of what he knew of animal husbandry he'd learned from her. That morning, she had refused to vacate the lean-to in protest of the dismal weather, and she was waiting for him there when he approached her with his milking pail and wooden stool in hand. Once seated, his hands and his attention preoccupied with stripping the foremilk from her teats, her broad body blocking the exit, she turned her heavy head towards him, and issued from her liquid eyes the same question that had been tormenting him all that morning: Are you alright? Her plaintive gaze struck him like an ambush. Ensnared, he fumblingly released her udder and stroked her sides, ensuring her through gritted teeth that he was perfectly fine. Satisfied by his response, she turned away, and leisurely resumed her meditations.

After finishing his chores, he returned to the cottage and forced down a tasteless bowl of oatmeal and some scraps of white bacon. His thoughts raced while he ate. Within his mind flew bits and pieces of anger, trepidation, worry, and sorrow, and these he took into his calloused hands and pressed together, trying to mold them into something he could understand, but they ultimately formed into an idea, instead. This discovery satiated him where his meager meal had not, and he smiled as he brought his dishes to the sink.

When Lilia stumbled out of his bedroom an hour later, half-asleep, and still clad in his dress shirt and pants from the night prior, he found Silver waiting for him by the front door, his canvas knapsack slung across his shoulders. As he began to yawn a greeting, Silver stiffened and cut him off, rapidly spitting out a gruff request to go to the Zigvolt's before turning to face him. His tone was so severe that his words struck Lilia's skin like a splash of ice water, causing him to sober immediately, and he numbly gave his permission with a slow nod of his head. They left together after Lilia got changed, Silver leading the way, Lilia trailing far behind him.

The grey curtain of the sky had pulled back to reveal an angry red sun behind it. Summer had reached its height then, and the entire valley was plainly sullen. The trees, seeming to sag in the heat, stood with their great branches drooping weakly; the songbirds concealed amongst them cycled between a restless dozing and a fitful agitation, too uncomfortable to sing. Silver, however, cut unphased through the stifling air. His hair blazed like white fire, and the shimmering light around him made him appear at times like a mirage to his lagging father. Upon reaching their destination, and after an exchange of curt farewells, Silver glanced behind him as he opened the front door, but all he saw was the thin line of the man's back receding into the haze of the forest.

Silver found Sebek upstairs in his bedroom, pouring over sheets of magical formulae spread out across the floor. He stepped gingerly into the room, being careful not to disturb any of Sebek's materials, announced himself with a throaty, "Hey", and then promptly launched into a recount of last night. He spoke so rapidly it felt like his words were slipping blindly off his tongue. He blinked away hot tears as he talked, his anger and his hurt boiling up each time he mentioned his father. When he finished, he sighed, and then began nibbling on his lips, unsure of what he next wished to say. Sebek waited patiently for him to continue.

Finally, after a tense pause, Silver grumbled, “He keeps treating me like I’m a dumb kid and It’s driving me nuts. I just dunno know what to do anymore.”

Sebek frowned. “And you’re certain you’ve cast aside all your childish whims?”

“Yeah,” Silver nodded solemnly.

“Hmm…” Sebek thought for a moment, and then his lips pulled up into a smirk. “Then I should think the solution is obvious, you twit!”

“And what’s that?”

Sebek crossed his arms. “Recall Sir Lilia’s and my grandfather’s old war stories. Whenever they carried out some grand feat or other, they’d be lavished with adoration upon their return home. Clearly, you simply need to accomplish some sort of heroic act, and then your father shall finally recognize the man that you’ve become.”

“Yeah…” Silver murmured, nodding his head again. “Yeah, I think you’re right, Sebek. That’s a great idea, thank you.”

The praise made Sebek swell like an adder. He puffed out his chest and jutted his chin. “Truly, you are fortuitous, Silver! To have a friend as clever as I!”

Silver smiled. “I sure am.”

Sebek was taller than Silver by a single, coveted inch. And he was stronger, too, heavy and thick everywhere his companion was gangly and thin. But still Silver was more skilled at magic and combat than him, and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d bested his fellow apprentice in battle. Silver held over Sebek's head something he would never be able to reach no matter how much taller he grew: namely, the fact that Silver was older.

Sebek was only twelve, still just a child. Adolescence fascinated him severely, having watched it radically transform his older brother and sister before his eyes, and he was jealous that Silver got to enjoy all its mysteries before he could. Every morning, gripped with excitement, he’d snatch the desk calendar from his bedside table with trembling hands, eager to see if it was finally the day when he, too, would be permitted to enter that strange and curious world of young adulthood. And every morning his little shoulders would sag in disappointment as he read the date. He’d begun wondering lately if it would ever be March 17th again, thinking that perhaps the planet sought to deny him his wish, and was intentionally dawdling in its flight around the sun. The idea of a great conspiracy pleased him, which helped to placate his usual disappointment.

Now presented with the chance to prove his capabilities before all the adults around them, he trembled with excitement. They fell immediately to their plotting. First, Sebek suggested they apprehend a robber or other trivial criminal, but Silver quickly dismissed the idea, doubting its feasibility. He additionally dismissed Sebek's propositions that they search for long lost treasure and other such artifacts for similar reasons. When Sebek mentioned they could contact Malleus for assistance, Silver balked. He hadn't seen the man all summer, and hadn't heard his name in weeks - the young prince had been preoccupied with helping their country recover from the aftermath of last month's monstrous storm, traveling from waterlogged village to waterlogged village, magically repairing homes and rejuvenating flooded farmlands wherever he went. Silver rejected this proposal, too, explaining that Malleus likely wouldn't have the time available to help them, and noting internally that he'd only betray their schemes to his father, anyways, and they quickly moved onto their next point of contestation. After much debate, and much grumbling and whining, and following a short intermission to enjoy some of Ma Zigvolt's lemon pie, Sebek finally proposed an idea that the both of them agreed on.

A rogue grizzly bear had been making a feast of the local livestock over the summer, a missing sow of the Zigvolts and a milk calf of their neighbors amongst its victims. Any attempt the past month to detain or eliminate it had ended in failure, and it'd been outwitting the small community unlike anything the elders had ever seen. Recently, for example, a family living down the road had attempted to capture it after it had devoured several of their chickens during one of its nightly jaunts. They placed a series of foothold traps around the coop, buried under leaf litter, and totally de-scented using a complex spell, and awoke the next morning to find their yard blanketed with bloody white feathers, not a single trap containing within its undisturbed jaws even one strand of the creature's hair. Silver and Sebek decided they would bring an end to the terror themselves.

Its massive tracks had last been spotted heading into the Obsidian Forest - a congested strip of towering firs, spruce, and pine trees located to the north of the Zigvolt's. The trees there grew so closely together that hardly any sunlight was able to pierce through the thick canopy, casting the land inside of it into an endless shadow. One had the feeling Nature had forgotten that place in her designs; it was quiet as something alive should not be. There was no birdsong during the day, and neither the soft gurgle of the river nor the wind brushing against the trees. Tawny owl cries could sometimes be heard emanating from it at night - lonely, sharp trills that rang out almost like a warning. The fae were not known for being a judicious people, but they were perceptive, able to detect on their skin the slightest gradations in magic and other immaterial energies that even the finest tuned devices could not, and they stayed far away from the forest in confidence of its dangers.

Silver, however, was a human, and Sebek, a half-fae, and they had long viewed the forest with a simple, innocent curiosity, both unable to sense the unseen forces that made their countrymen so cautious of that unknown realm. As such, and with Silver consumed with thoughts of his redemption, and Sebek thinking of little more than all the praise their great adventure would earn him, they boldly made plans to meet together early the next morning before their parents awoke. Lilia regularly went to bed shortly after 11 o'clock, and Silver would make his escape several hours later. He would cut a path straight to the Zigvolt's, avoiding the long, winding trail his father had erected for him through his land, and would rendezvous with Sebek behind their home. They talked until the sun set and shadows flooded the room, but neither moved to turn on the light, for the excitement in their hearts brightened that dark space better than any candle or lamp ever could. Silver returned home that evening feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

Silver dipped his hands into the kitchen basin and splashed some of the cold water onto his face. The windows above him were a pair of jet black panes, dotted with a smattering of stars that twinkled distantly like lightning bugs. He couldn't remember ever having seen a sky so desolate before, and he marveled at the miniscule pinpricks of light as he slowly dried his hands with a terry washcloth, anxiously aware of each and every sound he made.

He completed one final circuit throughout the house before leaving. Moving on his tiptoes, he double-checked that the covers were drawn over his bed and the pillows beneath them were positioned correctly, and that his father was still asleep, the last of which he ascertained with a furtive glance thrown inside the man's room. When he reached the front door, he sank back down on his heels and bent over to re-lace his boots.

He'd packed his knapsack before going to bed, filling it with a handheld lantern, his canteen and compass, an emergency kit, a small bag of cornmeal and a cast iron pan, and some pemmican and soda biscuits he'd wrapped in napkins. His crossbow hung snug over his shoulders; his favorite hunting knife was nestled deep into the leather sheath hanging from his belt. He and Sebek had agreed not to come back until their mission was fulfilled, and if they ran out of provisions before felling their quarry, they'd be well prepared to secure more.

The house breathed him out like a sigh. The moon unfurled overhead like an orchid in full bloom, vastly outshining the indolent stars hovering around it, and it bathed his surroundings in a pale film of argent light. The broad, black blocks of the cows and the pigs asleep in their enclosures jutted out from the darkness, and the black pyramid of the chicken coop rose silently above them. He crept past the dozing creatures and slipped into the woods. His legs instinctively followed the same trail he'd taken countless times before. His feet he lifted and placed methodically, stalking as he did when he hunted, fearing that the soft crackle of the twigs and leaves underneath him might awaken his sleeping father from hundreds of yards away.

Presently, the felled oak tree that marked the northernmost boundary of his father’s land appeared. Its withered roots splayed out like the gnarled fingers of an outstretched hand, their grasp extending far above his head. He reached out and rested his palm against the trunk. Its bark was soft and brittle from decay, blanketed with a thick layer of moss and algae. He knew not if his father had struck down this once mighty giant himself, or if it had merely collapsed in its old age, only that he was forbidden from passing by its sentinel gaze on his own. He grabbed onto the slippery bark and scrambled atop the trunk, letting out a shaky breath as he stood up.

All of the land before him stretched beyond the confines of his father's territory. Each and every bush and tree and creature, every shadow, every undefined mass lurking in the darkness there was to him an alien, a stranger. Somewhere further beyond lay the Zigvolt’s homestead, and further past that, the Obsidian Forest. The mountains erupted in the distance like a row of black fangs piercing the sky. Behind him waited the clearing and the cottage, the toolshed and the garden, the wheatfield and the pasture and the meadow – each of these forming another slat of his boyhood cradle, another barrier around the only world he'd ever truly known.

He lifted a trembling hand and groped at the air. He'd been expecting some sort of rebound from broaching his father's magical perimeter, but it did not come. He leapt off the trunk and landed on the ground with a loud crash. The sound echoed viciously all around him and yet - there was nothing. No harsh cry of his name. No thudding of feet racing up behind him. Nothing. Had he successfully escaped? Gasping, he rapidly swung his head this way and that, scanning his surroundings. Here was the copper blur of a fox slipping through the forest undergrowth, there was the heavy grey body of a raccoon lumbering slowly behind it. And here, again, the silver outline of a barn owl peering at him from the thicket yonder.

He could see now that these were no specters, no apparitions - they were living things, with eyes like his and beating hearts like his, things that drank in the same sweet night air as him. All his fears vanished - it was as though he'd finally let out a breath he never realized he'd been holding in all his life. Re-shouldering his bag, he set off once more, his heart pounding with excitement, his body coursing with the ecstasy of this newfound freedom. He swept through the forest like a beam of moonlight. The five miles to the Zigvolt's he crossed in what felt like five steps.

Why was I ever afraid of this place? he wondered. Why was I ever afraid of anything in my life?

At three o'clock in the morning, less than an hour after he'd left the clearing, Silver stepped onto the dirt road that led to the Zigvolt's farmhouse. Breathless from his record flight, he took in long, quiet gulps of air as he neared the agreed-upon rendezvous location - the left-side porch, for there were no windows there - his eyes flicking occasionally to his sides, and to his rear, and to the spider web of starlight draped across the cottonwoods towering around him, his steps falling lighter than even the cloven feet of a vigilant deer. He immediately noticed the small, darkened figure hovering by the porch, and watched as it detached itself from the greater mass of shadows, revealing itself to be Sebek. His friend flashed him a triumphant smile, his little fangs shining bright white in the darkness.

"You made it!"

"Hush!"

Sebek's hands flew over his mouth. "Sorry!" he yelped as he turned to look at the house, his heart racing, but the stalwart building gave no reaction, remaining stone still, silent. Through his fingers, he sheepishly repeated, this time quietly, "Sorry." He quickly readjusted his knapsack from where it'd slipped down his shoulder, then hurried to join Silver in the road.

Silver rolled his eyes, grinning.

They padded cautiously through the darkness, their feet kicking up small clouds of dust from the earth beneath them, each one rising like an ochre breath before dissolving a moment later into the blue-black of the night. After walking for a length, Sebek pointed out from a row of identical log cabins his neighbor's home - namely, the one who'd recently tried to apprehend the beast after it'd feasted on their flock. They circled around back, ducking as they passed the lower story windows, and found, by a pair of crooked fence posts surrounding a small vegetable garden, a set of lumbering bear tracks that trailed away due North. Sebek crouched down and placed his hand in one of the prints. The massive groove was as broad as a dinner plate, so that even when he splayed and stretched out his hand as wide as he could, his fingertips stopped several inches short from the rim. The indentations from the claw marks looked like a set of daggers had been dragged through the ground. Silver swallowed thickly as he observed this. Tugging at Sebek's sleeve, he whispered hoarsely, "Come on, let's go."

The tracks led them further and deeper into the bowels of the adjacent woodland. Neither spoke, both of them gripped with a nervous excitement that bordered at times on trepidation. Occasionally, Silver's hands reached behind him for his crossbow, finding reassurance in the solidity of its metal stock. Sebek, too, had taken with him the children's rifle he'd received for his birthday last year. Purchased by his father while traveling overseas for a dental conference, he'd gloated joyfully to Silver upon receiving it, and had been treating it with the utmost care the past year, polishing it daily, and keeping it secured in a case he kept hidden underneath his bed. The fall prior, Silver had accompanied Sebek and his father when they'd gone duck hunting at the river and had received a turn using the weapon, with both boys dispatching several birds, each. Though Silver was amazed at its great strength, and though he found it a very lovely piece of craftsmanship, indeed, the sound of it firing hurt his ears, and he secretly hoped they wouldn't have to use it.

The trees gradually thinned out and fell away, receding into a tall, grassy meadow that, in turn, soon bowed down and terminated before another stretch of forest. But the shadowy structure looming before them was somehow different than all the other natural places they'd ever come across in their lives. It was darker than the night, silent; foreboding in a way that left them wondering if it was about to reach out a gnarled, earthen hand and strike them. This was the Obsidian Forest, and the bear's tracks disappeared within it.

The boys, having simultaneously come to a standstill at the edge of the forest, their hearts pounding, exchanged a tense look, then turned back to face the verdant bulwark. The moonlight fell like a curtain before them; Silver took Sebek's larger hand into his own and they stepped through it together. The air within the forest was several degrees cooler than without, and the shock of the cold was like jumping into the river on a warm Summer day. Sebek shook off Silver's hand with a grunt, and once freed, zipped his jacket and pulled up his collar. Silver, ignoring his friend's indignation, extracted his lantern from his bag, and lit it with a simple spell. He held up the device and slowly swung it back and forth it as he turned around.

All the light in the world was now contained within Silver's hands; everything around them was only an abstraction of what they understood to be total darkness. The copper glow from his lantern struck the surrounding fir trees, dimly illuminating the bone white bark covering their emaciated trunks. Their scraggly canopies converged together and formed a single, continuous, vegetative wall that strangled the moonlight within its matted foliage. The air was heavy with the clean smell of pine, underlaid with the rich musk of a humus that had been forming undisturbed for centuries. It was quiet, as the adults had described, but not completely devoid of sound - they could hear, emanating like an invisible vapor from the leaf litter, the silver song of crickets drawing their bows across their instruments; the wind had dropped its voice to a whisper, but they could hear this, too, threading through any microscopic gaps it could find in the leafy barrier overhead; and as they walked, there was the soft crunch of their boots sinking into the plush carpet of pine needles underfoot.

After a moment's consideration, Silver declared, "It's no big deal," and Sebek nodded mutely in agreement.

They'd been misled countless times before by the adults in their lives, having been warned of dangers they'd later discovered were, in truth, harmless in nature, such as cracking one's knuckles, or staying up until the early hours of the morning, and the Obsidian Forest they now added to this ever-growing list. But they remained cautious - Sebek walked with his hand looped around his rifle's strap, and Silver's eyes followed wherever the roaming light of his lantern touched the earth.

Their abscondment from home and their entry into the forest having now been completed, the final phase of their plan would be simple: they needed only to track the bear to its den, and kill it. This would not be unlike their usual training exercises, during which Lilia would deposit them in a remote location - often high atop some distant mountain range, or in the middle of a barren ravine - and they would be forced to survive on their own for days or weeks at a time, typically with an additional command to secure a target of Lilia's choosing, such as a wild animal, or an object he'd hidden deep in the wilderness. They had felled various species of direbeast before, both together, and on their own, and a bear would be no different. Knowing the creature's massive body would be too heavy for them to drag out of the forest on their own, they planned to cut off one of its paws to bring back as proof of their accomplishment, and would come back later to retrieve the rest, with assistance from the adults. Bear meat was a popular delicacy in the valley, and after the carcass was carved and distributed amongst the local community, Silver was determined to request a bottle of its golden oil - renowned for its anti-inflammatory properties - as a gift for his father.

Silver swept his lantern low over the ground, and with its pale glow as their beacon, they followed the tracks deep into the forest. They would occasionally notice movement in the darkness, fleeting figures and shapes that their nervous minds would automatically warp into the hulking mass of the bear, and each time, as they would begin to reach for their weapons, they would realize a moment later they'd stumbled upon nothing more than a small raccoon or an opossum on the prowl for food. They jumped at every such encounter, and at every unexpected noise that entered their peripheral - a heavy branch Sebek mistakenly stepped on rang out like a gunshot; a tawny owl's sudden cry boomed like a crack of thunder. For hours they proceeded tremulously; fear had been stalking them all that time like a shadow, and as the veil of darkness surrounding them lifted and gave way to daybreak, it vanished together with the night. They could not see the sun's yellow face above them, but they could feel its dappled light falling down on them like a warm and gentle rain. The canopy, which had hitherto been a solid, dark green streak, was now dotted with flashes of a vibrant cerulean blue.

With the night's vanquishment, they steadily grew more and more confident, feeling now important - older, even. They walked with their heads held high and their backs erect, pumping their arms and swinging their legs as though on the march. They kicked up cedar chips and pine needles as they walked, scattering them onto the ground like birdshot. The blood coursed through their veins hot as liquor; the temptation of glory drove them on like a whip. Each child began to envision himself seated like a king in the Zigvolt's parlor, regaling this tale to their neighbors and family, and joining a long line of men who had come before them - heroes and explorers, great and mighty conquerors of the strange and unknown.

They would stop - intermittently, and only for brief sprints - to rest, to drink water, or to re-lace their boots, and would then immediately resume their march as zealously as before. They hurried as fast as their legs could carry them, knowing that the creature would likely have returned to its den by that point, and that it would be fast asleep in preparation of its nightly activities - tracking it down before it awoke that evening would be vital to their success.

When they came across a noticeable gap in the canopy - a hole ripped open where a pine tree had collapsed, through which they caught their first, true glimpse of the sky since that morning - they agreed to take another short break. Amongst the various survival skills that Lilia had taught them was the ability to derive the time, and working together, they erected a rudimentary sundial using some branches they gathered from the ground. They calculated that it was presently midmorning, and that they must have covered several miles since entering the forest. They remained there for a few minutes longer, Silver sipping quietly from his canteen, Sebek dismantling their earthen clock. Languid clouds passed through the gap overhead. Silver recalled how, every winter, the pond near his home would freeze over, and yet he could still see fish swimming undisturbed beneath the thick panel of ice. He wondered if this was how they felt, watching the world pass by them silently up above. As he wiped his dripping mouth with his sleeve, he glanced over, and noticed that Sebek was frowning.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm getting hungry, that's all."

Silver put his canteen away. "You brought some food with you, right?"

"Of course I did!" Sebek bristled. He slid off his knapsack and rummaged inside it, cataloging each of his belongings out loud, more so to himself, than to the half-listening Silver.

"I've got biscuits and cornbread, some jerky, some apples..."

"Uh-huh," Silver said, stifling a yawn.

"My water bottle, of course. Aaannnd..." He reached deep inside, smiling when he felt his fingers touch what he'd been looking for.

"Some of my mother's snickerdoodles, freshly baked." He pulled out a brown paper bag, shaking it with a grin. "Sissy has been hogging them, but I was able to pilfer a few without her noticing." He poured several of the cookies onto his hand before returning the bag to his knapsack.

"Would you like one?"

"Sure, thanks."

Silver gingerly took one of the cookies from Sebek's outstretched hand and bit into it with a sigh. The soft dough crumbled in his mouth deliciously, each piece dissolving like a sugar cube on his tongue. The almost overwhelming smell of cinnamon, the faint hint of vanilla, the rich, buttery aftertaste, all made him think of Ma Zigvolt. He'd overheard her lamenting the loss of the family's sow a few weeks ago - she loved each of their livestock like her children, and the bear's cunning attacks had wounded her pride and her heart, both. He imagined, upon their return home, how her face would break into a smile when they told her what they'd done, presenting the news to her as though it were a freshly picked bouquet. The image was somehow sweeter than the cookie itself, and he licked the sugary crumbs off his fingers, tasting little more than a delicious contentment.

They resumed walking. For over an hour the forest stretched on unchanging and uninterrupted, before it began to angle sharply downhill, transforming eventually into a semi-exposed slope. The incline was so severe they had to descend on their hands and knees, slowly zigzagging from one tree to the next, at times using the exposed roots and fallen branches to rappel downwards. The plateau they arrived at was bisected by a meager creek, appearing as blue and as thin as the veins running down their arms. They lay on their stomachs and drank deeply from it, bringing the crystalline water to their mouths with their hands. Silver shook his head like a dog when he was finished, spraying ice cold drops everywhere, and Sebek pushed him away with a laugh. A school of minnows, each one a silver grain of rice, darted away at the commotion, but the water striders on the surface above continued their skating, unaffected. They washed their hands and refilled their canteens before moving on.

The sunlight filtering down through the forest canopy gradually became more intense as the morning rolled into afternoon. Silver and Sebek had been talking with one another at length ever since daybreak - discussing their plans and their upcoming glory, and pointing out all the flora and fauna around them - and their conversations slowed to a comfortable lull as the air grew increasingly warmer. Unable to tell the time without a further break in the canopy, one hour blended seamlessly into the other, so that occasionally, when they blinked, they would open their eyes to a world remarkably brighter and warmer than the one they'd been in just a moment before.

Late in the afternoon, as they picked their way through a pleasantly mild Summer haze, Sebek suddenly stopped walking and threw out his arm, blocking Silver. His bright green eyes bore laser-like into the distance; his whole body stiffened like a bird-dog alerting to game.

Unmoving, he stated plainly, "I do believe we've been here before."

Silver blinked. "Huh?"

"That spruce tree yonder, with all the moss on it," Sebek said, now pointing, "I've seen it before."

Silver studied the tree indicated for several moments, but could not determine how it differed from any of the other dozen trees surrounding it. Shrugging, he said, "It probably just looks like one we passed earlier. Tons of trees have moss on them."

"I know they do!" Sebek huffed, gritting his teeth. "But that patch there's shaped like a star. That's how I recognized it."

Silver looked again. The patch of moss did indeed resemble a child's simple depiction of a five-pointed star, but his mind refused to accept what it had just heard.

"That's impossible," he murmured, shaking his head. "We've just been following the bear's tracks this whole time. How could we..."

Silver frowned. His incredulity obscured his mind like an eclipse. As he stared at the bear's tracks - crisscrossing the ground in some areas, and issued in a straight line in others - they began to swirl before his eyes, forming a nameless thing that Silver knew he'd seen before, and after a terse moment of contemplation, he finally recalled where.

He thought of a time, years ago, when he and his father had spent the whole Summer attempting to snare a devious buck. The animal had pillaged their vegetable garden every night for weeks, tearing up their sweet potatoes and corn, and even daring to defile Lilia's prized tomato plants, and had avoided all their various traps and attempts to trail it. One day, after sitting together for several hours in a cramped tree stand, they were able to witness its genius. After passing directly before them, it disappeared for approximately fifteen minutes, then doubled back, retraced its steps to just before the stand, and cut into the forest in the opposite direction, at a sharp angle, so that its path formed a "V" when viewed from above. Even the most experienced hunter - whether human or animal or fae - would likely follow the original set of tracks, which would appear - and smell - fresher, having been laid down twice, and by the time the error was realized, the quarry would have long escaped. The buck, as if having calculated all of this, strode off that day waving the chestnut flag of its tail in victory.

And now here again was that same whirlpool of footprints, now here again was that same irrefutable display of animal cunning. The eclipse passed his mind; the light of his revelation nearly blinded him - they must have been going in circles for hours.

His eyes flew wide open; his heart thundered so viciously he wondered for a moment if it was about to burst. His eyes darted wildly about him, as though hoping to find some form of consolation hidden amongst the leaf litter. And then, in a moment of clarity, he recalled a new trick he'd recently learned, the very same one he now knew adults had been using on him and other children all his life: he lied.

"It's fine, Sebek. I know exactly where we're going." He turned away, so that his friend would not see him nervously biting his lip. He pulled out his compass and held it out this way and that, making a show of orienting himself.

"The bear just circled around here to try and shake us off its trail. We'll find it if we keep going..." His eyes scanned the ground, trying to deduce which set of tracks looked the freshest. "That way."

Sebek, frowning sternly, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. After a moment, his face relaxed, and he slowly replied, "If you insist..."

Silver let out a shaky breath. Sebek's immediate acquiescence, which he at other times would only earn after much coaxing and arguing and persuasion, excited him. He experienced once more the feeling of being much older and more important than he really was, and wondered for a moment if this was the true pleasure of being an adult. He made a note to emphasize this part of the story when he'd later recount it to his father - how he'd outwitted the terrible beast where all others before him had failed, and how he'd led himself and Sebek through what was sure to be their darkest hour. They would return home heroes, indeed!

"Come on, this way."

Thus continuing their journey, they picked a new trail in the direction Silver had indicated. Portions of the sky peeking through the canopy slowly turned a golden orange, others light pink or red, forming a mosaic of the sunset. The bear would now likely be active again, and out roaming the forest with them, and when Sebek mentioned this, Silver hurriedly explained that they could still locate its den in the meantime, and lay in wait for it to return, to which Sebek, still in an unusually agreeable mood, only nodded. Their enthusiasm from that morning waned together with the fading sunlight. They plodded on halfheartedly for hours; identical trees and shrubs and rocks extended all around them for miles. They nibbled on their sticks of jerky and pemmican as they walked, breaking off and exchanging pieces of dried meat with each other in lieu of conversation. Sebek's apples and corn bread and most of their biscuits they soon finished off, too.

Finally, evening gave way to night, and the world around them was plunged once more into darkness. As Silver fished in his bag for his lantern, Sebek suggested they quit for the day and set up camp, but Silver adamantly disagreed.

"Just a little bit further and then we'll stop," he said, struggling to relight the lantern as he spoke. "The den's gotta be close by."

"Hmph!"

And again, an hour later:

"We're almost there, I promise."

"Hmph!"

They slogged on wearily. Periodically, Silver would command they stop, and, taking out his compass from his pocket, would double-check the accuracy of their orientation, then indicate with a satisfactory grunt that they could continue moving. They did not rest, otherwise. Low hills and mounds they climbed felt to their leaden legs like mountains; meager creeks and streams they crossed seemed to stretch on for miles. The trees, crowding down on them, reached out and scratched at their arms and legs and faces with wooden claws as sharp as needles. Foxes and barn owls screamed out from deep within the forest, and their fatigued minds, instinctually recalling legends of all the various monsters that lurk within such darkness, heard amongst their mangled cries the laughter of evil witches, and the terrible roars of bogeymen and other foul beasts. The stars shone coldly above them, ignorant of their torment.

Eventually, the line of the bear's tracks duplicated, and then further split into a third and a fourth set, all at various points overlapping and crisscrossing the first one. Silver felt his heart sink further and further at the discovery of each new set, and when they all converged and disappeared into a tangled copse of towering spruce and fir trees, he felt it stop moving entirely. Stopping, he drew the lantern in a wide arc before him; his steady gaze swept across the rows of identical giants like the roaming beam of a lighthouse, moving slowly, searching them, daring them to offer him what he was looking for, as though conducting a silent interrogation. His pale watercolor eyes, always so soft, hardened into steel. Sebek became at once afraid of him.

"Silver, what are you-"

"Quiet!" Silver hissed, waving him off with his free hand, his other hand tightening its grip on the lantern until his knuckles bloomed white.

And then - he saw it.

There, deep within the copse, standing just off to the left, partly obscured by the long shadows cast by its brothers, was the same spruce tree from earlier that day, wearing the same star-shaped patch of moss upon its wooden breast. They'd simply gone in another, massive circle around the forest.

"Damnit!" Silver spat. "Damnit, damnit, damnit!"

"Silver!" Sebek whined, but Silver ignored him.

He ripped his compass from his pocket and held it before him with trembling hands. Its needle pointed North. He spun around 180 degrees, yet still it pointed North; he spun a quarter further - again, North. His jaw dropped. No matter which way he faced or how he held the compass, its needle only spun and spun, racing in time with his pounding heart. He threw it to the ground in disgust.

His adam's apple bobbed precipitously. "I swear I..."

"You see! I told you so!" Sebek huffed, stamping his foot. "We're lost!"

"Shut up!" Silver growled. "I need to think."

For several, long hours leading up to that point, Sebek had been languishing under a terrible secret, the truth of which was that he had known, ever since he'd first glimpsed that verdant star, that they were utterly, and completely, lost. However, he did not wish to embarrass his friend, for although he found pleasure in showing off his strength and his intellect, and in being able to do things that other children his age could not, he was not a cruel boy, and had no interest in causing others pain, for which reason he'd decided against questioning Silver's judgment. He had trusted that Silver would architect for them some miraculous solution, just as he always had done any time they'd encounter an issue when training, but Silver had failed, and now Sebek was scared. The volcanic plug that was his faith in his friend having been destroyed, he finally erupted. "I don't like this! I want to go home!" he cried, his voice quivering. "This isn't fun anymore!"

"Fun?" Silver spat. "We didn't come all the way out here to have fun, Sebek!"

He stormed towards the other boy; the pine needles snapped and popped like firecrackers under his feet. His voice rose to a crackling scream. "We came out here so I could get my dad to trust me! And now it's all ruined!"

Sebek sniffled, cowering. His eyes shone with the threat of crystal tears. Silver's anger shot out of him as rapidly as it had come.

"Everything's ruined..."

Their venture was over, and what had they to show for it but their knobby little elbows and knees, scraped and bruised and smeared with blood; their filthy clothing, torn and stained with their tears; their ruddy, dirt-smeared faces; and their eyes, red and swollen from crying? What were they, but two scared little children, who would now sit down and fold their hands, prim and proper, and wait for their parents to come wipe their faces and clean up their mess? There would be no glory, no praise; no retribution against Silver's father. He half-expected the man to suddenly emerge from the shadows and begin chastising him.

Silver picked up his compass, wiped it against his shirt, and shoved it back into his pocket. He quickly glanced at Sebek, then ducked his head again, ashamed. Staring at his shoes, he grunted, "Sorry."

Drawing his sleeve across his soiled face, Sebek grumbled through the fabric an acceptance of his apology. He then turned and stepped behind the wall of foliage to collect himself in private.

Silver waited for him. He rolled a pinecone back and forth under his boot for a few moments before gently kicking it away. The air buzzed with the sounds of nature's nocturnal choir; its leading members, a cloister of tree frogs hidden amongst the copse before him - each one a piece of peridot, emerald, or jade - sang quietly, joining their crystal voices with the crickets and katydids plucking their chitinous strings. He could hear Sebek's hushed sobs filtering through to him, carried upon the silver chorus like a pine needle pulled down a stream. He wished to go join him in his anguish, to throw his arms around his friend and to weep with him, but the shock of his failure had drained his body of all its frustrations, leaving him numb. He knew there would be time to mourn later; for now, his only focus would be on getting through the night.

Once Sebek returned, his eyes and his face cleaned and dry, if not still inflamed, Silver cleared his throat and said, "Remember what my father would always tell us: Best thing to do if you get lost..."

"...is to sit your ass down, and stay put." Sebek finished with a shaky sigh.

Silver set down his lantern and knapsack, and after taking out his emergency kit and placing it to the side, began clearing out a broad perimeter in the leaf litter, attempting to erect a small fire pit. Sebek, as if suddenly roused from a stupor, dropped all of his gear and moved automatically to help him. They labored slowly, dragging their long, weary arms apelike by their sides, fighting weakly against a sea of pine needles that seemed to never end. Their calf muscles, having been deflated of all their adrenaline and fear, burned with each of their languid movements. Ten minutes later, with the ground now barren, and their skin freshly pricked and bleeding, Silver used his magic to ignite the pile of tinder they'd gathered, then turned to rummage through his belongings once again. Beside him, Sebek flung himself against his knapsack and kicked out his legs with a groan. He pillowed his heavy head under his arms and observed the fire silently. The flames dyed his face in a wash of vermilion, elongating the shadows under his eyes.

Silver glanced at him as he removed the emergency blanket from his kit, still disturbed by his outburst.

"I brought some corn meal with me. We can make some hoe cakes or something later, if you want," he offered gently.

Sebek sniffled again. "Ok."

Silver circled their meager camp, searching for a place to hang the blanket, ultimately deciding upon the outstretched branch of a sagging pine tree. One side of the blanket was coated with a bright orange material, which he positioned facing away from them.

"That's to help people find us, right?" Sebek asked, pulling out the remaining biscuits from his bag.

"Right," Silver replied without looking back. He straightened out the blanket and frowned.

If anyone's even looking for us.

VII.

Had you stayed behind at the Vanrouge's cottage after Silver embarked on his misadventures, electing to observe Lilia as he went about his day, up to - and including - his ultimate reconciliation with his son, then you would have witnessed the following:

Lilia awoke, as usual, shortly past 7 a.m. He did not own an alarm clock, preferring instead to let his body awaken naturally, gently roused by the golden sunlight filtering through his curtains. He lay in bed for a few moments, wrapped in the warm pleasantries of his blankets and his lingering dreams and the ebbing darkness, yawning leisurely, listening to the song thrushes chittering softly outside his window. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the curtains drew back and fixed themselves into place. That morning was a fine one. Where the sky had been grey and congested the day prior, it had since been painted over in the brightest blue, reminiscent of a stalk of larkspur, with not a single cloud in sight.

For five minutes Lilia indulged in this his usual morning pleasure, before, like clockwork, his reality struck him - he suddenly remembered every vexing instance of his son's tumultuous behavior from the past few months; felt anew all the dull aches and pains tugging at his limbs, felt the impending exasperation of the long list of chores that awaited him that day; each recollection pricked at his mind and his heart as though they were bee stings. He threw off his blankets and sat up with a scowl.

After grabbing a cup of tea, he settled himself at the dining table together with a gardening catalog that had arrived in the mail recently. He flipped through it halfheartedly, circling with a pen any seeds and supplies he planned to purchase for fall, his gaze occasionally drifting away from the pages of colorful produce, wandering over to and slipping out of the kitchen and living room windows. He thus swept through a third of the catalog before noticing the animals' absence in the yard, realizing a moment later that he had yet to see Silver that morning, too. Presuming the boy had slept in again, he waited half an hour further before checking his room, at which point a dull uneasiness had begun to form in his stomach.

The darkness in the little room yawned cavernously as Lilia pushed open the door. The heavy linen curtains were drawn tightly shut; the comforter was pulled up flush against the headboard of Silver's bed, a long lump protruding motionlessly underneath it. His uneasiness exploding all at once in a poisonous concern, Lilia flew across the room in rapid, broad strides, alighting to his son's bedside in an instant. He whispered, his voice slightly trembling, "Are you feeling alright, sweetheart?", and, after receiving no response, reached out to stroke the head of the lump, his lips pulling into a frown as the mass gave buoyantly under his hand. He wrenched back the blankets, stifling a cry as a mound of pillows tumbled out before him. He gingerly picked up one of the pillows and dropped it to the floor again, as though expecting to find his child concealed beneath it.

"Silver!" he shouted, glancing wildly around him, but the only response was his own disgruntled echo.

Frowning again, he put his hands on his hips. Where the hell is he?

Upon completing a thorough search of Silver's room - including his closet, his chest, his hamper, and underneath his bed - Lilia swept through the rest of the house and the root cellar, opening every door, and upturning every piece of furniture he could find, and when this, too, proved fruitless, he continued his efforts outside. He looked in the pig pen and in the chicken coop, checked behind the cow's lean-to and inside the shed, and, for good measure, even stopped to peer inside the empty flower pots in the garden. But each of these places and their inhabitants, whether living or inanimate, offered him no leads, and rejected all his inquiries.

Standing in the middle of the garden, he crossed his arms and considered all the oddities he'd noted that morning. Several items from the house were missing, including Silver's knapsack and crossbow, as well as some candles and other supplies from the kitchen, and the trick with the pillows was one he'd used himself in his youth for late-night abscondments from the castle. All of these observations he could trace back to only one conclusion: This was all just some sort of childish prank.

"That little...!" Lilia grunted, balling his fists. He turned and stepped towards the gate, intending to continue his search in the surrounding woodland, but the sound of the cow's mournful lowing stopped him in his tracks. None of the animals had been fed or watered yet, and the garden was in desperate need of another weeding. After a brief deliberation, he decided he would tend to Silver's chores in his absence, and then, he would return to the cottage, and he would wait - he would not indulge the boy in his games.

Any fatigue he'd felt that morning was immediately flushed out of his body and replaced with a venomous rage. He swept across the clearing like a tempest; the animals scattered before him in terror. He tore open their bags of scratch and grain and threw them to the ground, careless of the waste. He stormed back to the garden and began ripping up the tangled mass of weeds suffocating the ground, tossing muck-covered fistfuls of crabgrass and dandelions over the fence; the pigs, having recovered quickly from their fright, dove noisily for the mess.

His mind raced, his thoughts jumping rapidly between all the different ways Silver's return could occur. Likely, he would try to sneak into the house later that night, coming in either through one of the windows, up through the cellar. Or maybe, made shameless by his caper, he would stroll through the front door, kick off his shoes, and throw his bag to the ground, moving with the bold swagger of a yearling buck. Lilia would be ready for him either way. He would wait for him in the living room, on the couch, facing the door, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed and blazing. If the boy tried to sneak in, Lilia would hear him. If he came in through the front door, Lilia would see him. If he cried, so be it. If he whined and begged for forgiveness, Lilia would not give it to him. He'd had enough of the child's attitude, his insolence, his unwillingness to talk, his newfound proclivity to brush off each and every act of kindness Lilia tried to offer to him. Perhaps his own parental failures truly were to blame for their ongoing disputes, but he would not allow this blatant defiance to continue a moment longer. He would ground Silver - for a week, at a minimum - double his training exercises, forbid him from seeing Sebek- He crushed a dandelion in his fist. And have him do all the weeding that month! An impish grin flashed across his face as he plotted. The sun beat down on him reproachfully.

Hours later, frustrated and in pain, his clothes caked with dried mud and bits and pieces of crabgrass, he marched back to the cottage and threw himself face-first onto the sofa. He lay there for a few moments, unmoving, before a sharp spasm in his calf forced him to slowly, wearily, sit up. Palpating the now throbbing muscle, he realized in that moment just how much his anger had blinded him. Why didn't I just fucking use magic to do all that? Another stream of profanity poured from his lips.

He sat watching the hour hand of the wall clock slowly inch forward. He rose periodically, to glance out the windows, to refill his tea, to pace back and forth across the living room, his gaze fixed on the front door, his thoughts slowly congealing into the perfect, incendiary speech with which he'd lash the boy upon his return. But Silver did not return, not as noon rolled around, nor as Lilia prepared their dinner. By that evening, the molten rage in his body had cooled, hardening into a tense knot of worry.

Shortly before sunset, just as he'd risen to check the kitchen windows once more, a commotion sounded outside - something heavy was pounding across the clearing, heading rapidly for the cottage. Lilia leapt from the sofa and raced to the door, throwing it open with a scowl, the first in the long list of scathing remarks he'd been preparing for Silver all that afternoon poised on his lips, but both his anger and his relief evaporated when he saw that it was only Baul, rushing in long strides down the dirt path leading to the cottage. As the other man approached him and opened his mouth to speak, Lilia put up a hand to silence him. "Uh-uh, I don't have time for this today. If you're here for-"

"I'm not!" Baul huffed, tiredly swatting Lilia's hand away. "Please just listen to me, General."

Lilia crossed his arms and jut his chin, indicating for Baul to continue.

"You seen Seb today?"

"Sebek? No, I haven't. Why-..." His words trailed off, the answer to his question instantly forming in his mind.

"He's not... Don't tell me you can't find him?"

"We can't," Baul sighed. "We tore up the whole damn house, looked down by the river, all through the woods. Got some of the neighbors out helping us look. We figured he mighta snuck out to go play with your boy, so I came by to check."

"Sorry, but no, I haven't seen any sign of him today." Looking away, Lilia muttered, "...And Silver's gone, too, actually."

"Huh?" Baul's eyes widened in surprise. "Have you looked for him?"

"Of course I have!" Lilia scoffed. "I checked the whole clearing twice over. I'm thinking he just ran off somewhere because I..."

Baul raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, mirroring Lilia.

Lilia rolled his eyes. "He blew up at me the other night and probably just ran off for a while to get back at me. You know how kids are."

His apparent apathy inflamed Baul. He stalked over to Lilia, the dense column of his body twitching as he loomed over his former superior.

"That's it," he snarled, his nostrils flaring like an enraged bull's. "You're coming with me."

"Wha-"

Moving at a speed that belied his great size, Baul threw his arms around Lilia, caging the smaller man in his vice grip. One moment, they were standing in the clearing; the next, the ground disappeared beneath their feet, and the world exploded into kaleidoscopic streaks of color rushing all around them. Caught off guard, Lilia hardly had time to close his eyes before they landed on solid ground again a few seconds later.

Baul released him carelessly and walked away. Lilia slowly staggered after him, clutching his head, his vision swimming.

His quivering eyes concentrated first on the red beam towering before them, then moved to the smaller white block standing beside it. A sudden shift in the breeze carried with it the clean smell of cottonwood. He knew this place - they'd hurtled five miles away to the Zigvolt's home.

"Fucking warn me before you do that!" he hissed. Over the ringing of his ears, his mind vaguely registered several voices - some talking softly, and at least one other crying, but he could not discern amidst his blurry surroundings whom they belonged to.

Baul asked if there'd been any sign of Sebek while he was gone.

A broad green shape came forward and congealed rapidly into Ma Zigovlt. She was dressed in her dental scrubs, her dark green hair pulled back in a fraying ponytail. "No! Nothing!" she cried while pacing back and forth.

The two shapes behind her then revealed themselves to be Pa Zigvolt, also in his work attire, and Iris, sitting together on the steps of the front porch. Iris was weeping quietly, her head buried in her father's neck.

Turning to Lilia, Pa Zigvolt explained that Iris had been left alone to watch her brother that day, and it wasn't until late in the afternoon that she'd discovered him missing, having gone to check his room after he'd failed to appear for both breakfast and lunch. When a frantic search of the house and the backyard proved fruitless, she rushed into town and alerted the elder Zigvolts, who promptly canceled all their appointments for that afternoon to help her look. They rallied the neighbors, forming several search parties to sweep through the surrounding forests and the river, and after several hours of unsuccessful canvassing, it was ultimately Baul who suggested they inquire by the Vanrouge's.

Pa Zigvolt turned again to his daughter, gently squeezed her arm, and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and raised her head from his shoulder, allowing him to descend down the stairs. The family cat, which had been dozing elsewhere on the porch, promptly stood up, stretched, and padded over to Iris, taking her father's place. She scooped the animal into her arms and held it against her chest. She blamed herself bitterly for not noticing sooner her little brother was gone, and had been inconsolable for hours.

"Thank you so much for coming to help, Lilia." Pa Zigvolt said, shaking Lilia's limp hand. He glanced behind Lilia, then behind Baul, before asking, confused, "Where's Silver?"

"He's, erm..." Lilia hesitated, fearing another unpleasant reaction. "He's actually missing, too."

But the Zigvolt parents simply exchanged a silent look with one another, and Ma Zigvolt's voice was only gentle as she asked him to explain.

Lilia proceeded to recount his own experiences that morning, and by the time he finished speaking, the small group was in agreement that the boys had likely snuck away together. As they loitered in the front yard, heatedly discussing their next plan of action, a group of neighbors approached. One of them, an elderly fae known for his avid hunting, stepped forward, waving his hand.

"We found their tracks!"

"You did!? Where!?" Pa Zigvolt asked, his eyes shining in excitement - this was their first lead all day.

"Yessir, two little sets of feet headin' due North," the neighbor explained leisurely, scratching his arm. "We followed 'em a long ways and think we know where they're at. That's the good news."

Their hearts plummeted at his next words.

"Bad news is it looks like they went right into the Obsidian Forest."

The forest was still, the night air punctuated at times by the sound of Baul softly cursing at the branches and bushes impeding their way.

“I swear, when I find that boy,” he growled as he smacked away another insolent branch, “Ooh, I swear! When I find him, I’m gonna…!”

Lilia rolled his eyes. Baul had never so much as laid an unkind finger on any of his children or grandchildren, and his grumbled threats never resulted in anything more than a glare or a scowl or a frown.

They'd split up, Baul and Lilia forming one search party, Ma and Pa Zigvolt another, each covering their own half of the forest. The Zigvolt's neighbors remained at the house with Iris, ready to send out an alert should the boys return on their own, partly to keep the still despondent girl company, and partly out of a reluctance to come with them.

And so Lilia and Baul, and Ma and Pa Zigvolt, elsewhere, had been canvassing the forest for several hours, intermittently calling out Silver and Sebek's names, with no response other than cricket song or the occasional owl's cry. The bear's tracks - several sets of them, as it were, overlapping one another and forever winding like a loamy, coiled serpent - provided their only guideline, as the plush leaf litter hadn't absorbed the children's much lighter prints.

However, to their great luck - and to Silver and Sebek's misfortune - the boys had misoriented themselves as soon as they'd stepped foot into the forest, for as they'd trudged through the early morning darkness, their senses and their judgment obscured both by the endless shadows and the heavy fear in their hearts, they had failed to notice the numerous times they'd looped around and mistakenly followed a different set of tracks, some which had been laid earlier that week, others at the beginning of the month. The combination of the forest's perfect uniformity, its paucity of light, and its impregnable secrecy had been leading its diminutive invaders astray from the very beginning. As such, the children had only wandered a few miserable miles during their entire journey, and Baul and Lilia did not have to walk very long to find them.

Presently, the direction of the wind shifted, bringing with it the heavy smell of smoke; Lilia and Baul automatically moved to follow it. The spectral grey tendrils, unable to fully penetrate the canopy, congealed, hanging in a bloated cloud above them, through which murky haze the red light of a fire glowed softly in the distance. The men picked up their pace as the light grew stronger; Lilia soon rushed ahead of Baul, breaking into a run. But it was not the fire's glow that urged him on, that guided him, that drew him through that endless darkness - it was the moonlight of Silver's white hair, brighter and dearer to him than any star, that was his beacon.

"Silver!" Lilia shouted.

"Who's there!?" Silver shouted back, whipping his head around. Spotting the two men, his jaw dropped, and he turned to shake Sebek, who'd been dozing on his shoulder. The boys rose, Silver quickly, Sebek groggily, rubbing his eyes in confusion. Before Silver could take more than a few stumbling steps, Lilia ran to him and pulled him into his arms, and for the first time that summer, Silver allowed his father to embrace him. He ducked his head into Lilia’s neck, felt the man's pulse thundering against his skin, felt in turn as his own tempestuous heartbeat finally calmed after so many long hours of strange terror. Overwhelmed, Silver opened his mouth, and he cried.

Watching the pair, Sebek, the poor creature, threw a nervous glance at his grandfather - the man’s stony face was anger itself. The child felt wretched, and he wished for nothing more than to be held. He drifted towards Silver and Lilia, his wet eyes downcast, feeling as guilty as a whipped hound approaching its master. Before he could begin his pleas, Lilia opened his arms and pulled the trembling boy into a hug. He was at once unburdened, and his relieved sobs soon joined Silver’s.

For Silver and Sebek, the men were their heroes in that moment, their guardian angels - two mighty pillars of light within the black maw of that abominable forest. Go ahead, weary children, dry the pearls of your tears against their shining wings. But do not forget – the Lord’s angels must deliver judgment and salvation in turn. Look now as the one takes up his golden scale, and the other his blade.

The interrogation proceeded as follows:

Although the boys had, while waiting for their rescue, vowed not to reveal the true purpose of their mission, fearing the truth would only worsen Silver's predicament, they had failed to devise an appropriate excuse for their disappearance. Caught off guard, they first claimed that they'd merely wandered into the forest on accident, after having lost their bearings in the woodland behind the Zigvolt's property, but Lilia dismissed the claim at once, knowing his apprentices would never dare be so careless.

The boys retracted this statement, drew a few paces away to convene privately, and then offered a new story, one of a monster that had chased them all the way out into the forest.

“What kind of monster?” Baul pressed.

“A scary one?” Sebek shrugged.

A jury of nosy tawny owls convened spontaneously in the trees around them. They balked wordlessly at the children's flimsy defense.

Just then, and by chance, while shaking his head in frustration, Baul noticed that Sebek's hands were trembling. The movement was so subtle, so minor, that it was only perceptible when the breeze shifted towards them, so that the light from the campfire hit the child's hands just so. Baul nudged Lilia with his elbow and jut his chin towards the boy, indicating his tremors. With both men now focusing their gazes fully on Sebek, Lilia asked once more why the boys had gone into the forest; Sebek crumbled immediately under their wrath.

“W-We just… We wanted to go hunt the bear that’s been killing off the livestock so we…”

“…So you snuck off without telling anyone?” Lilia asked.

“Yeah…”

“It’s my fault, sir,” Silver said, stepping in front of Sebek.

“What?” Lilia and Baul replied in unison.

“I was the one who wanted to go. Sebek didn’t wanna come but I made him. Please don’t get mad at him.”

“Silver!” Sebek squeaked. He opened his mouth to object, but Silver silenced him with a pointed glare.

Baul crossed his arms and looked over Silver, directing his gaze at his grandson. “Is that true, Seb?”

“…Y-Yes, sir.”

“God damnit,” Baul hissed. “You damn kids had us tearing up this whole fucking forest just for-”

“Baul, please,” Lilia sighed. “It’s been a long day. Let’s just get the kids back home.”

“Fine!” Baul threw his hands up and stomped off, muttering under his breath.

Lilia clicked his tongue and turned to the children. “You two, put out your campfire and follow us - and be quick. I’ll light the way with my magic.” Sebek and Silver’s pale faces shone faintly in the cold darkness, as white as the moon. They nodded dully, stunned from Baul’s outburst.

Lilia sprinted down the path Baul had taken, calling after the green and white hurricane crashing through the trees ahead.

“Baul, wait!”

“What!” Baul shouted without looking back.

“If you’d just stop for one second so I can apologize to you-”

“Apologize for what!?”

“For Silver!”

Baul finally stopped.

“I’m sorry, General, but what in the actual hell are you talking about?”

Lilia shook his head in exasperation. “Are you kidding me? I’m trying to apologize for what my child did. He caused you and your family a lot of trouble, so I-”

“Oh, for crying out loud. I was standing right next to you when he said sorry. He doesn’t need his damn pappy covering for his ass.”

“I understand that. But regardless, I need to take responsibility as his parent.”

The thick pillar of Baul’s neck tensed as he worked his jaw. “…You really do still think he’s just a little kid, don’t you?”

“What?”

“I said,” he growled, taking a heavy step forward, “you really still think he’s just a little kid. Don’t you?”

“Yes? He’s only thirteen, Baul.”

Baul blinked at him slowly. “You know, I’ll be honest with you. The day you brought that kid home and said you were going to raise him, I thought that was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard in my entire life. But that right there takes the cake.”

Lilia pinched the bridge of his nose. Clinging onto his last, frayed strand of patience, he hissed out through gritted teeth, “Would you please enlighten me to what it is you’re trying to get at?”

Baul spat at Lilia’s feet. His yellow-green eyes blazed like canary diamonds. “Your boy’s growing up, General. He’s becoming a man. The sooner you accept that, the better.”

Lilia scoffed. “You think I don’t know that? I just-”

“Bullshit! You know what I bet?" Baul licked his lips. "I bet you haven't even noticed he's already taller than you now, huh. All that fucking yapping you do, bragging about each and every little fucking thing he does, and not once have I ever heard you mention it.”

Lilia stared at him incredulously. He recognized the taunt - it was the same one Baul had attempted to provoke him with earlier that Summer, but as Lilia opened his mouth to rebuke him, he quickly closed it again, suddenly overcome by an almost paralyzing sense of apprehension. He's not taller than me... right? He tried to recall the last time he'd looked at Silver - truly looked at him, not in anger or in contempt; not as an object of his frustration nor the progenitor of his grievances; not begging him to please tell him what was wrong and to just talk to him already. He realized with a start it must've been months ago, before the sudden change in Silver's demeanor, perhaps around his birthday, or earlier, for he saw nothing more than abstract glimpses flash before his mind's eye, of Silver's back turned to him, of Silver storming away from him, enraged; of Silver snapping at him with heavy tears welling up in his opaline eyes. But still- No, it wasn't possible, he would've noticed. For what were the past thirteen years of him centering his entire life around the child if he had not? What right had he to call himself the boy's father, to claim the child as his son, if he had failed to notice something so monumental? His son was just a young boy with cherubic little cheeks and bright blue-grey eyes, who would beam at him with the most precious little smile - half-crooked, his thin lips pressed into a rosy crescent moon, and that was the truth.

“That's not...”

Baul roared over him, drowning out the rest of his halfhearted response. “And now he’s sneaking off and lying to you and taking the blame for shit he didn’t do, and you honestly still think he’s just some dumb little brat who needs his pappy to wipe his ass for him!”

Lilia winced at each of his words, as though they were daggers striking his skin. Noticing the other man's sudden trepidation, Baul paused.

"Honestly, you just..." Slowly, he began summoning the patience one required when attempting to convince Lilia Vanrouge of his own failings, and as his anger dissipated, he thought suddenly of his daughter. His expression softened, settling halfway between a scowl and a lopsided smile; his voice softened, too. “I know how much you're hurting here, but my god, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”

Baul continued speaking, but Lilia could no longer hear him, could not wrest his attention away from the uneasiness still gnawing painfully at his heart.

Just then, Silver and Sebek emerged from the surrounding thicket, as if beckoned by Lilia's anguish. His gaze flew instantly towards his son.

The boy's face was filthy, covered in a greasy film of sweat and grime and dirt, with pine needles stuck to his forehead and leaf litter entangled in his hair, and a thin line of blood on his cheek where a branch had scratched him. The steely blue-grey eyes peering at him from above the sharpened cheeks evoked an almost hawkish appearance. He was angular, scrawny, gaunt - nigh spectral in the pale glow of the lantern in his hands. Who was this gangly youth? This stranger? Had his mental image of his son been all this time nothing more than an exaggerated caricature, a farce cobbled together months ago, or years, even?

“We got the campfire put out," Silver said, panting, trying to catch his breath. As he raised his arm and drew his sleeve across his wet brow, the pale circle of lamplight suddenly fell upon his father's face. His skin blazed bone white, and his bloodless lips, parted slightly, were frozen in a silent gasp, as though he were dazed; he looked cadaverous. Silver gulped and took a step back. "...Is everything okay?”

"Silver, stand up straight." Lilia's voice curled out into the chill night air like a fine mist, softer than a whisper, yet the pure animosity with which he spoke betrayed the threat underlying his words, so that the boy immediately drew himself to his full height without a second thought.

Lilia stumbled mechanically towards Silver and cupped his face in his hands, swept his eyes down from his chin up to his lips, to his nose, tilted his head back to meet the boy's gaze- Ah! There it was, Lilia felt it, felt the microscopic contractions in the taught fibers of his neck as he yawned his head back, hardly more than a few degrees, scarcely lifting it above his eye level, could almost hear them as they cried out in pain, and yet - he was looking up at his son! Lilia's palms suddenly grew cold despite the warm flesh they cradled; his hands moved on their own, weakly pressing into the face, as if making one final, feeble, desperate attempt to mold it into the infantile visage beginning to rapidly crumble inside his mind. He choked back a quiet sob and dropped his arms to his sides, receding a few steps away, visibly distraught. The whole torturous act had lasted but a mere moment, during which time Silver had stood petrified, as though caught in a trance. He now sluggishly raised his own hand and traced his cheek where his father had touched him. He shivered; his skin felt like ice.

Baul went to Lilia and spoke at him rapidly in fae language – talking too quickly for Sebek’s mind to translate, and wholly incomprehensible to Silver’s – before turning around and walking off.

Lilia stared at Silver again, opened his mouth after a moment, then closed it, deciding he would talk to the boy later, in private. Taking a deep breath, he began telling the children to follow him, but was interrupted by a thunderous crash off in the distance. The three of them pointed their gazes simultaneously to where the sound had erupted - a freshly felled pine tree, behind which stood a black shadow so towering the boys feared for a moment that it was the bear come to ambush them.

However, to their great relief, it was only Ma Zigvolt who stepped out into their lamplight, casually shaking off the pine dust from her hands. Upon spotting her son, her face broke immediately into a wide smile, while Sebek's, in turn, scrunched up as he began to cry.

“Mama!” Sebek wailed.

Ma Zigvolt rushed over and engulfed his small body between her arms. He nearly disappeared underneath her frame. “Oh, thank goodness!” she heaved, swaying gently as the tight coil of her nerves slowly unwound.

“Is everything… Okay…?” Pa Zigvolt panted as he emerged from the darkness of the forest a moment later. He coughed into his sleeve, and then gasped once he heard Sebek’s quiet sniffles floating out from the cage of his wife’s arms. The long search had exhausted him, had strangled his lungs and poisoned his mind with fear, but the boy’s hushed sobs invigorated something within him, rousing a force in his heart greater than even the weariness hanging heavy from his limbs like iron chains. He lurched forward, breathing heavily, taking one shaky step after another, stumbling as he covered a short distance that to him felt like miles. At last, he lifted his leaden arms and wrapped them as far as he could around his wife’s quivering back, collapsing into her with a sigh.

“Oh, thank goodness! Oh, thank goodness!” Ma Zigvolt whispered again and again.

Lilia and Silver watched them from afar. Silver soon looked away, awkwardness prickling at his skin.

Presently, Lilia cleared his throat, announced loudly that he and Silver would be leaving, and, after waiting a moment for Pa Zigvolt to wave them off, he turned to his son, and motioned with his head that it was time to go home.

Lilia threw himself on the living room sofa with a mangled groan. He and Silver had reached the clearing shortly after midnight, their long trip culminating in several grueling miles of Lilia carrying his exhausted son on his back, trudging almost bent in half for over an hour. He'd set aside Silver's portion of dinner that evening, a plate of sausage links and biscuits that had since grown cold, and this Silver bolted gratefully before excusing himself to take a much needed bath. Consumed with a sudden restlessness, Lilia busied himself while he waited, returning the animals to their enclosures, washing the pile of dishes festering in the kitchen sink, and straightening out the piles of books and toys and other various knick-knacks strewn across the living room. He went to rap his hand on the bathroom door after fifteen minutes had passed, concerned Silver might have fallen asleep in the tub, and, after receiving a quiet response, had staggered back to the living room, where his own fatigue finally struck him.

He clenched and unclenched his hands nervously, occasionally wincing as hot tendrils of pain shot up through his spine and flared out into hips. His thoughts flit rapidly between each of his aching limbs, between the anger, the fear, the sorrow that clouded his mind. While they were walking back home, he could hear Baul's words repeating over and over again, overlapping with Ma Zigvolt's remarks from a few weeks prior, and mixing together with his own, anguished thoughts that had paralyzed him as he'd finally realized how much his son had changed. A part of him, a part that he'd for so long fought to viciously stamp out and silence, knew that Baul was right, and that Ma Zigvolt was right, too. He realized now he just hadn't wanted to admit it.

When Silver at last emerged from the bathroom and came to sit beside Lilia, he did not react at first. The boy - the youth, his child, his son, the stranger - stared at him silently. His eyes, though sharper and slightly narrower than how Lilia remembered them, still bore that same, auroral hue that had first captivated him so many years ago, and he found himself being slowly drawn out of his frantic ruminations as he met Silver's gaze.

Folding his hands in his laps, he took a deep breath, and asked, "Alright, so what's the real reason you did all this? Because you were mad at me?

Silver fidgeted in his seat and nibbled at his lip. His eyes darted to a corner of the living room. "No. I mean, yeah, I was mad at you."

"Over what happened at the dance?"

Silver's gaze jumped to the other corner. "The dance and... other stuff."

Lilia recalled immediately all their quarreling from the past few months, the long days that would pass without Silver uttering even a single word to him, and the even longer nights where he could hear him quietly crying in his room next door. His heart ached for the boy. He reached out to drape his hand over Silver's. “Baby, you know I-“

Silver swatted his hand away and retreated further into his side of the sofa. “You’re doing it again!” he whined, his voice cracking.

"Doing what?"

"You keep treating me like a little kid!"

"You-!" Lilia swallowed his retort with a grimace. Exhaling slowly, he admitted grudgingly, "You're right, I am. And I'm sorry. I'll try to stop doing that."

Silver's jaw dropped open. He couldn't recall his father ever having conceded to him so easily before, if at all. Quickly recovering from his shock, he sat up straight and said, "Umm- I mean, yeah! Please do that." He crossed his arms and nodded sagely, with the air of one who has successfully negotiated for terms that are completely in one's favor.

"Now, I can understand you ran off because of what's been going on recently, but what about your behavior from the past few months?"

Silver uncrossed his arms and tilted his head quizzically. Noticing his confusion, Lilia explained he meant the very same quarrels that Silver had previously mentioned, as well as his sudden adoption of the moniker "Father".

"I dunno." Silver shrugged his shoulders. "I mean, the "Father" thing's 'cause Sebek told me about it a while ago."

Lilia blinked. "Told you about what?"

“He told me… Ah, wait.” Silver straightened his back and puffed out his chest, pointing his eyebrows sharply together like an arrowhead. “He said, “Silver! Why do you continue to refer to your father as “Papa”!? Are you not turning thirteen years old soon? It’s positively childish!”” Deflating into his usual stoic expression, he continued, “And then he told me if I wanted to be a real knight, then I need to hurry and grow up already.”

Biting back an incredulous snort, Lilia summoned as much tenderness his weary body could muster, and said, smiling, "Listen, you don't have to do everything Sebek tells you to, you know. You can call me 'Papa' all you want. If somebody doesn't like that, that's their problem."

"But I don't..." Silver looked away again. His voice dropped to a whisper, as though hoping that if he spoke his next words quietly, they would hurt his father less. "I don't want to."

Lilia's smile vanished. "You don't?"

"Uh-uh."

"...But why?"

"I just..." Silver frowned. "I don't know. You keep asking why I do this and that, but I don't know how to explain it. It's like every time I try to catch my thoughts, they up and fly away from me. And then you just keep on badgering me more and I just get so mad."

Silver had expressed similar sentiments numerous times before over the past few months, but although there were no stunning revelations to be found in his words, no breakthroughs to be made in understanding the transformation in his demeanor, Lilia, for the first time, listened to him. Lilia had stumbled blindly through that whole Summer, feeling as though he were trying to walk across quicksand, ever fearful that the next blowout with his son, that the next new symptom of his strange ailment would lead to some sort of irrevocable, irreparable damage to their relationship, but as he listened, he felt the ground beneath his feet finally, slowly begin to solidify at last.

They quietly conversed for half an hour longer, at which point Silver began to yawn and rub at his eyes, nodding off a few minutes later. Lilia stood up, intending to carry the boy to his room, only to immediately drop down onto the sofa again with a pained cry. Rubbing deep circles into his lower back with one hand, he leaned over and gently shook Silver awake with the other.

"Go on and get to bed. We can iron out your punishment some other time."

"Okay." Silver rose slowly, dragging his feet as he plodded down the hall. Standing before his door, he turned around and stammered, "I love you," before disappearing into his room.

"I love you, too." Lilia replied hoarsely, fighting to speak past the lump in his throat.

With a grunt, he lifted his leaden legs onto the sofa and lay down flat on his back, sighing pleasantly as the worst of his pain began to subside. For over an hour he drifted in and out of a restless slumber, after which he stiffly sat up, and, this time rising without issue, limped quietly across the floor and down the hallway to Silver's room, steadying himself with a quivering hand against the wall.

Silver lay fast asleep, sprawled out face down atop his barren mattress, his blankets and several of his pillows still scattered across the floor from Lilia's frantic search that morning. A soft smile tugged at Lilia's lips. He must've passed out as soon as he lay down, the poor thing. Not trusting he'd be able to stand up straight again should he bend over in his present state, he instead cast a cleaning spell, and watched as the blankets and discarded pillows silently rose from the floor and arranged themselves neatly into place on Silver's bed. His eyes flicked back to Silver as the emerald sparks of his magic began to fade away, but the boy did not stir.

He cupped Silver's cheek, swept his thumb across the warm skin, moved his hand up to his hair, and began picking out the bits and pieces of pine needles and leaf litter Silver had been too exhausted to comb out while in the bath. His thoughts began to wander again while he fussed with a difficult knot.

Loss had accompanied him all his life; it was as regular to him as the changing of the seasons, as inevitable as the mighty storm that had swept across their nation and all the other natural disasters that would someday follow. But when he found Silver, he'd believed, selfishly, foolishly, stubbornly, that here was something, the only other thing besides his own heart, that he would be able to keep for himself, that life could not take away from him. Perhaps therein lay the reason why he had tried for so long to remain ignorant of his son's maturation, why he had fought so desperately to prevent the boy from growing up, from growing away from him. But he knew now that he'd been wrong, for he had split his heart in half long ago - long before he had ever left the castle. One half he had given to Malleus; the other lay before him now, curled up against the palm of his hand, breathing quietly, the moon's silver glow shining faintly in his hair.

And though he did not have a name for it, he could feel as something new was beginning to slip away from him once again, just as the soft strands of moonlight slipped through his fingers.

“And that's okay,” Lilia breathed out with a shudder. “It'll be okay. And I’ll try. I’ll let go.”

Lilia brought his folding stool into the garden and set it down amidst a semi-circle of empty buckets and baskets he'd arranged between two rows of low bushes, and, after sitting down gingerly, careful not to agitate his back, began picking off handfuls of snap beans from the bush before him. It was the second week of August - time for the Summer harvest at last, and when finished here, he would move onto the squash and eggplants next, then the bell peppers and tomatoes, then the watermelon and strawberries; the sweet potatoes he would leave for Silver to dig up on his own. Having recently satisfied the terms of his punishment, during which period he'd spent several weeks completing additional training exercises and chores every day, Lilia had granted him a short holiday, and he presently lay fast asleep in bed. Though working on his own, he moved quickly, and filled two of his buckets by the time Silver awoke later that morning and approached him in the garden.

He'd already combed his hair and gotten changed, with his knapsack slung comfortably across his shoulder. He'd grown another inch in the past month, and his face seemed miles away as Lilia looked up at him.

“Father, may I visit the Zigvolts?" he said plainly, studying his father's face. "The robins told me Sebek got a new astronomy book he’s been wanting to show me.”

Lilia dragged his sleeve across his wet forehead and nodded. "That's fine. Will you be having dinner there?”

“No, I don’t plan to.”

"Alright."

While Lilia returned to his picking, Silver shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, his gaze jumping between his father and the forest path beyond their home. After a moment, he licked his lips and asked, “Did you, uh, want me to wait for you?”

Lilia shook his head. He looked up at his son again and smiled.

“No, you go on without me.”

Song credits

“Twistin’ the Night Away” written and recorded by Sam Cooke

“I Wish You Love” recorded by Sam Cooke, written by Albert Beach

Title is taken from the Hannah Montana song by the same name.

Just for the sake of transparency, some parts of this fic took very heavy inspiration from Marjorie Kinnan Rawling's book "The Yearling", particularly the first two chapters.

#lilia vanrouge #twst silver #sebek zigvolt #baul zigvolt #malleus draconia #twst #twisted wonderland #txt #(although im tagging malleus he is not actively in the story. hes just mentioned in flashbacks)

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curlysgirl0202 · 4 months ago

Text

Request for a Story:

(reader) Searching for A Social Group Outside of Her Friends... Despite the Earps Repeated Warning About the Cowboys, the Reader Persists, Much to the Shock and Astonishment of The Cowboys and Everyone Else in Town...Is the Reader Up For the Challenge?

The Arizona wind whipped through town in the early afternoon. Dust flooded the area for a moment, the townspeople taking refuge in saloons or in their homes. The Cowboys, who's been on a number of dust infested cattle drives endured it with little effort. They simply played cards, visited the parlors or drank their loneliness away at one of the many whiskey houses.

After a few days, the wind died down and the residents of Tombstone once again flooded the streets and many establishments the up and coming boom town had to offer. Among other things, Tombstone residents boasted of a public library, theater, art museum, stationary, several liveries, two grocery stores that sold fresh fruit and vegetables, a wine and beer shop and several custom tailors and custom dress making. In addition, there were several parlors where men could drown their loneliness in booze and a meaningless yet pleasurable encounter.

One Saturday afternoon, the stage stops at the Grand Hotel, a favorite spot for the Cowboys. A few people exit the stage.

Then you emerge like a butterfly from her chrysalis; beautiful and delicate with just a touch of roughness.

Johnny Ringo takes a drag of his cigarette before his eyes fall over you and your wonderful curves. His eyes, usually full of brooding turn softer. He tosses the cigarette and takes his hat off, hoping to get a better look at you.

"Well, ain't she a sight for sore eyes," Curly Bill remarks, leaning against a post.

A few other cowboys gather.

"Maybe she's with the theater," Stilwell adds. "Pretty. Real pretty." He goes back to sharpening his knife while he sits on the sidewalk, his legs crossed while he leans against the wall.

Ringo says nothing, he just allows himself to soak up your beauty as beautiful things were uncommon in the town too tough to die. In Tombstone, women were as scarce as daisies in winter and until now, Josephine Marcus was considered the most beautiful woman in town.

That's about to change... Ringo says in his mind. Still in somewhat of a trance, Johnny watches you.

Ike Clanton nudges his younger brother. "Ain't she something. A ramera maybe?" Both brothers laugh.

Ringo, a gentleman flashes them both a look. Ringo holds women in such high regard, he considers them angelic beings who can save a man's soul.

"Nah, she ain't no whore," Curly Bill answers. "I can tell. What do you think, Ringo?" When Ringo doesn't answer because he's distracted by you, Curly Bill chuckles.

"I think Johnny might be a wee smitten with this newcomer!"

Johnny turns and looks at Curly. "She's alone. Unless she's meeting someone here. This is a dangerous place for a woman."

"Hell, Juanito. Guess we got ourselves a mystery here," Curly drawls.

The Cowboys watch while you gather a few things and head to the hotel.

Johnny Ringo instinctively tips his hat to you, but maintains his gunfighter persona. He's got a reputation as a feared outlaw and won't let his guard down.

The other Cowboys watch, nodding their heads.

"Howdy, ma'am," Ike Clanton says. You smile and move past them, your perfume intoxicating. The blue and white dress you're wearing hugs your figure just right and your hair is unbound and flows past your shoulders.

During the war, you lost your parents and your sisters and brothers became scattered around Missouri and Kansas, trying to evade the Yankees that still pursued Confederates and like the Cowboys, you're a proud rebel. Your decision to come to Tombstone was not an easy one to make. You could stay near Lars, close to your brothers or move to Liberty, Mission to be close to your sisters. You wanted to free yourself from the memories of the harsh war, just like the Cowboys. No reminder of any kind that everything has been taken from you by the dirty Yankees.

You walk up the steps to the hotel and explain you sent a telegram a few days prior to secure a room until you could find more suitable housing.

John Behan strolls up to you and removes his hat.

"You must be new here. Allow me to introduce myself. John Behan, town sheriff." He smiles, his eyes dancing. "What brings a lovely lady like yourself here?"

"I'm in need of a fresh start," you respond.

"Fresh start?" Behan chuckles a bit. People come to Tombstone to get rich, work as miners or gamble their time away. "And where's your husband?" He asks, taking a drag of his cigar.

You shake your head. "I'm alone."

Behan's dancing eyes grow wide with concern.

"Alone in a town like this? Not wise, ma'am. Whatever you need, you can find me at the sheriff's office. I'll help you become acquainted with some of the more decent folks here," Behan suggests, eyeing the Cowboys.

You pick up your suitcase.

"Here, let me help you with that," Behan suggests, putting his hat back on.

"No, I can manage," you answer with a half smile. You head up the stairs and pour some water into the basin near the bed. You wash your face and change your clothes. Although it's the afternoon, you're exhausted from your trip. You took the train from Missouri to Tucson and then rode the stage to Tombstone.

You fall onto the bed and settle into a secret dream.

When you awake, you gaze out at the night life in town. You can hear the hooting and hollering from men riding up and down Allen Street, their pistols blazing. You pull your blanket tight around you. Fear creeps into your heart and you grow increasingly concerned for your own well being.

Your exhaustion prevents you from heading downstairs. You fall back to sleep and awake the following morning.

The sounds of patrons sitting in the hotel restaurant for breakfast stirs you in your sleep. The walls are so thin, you can hear the clinking of silverware and the murmuring of the people downstairs. You quickly get yourself together, putting on a pink and cream colored dress. You're not one for bonnets or hats, you prefer to keep your hair down.

"Good morning!" The hotel owner announces. "Please sit and have some breakfast!" He heads to the kitchen and then back to the front desk. You can hear the cook singing in the kitchen. The old fellow comes out, mopping his sweaty face with his apron.

"Fatty, the cook gathers some dishes of the patrons who have finished their meals.

"Why do you pay them when I do most of the work?" Fatty barks at the hotel owner.

Emmett Steele, the hotel owner folds his arms as he doesn't like Fatty making scenes or complaining to the customers.

"Help out Fatty, Big Nellie," Steele says to a waitress who's flirting with some of the male customers. Nellie, a woman with considerable girth begins collecting dishes. She takes a half eaten biscuit and shoves it in her mouth while walking to the kitchen. You can hear her and Fatty talking, but you can't make out their words.

Big Nellie approaches your table, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Yes?" She asks.

"Eggs, bacon and biscuits," you order.

Nellie nods without a word and heads to the kitchen. She returns with a coffee cup and pours coffee in the cup.

"I'd like some cream and sugar, please," you request. Nellie nods and returns to the kitchen. She emerges in a few moments, carrying your meal on a tray along with a small cream pitcher and a sugar bowl. She places your breakfast in front of you. You eat quickly, hungrier than you realize. You sip the strong coffee and finish eating, sopping the last of your eggs up with a biscuit. You lick your fingers and then look around. Some folks stare, wondering why a woman would be in such a place alone. You smile as a gesture of your friendliness.

After finishing up the rest of your coffee, you place a dollar bill on the table. Big Nellie quickly grabs the money along with your empty plate. As you walk to the door, Curly Bill and Ringo walk in for breakfast.

Johnny Ringo stands, his demeanor one of intimidation while Curly Bill is a little more jovial.

"Well, good mornin'," Curly says, tipping his hat. He and Ringo find a table and order a large breakfast of hot cakes, eggs, bacon and steak. Pony Diel, who usually runs the chuck wagon didn't prepare breakfast that morning as he was sleeping off his barrel fever. And the fact that both Ringo and Curly got lucky at poker the night before and wanted to spend their winnings in town.

They both ate their breakfast without talking. They sipped coffee in between bites and Big Nellie couldn't keep their coffee cups full. After eating, Curly Bill lights up a cigar and blows the smoke slowly, almost methodically. Big Nellie came to collect their empty plates, looking disappointed that they didn't save any leftovers for her.

"Sorry, Big Nellie," Curly drawls. "Maybe next time. Sides, you know Fatty always serves up free chuck. Beans and tortillas! Everyday!" Curly Bill chuckles. He'd seen Big Nellie stuff herself with two, sometimes three helpings from the chuck Fatty provided. Looking as happy as a pig in mud, Big Nellie indignantly fed herself. And yet, she still got requests for after hour services she provided upstairs.

Big Nellie turns and heads to the kitchen.

While Curly Bill and Ringo walk through Tombstone with their bellies and pockets full, you are walking by the ice cream parlor and you notice a help needed sign. You enter the shop and walk to the counter.

"Well, stranger, what can I whip up for you? We got strawberry, chocolate and vanilla of course. We also have lemon and-."

"I saw your sign and I'll take that job!" The man behind the counter pauses for a moment. He twists the ends of his blonde, curled mustache.

"When can you start?" He asks.

"Now," you reply.

"Name's Jim. Jim Bonney. No relation to William Bonney."

You smile. "YN," you answer.

"Let's get you an apron. Job pays a dollar a day."

"Perfect," you answer. You want to save as much as you can so you can rent a small cottage outside of town. You think about growing a vegetable garden and enjoying the fresh air and peace, away from the bustling boom town. The hotel charges twenty five cents per day so you can easily save up.

Jim shows you where the supplies are, gives you a short tour of the place and trains you on the register. You pick up everything like a champ, learning quickly. You grew up on a farm so you're accustomed to hard work and long hours.

Then the war hit.

You snap out of your momentarily lapse and begin taking orders. The ice cream parlor is always packed, a long line sometimes reaches the door. But you keep working, much to the amazement of Jim who sees you as a fast learner.

At the end of the day, Jim tells you your shift is over. Big Nellie helps with clean up in exchange for the free scoop of ice cream Jim offers in exchange.

As time goes on, you begin to notice some regular customers. Even a few Cowboys come in. They're surprised to see you working there, but then they realize they have more reasons to enjoy ice cream.

"You know that little cutie we saw coming off the stage?" Barnes asks.

Ringo lifts his head, knowing Barnes is referring to you.

"Who could forget that little girl?" Curly Bill drawls, adjusting his hat. "She's got a face that could stop a stampede."

"She's working at the ice cream parlor now."

Ringo, who's usually quiet, ponders the possibility of getting to know you by becoming a regular customer. Besides, ice cream is wonderful on the hottest days.

"Guess we're gonna have to go get ourselves some ice cream, boys!" Curly guffaws. He looks to Ringo who seems lost in thought.

"Whaydya say, Johnny?"

"Sure," Ringo responds.

On this Wednesday afternoon, the crowd died down and you work on odd jobs such as sweeping or cleaning or checking on supplies. You hear the sound of spurs echoing on the wooden sidewalk and you turn your head to see Curly Bill swagger in, he winks at you. Johnny follows. When he sees you, you appear more beautiful than he recalls.

"Well, there's that ray of sunshine," Curly Bill chuckles. You smile, enjoying his charm.

Curly Bill stands tall, exerting his authority and strength. He knows most folks are afraid of him and to his delight, he sees some fear in your demeanor. He wears two gunbelts, one pistol resting on each hip, only adding to the ferocity of his appearance. The only other gunslinger you heard of that sported two pistols like that was Billy the Kid, an active participant in the Lincoln County War between John Tunstall and the Murphy Dolan faction. After Tunstall was shot to death by Murphy men, Tunstall's regulators, led by Bonney sought revenge.

Curly Bill enjoys the intimidation he evokes in you, knowing his presence is threatening. He folds his arms, taking in the flattery he's receiving from your fear.

Johnny Ringo stands tall and silent. He tips his hat to you and you nod.

"What...What can I get you, you ask, your voice shaking.

Curly Bill winks at you. "Well now, let's see," Curly mumbles. "First, what's your name?"

"YN," you respond.

"Mighty nice to meet you. I'm..."

"Curly Bill Brocius," you finish. He smiles wide, knowing you're aware of who he is.

"And this here is Johnny Ringo." Curly says.

Your eyes grow wide with fear. Johnny Ringo, fearless gunfighter with better aim than John Wesley Harding and Billy the Kid. A brooding man with a darkness that swelled inside of him. A darkness so intense, he felt choked by it often. When he fell into the depths of his own madness and marriage of guilt and shame that swirled in him, only a woman could pull him out of it.

Ringo sees your apprehension and curses himself. He was a gentleman born, he treated women with such dignity and respect, that his cowboys knew never to disrespect women if Ringo was within earshot. Like the time Ike Clanton remarked, "You boys see that little cunt from-"

"Damnit, Ike!" Ringo growled. "You keep talking like that, I'll bust you up!"

"Sorry, Ringo. I forgot how sensitive you are about that. Women and all " Ike answered.

From then on, no one dared speak poorly about women.

"We heard there was a lovely lady working here. And the talk around town is true." Curly Bill says.

Johnny nods.

"How about two chocolates," Curly suggests.

"Of course. Would you like a cone or would you prefer scoops in a bowl?"

Curly Bill looks around. Many patrons are enjoying their rich dessert while some are leaving, licking their cones.

"Two cones," Curly answers.

"That's twenty five cents," you tell them, your voice shaking a bit. Curly Bill chuckles to himself. Ringo enjoys dominating other men, but was awe struck when it came to the softer sex.

You give them their treats and Curly Bill gives you a crisp one dollar bill. Since his luck came through the previous evening, he felt it was only fitting to enjoy the town.

"Keep the change," Curly Bill tells you. He winks and walks out of the parlor.

"Thank you," you say to Ringo, your voice barely above a whisper.

Curly Bill devours his ice cream in just a few bites while Ringo savors his a bit longer. His mind goes back to your face and that there's something wildly different about you. It's more than your spirit of desiring some sense of independence in the changing new world since the Yankees won the war. Boom towns seemed to be the last place in the country where lawlessness ruled and for a single woman to make a living in a boom town seemed unusual. Especially one so beautiful.

You lust for adventure; you saw your whole world fall apart during the war. Your brother, Franklin died at Gettysburg and your parents were shot to death by Yankee squatters. You heard stories of Confederate women being forced to set their own houses on fire. The rebels all over the South revolted. Jesse James was one of the more formidable enemies of the Union. He, his brother Frank and the Younger brothers formed a gang of guerillas once ruled by Charlie Quantrill. You heard about how Quantrill and the James Younger gang rode into Lars, Kansas, sporting a black flag. They killed hundreds of Jayhawks that day. The war left the South broken with little opportunities. Unless you wanted to surrender to the dirty Yankees.

You decided you didn't have much else to lose so you may as well see for yourself what all the buzz meant regarding these up and coming towns. And Tombstone was more docile than Dodge or towns in Abilene, but still contained its fair share of violence. Now with the Cowboys and the Earps at odds with each other, it only added to the constant conflict.

But here you are, taking orders for ice cream cones and scoops, using it as an opportunity to meet some of the residents of the boom town.

After Johnny and Curly Bill finish the cold and rich dessert, they head off to the Dead End saloon, located at the end of Allen Street. It stood as one of the oldest saloons in the area, but drinks were cheap and the Cowboys weren't picky about the rameras.

"Women sure are beautiful!" Curly Bill declares, slapping Ringo on the back while they sit at the bar.

Johnny can't get your face out of mind. He sips his whiskey slowly, almost methodically while Curly and a few other cowboys flirt with the whores who gladly showed their merchandise.

Ike Clanton downs his drink and pulls a few bills out of his pocket. Ellen, one of the older prostitutes moves towards Ike who follows her upstairs, watching her hips sway. He wipes his beard and heads inside one of the rooms for Ellen's special treatment.

Curly Bill, Stilwell and a few others continue drinking and talking for a little longer. Then they took, followed the women upstairs.

Annie, one of the other whores was wiping down the mahogany bar and she glances over at Johnny. He motions for another whiskey and she brings him the bottle. He downs two shots and then stares out the window as if waiting for something.

"You alright, cowboy?" She asks.

"Please don't call me that," Ringo requests gently.

Annie nods. "You just look as though you forgot what women are for," Annie remarks.

Ringo looks at her.

"Ever think about someone special?" He asks.

"If I did, I wouldn't be doing this job!" Annie answers, laughing in an unlady-like manner.

"Come on upstairs, Johnny. Let me remind you what women are for."

Ringo is tempted. He values women and is nothing without their touch. But he can't get your face out of his mind.

"Maybe some other time." He remarks.

"Well, if all you're gonna do is drink hootch, you should take it somewhere else, Johnny." Annie reminds him.

Johnny takes one last shot and heads to the door. He goes to the livery where Amos, a kid from New Mexico is practicing with his shiny new pistol.

"Saddle her for me, Amos," Ringo requests.

Amos puts his gun back in the holster. "Hey, Mr. Ringo? Did Curly Bill really ride with Billy the Kid like he said? You think I'll ever be that fast?" Amos' eyes light up. Ringo chuckles at the site of the awkward kid who had dreams of being a gunfighter.

"Hell, I don't know when Curly is spinning yarn or telling the truth. He's a damn good storyteller though. I'll give him that."

Amos secures the saddle and Ringo inspects the cinch out of habit. "You've done good, Amos." Ringo gives the kid fifty cents.

"Well! Much obliged, Mr. Ringo!" Amos declares.

Ringo heads back to camp to spend some time alone. Your face in his brain and with every step, his heart aches more. He cannot understand the intense hold you have over him. He's seen pretty faces before. But something about you seemed strange and mysterious. He wonders what losses you endured under the Yankee oppression. His thoughts go back to the farm he grew up on. How his mother, so strong and beautiful picked up the pieces of their shattered lives after the death of Johnny's father. His mother often sat, a Bible in her lap and she would recite silent prayers. Time showed kindness to her; she maintained her beauty even though she worked tirelessly.

Ringo admired his mother and her strength. She expected all of her children to attend church every Sunday and Bible studies during the week. The scriptures tore at Johnny's aching heart that longed for life beyond the confinements of farm life.

Then he had a chance to attend a few semesters at a college in Kansas. His journey to the school seemed so long and lonely and he almost missed the farm. He studied for long hours, the sciences proved more difficult than literature. When not studying for the next chemistry exam, he would read. He blew through Shakespeare's plays and sonnets and also enjoyed Homer's work. He recalls reading about Sirens; beautiful women who presented themselves like angelic beings before they devoured unsuspecting sailors. He entertains the idea that you possess the qualities of a Siren. His mind spins when he thinks of you and can feel weakness creep into his soul. He shakes his head.

"Come on, old cowboy," he tells himself.

His thoughts return to the present. He pickets his horse and grabs a bottle of whiskey and lets the strong, burning drink move down to his belly. Two things he can't seem to live without: women and whiskey. He leans against a few rocks and sips his drink. A few Cowboys return, looking to get some sleep. The hot Arizona sun begins to melt behind the mountains in the distance. Ringo closes his eyes and falls into a dream.

In his dream, the sun's almost blinding light surrounds him in a blanket of warmth. He feels his heart lighten. In a soft breeze, he can hear your voice..."Johnny," just above a whisper. He looks at the large boulders and the trees that frame the spot he's in. He follows your voice to find you.

"Johnny, I'm here and everything is alright," you say, brushing the hair away from his face. Standing so close, he pulls you towards him and when he moves to kiss you, you disappear, leaving him with an ache in his heart. Dark clouds swell around him and cold rain begins to beat down on him. He wakes up panting.

"Holy Father of sinners," he says softly. He retrieves a pencil and some paper he's been collecting. He writes an entry in a new journal.

YN came to Tombstone and changed everything. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and I can't get her out of my racing mind. I resolve to have her. One way or another...

He tries to continue writing, but the words don't come to mind. His thoughts are like leaves in the wind that cannot settle. He wonders what you're doing and every time he closes his eyes, he's tormented by your sweet face and adventurous spirit.

He continues drinking, hoping it will numb his feelings.

You finish up your shift, collect your earnings and head to the hotel restaurant. They're still serving supper and you take a small table for yourself. Not in the mood to socialize, you eat by yourself, another trait not seen in many people. Your comfort with yourself seems odd and unusual, but inspiring all at the same time. You simply enjoy your meal while reading a book or the Tombstone Newspaper.

Big Nellie collects your plate and you give her twenty five cents which she grabs with her greedy fingers. You let out a sigh and head upstairs to bed. You fall asleep while reading. When you wake up the following morning, you realize you don't work that day so you decide to spend some time seeing the sites of the town.

You purchase a new dress; a plain brown skirt with a pink shirt with ruffles. "You look lovely, Mrs. Trask, the dress shop owner says. "We also have material if you want to make your own dresses. Can I show you?"

You shake your head and smile. "Just another shirt maybe."

"Certainly, dear." She returns with two blouses; one periwinkle blue and the other a plain beige. You purchase the items and then head to the stationary to look around and at the small music shop. After that, you decide to treat yourself to a drink. You enter a saloon and all eyes turn to you. A woman alone in a saloon usually meant she provided special services, but many folks have come to know you from the ice cream parlor.

You can hear the jingle of spurs and you turn to see Johnny Ringo walking in, following Curly Bill.

"Well, ain't this real nice, Johnny," Curly Bill nudges Johnny who sees you and can feel his face grow red. You turn and your heart skips a beat, partly from the fear they evoke and partly because you find yourself drawn to the Byronic Johnny Ringo.

"What's a pretty lady like you doin' here?" Curly Bill asks.

You stumble over your words and Curly Bill winks at your vulnerability.

Johnny Ringo leans in and asks, "please let me buy you a drink." He immediately regrets asking, but to his surprise, you say yes by nodding your head. Curly Bill, seeing Johnny's feelings, heads to the bar, leaving Johnny alone with you.

"This isn't the safest place for a lady," Johnny says in a low voice. "Not one like you. You should allow me to escort you. It would be my honor." He swallows hard, hoping you don't reject his concern.

You smile at him. "I appreciate that, Johnny." You answer.

While you sit through an awkward silence, you ask him where he's from.

"Texas," he answers. "You?"

"Missouri. Lost our farm when Yankees came through."

Johnny nods, understanding full well the loss the war created. "Us too," he says softly. "It seems so long ago, but it also feels like it just happened," you admit. Ringo nods.

"What are you drinking?" He asks.

"Maybe a glass of red wine." You answer.

Johnny motions for the bartender and asks for the best red wine in town. A few moments later, a waitress returns with a glass of red and a bottle of whiskey for Johnny. He looks over at Curly Bill z who's practicing his charm on the saloon girls.

"Old Curly thinks he's a lady's man," Ringo chuckles to himself.

While enjoying the company of Ringo, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday walks in, their eyes narrowing in on you.

Wyatt comes to the ice cream parlor often so you're already acquainted, but you haven't met Doc Holliday.

"What do you think you're doing, Ringo?" Wyatt grunts.

He feels a hot redness move from his belly to his head.

"Earp," Ringo responds.

"Maybe you should take it somewhere else, Mr. Ringo," Doc drawls, taking a drag of his cigarette. His dark eyes look sunken against his pale, almost gray skin.

"He's here because I asked him to join me," you respond, doing the best to keep your cool.

"Ringo?" Wyatt demands. "You think I believe that?"

You understand the dilemma of the moment and because you like Johnny, you want to defend him.

"It's true, Wyatt," you answer, your voice with more confidence.

"I'll be watching, cowboy," Wyatt remarks before heading to the bar for a beer.

Ringo feels a rage swelling in him and humiliation he just endured proves too much.

"I should go. You should go." He says, his voice full of sadness. "You shouldn't be seen with me. It could give people the wrong impression."

His eyes, so full of confusion look down in shame. His guilt bubbles to the surface, reminding him he cannot ever be with someone like you.

He turns and leaves...

You let out a sigh. Curly Bill heads upstairs with one of the whores just as Wyatt and Doc approach you.

"YN, don't you know who that is? That's Johnny Ringo and if you're smart, you'll stay away from him. Trust me, that man is nothing but trouble. Nothing..."

"You need to ponder the consequences of such an association, my dear," Doc coughs, his blood shot eyes taking you in. "Not that I blame that worthless gunfighter. You're as lovely as a Georgia peach."

You move past Wyatt and Doc.

"YN!" Wyatt calls. "Stay away from him!" Wyatt catches up with you. Doc trails behind, his sickness making it difficult to walk quickly.

You turn to face Wyatt. "You don't know him!"

"I know the type. I've dealt with them long before my time in Kansas! He's nothing but trouble and you'll regret ever associating yourself with him. Take my word for it! I've locked up plenty of men like Ringo!" Wyatt grunts.

Doc Holliday finally reaches them. "Forgive my pace. As a Southern gentleman, I am quite lazy." Doc begins coughing, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and covers his mouth. He notices a small drop of blood on the handkerchief. He crumbles it up and puts it away.

"Wyatt is correct in his assessment of your gunfighter friend," Doc agrees.

"Why can't I judge for myself?" You demand.

"That's a sharp tongue you got there. You'd best stay out of trouble!" Wyatt demands.

You turn to see if you can find Johnny. He's leaning against a post, lighting a cigarette. He sees you coming closer and he puts the cigarette out.

"Johnny," you beg. "Why did you just run off like that?" You're almost out of breath.

"You shouldn't be seen with me," he tells you, his eyes full of shame and sorrow. "You're too special for this town. You should go back to where you came from!" You can hear the pain in his voice. He tips his hat to you.

"Good day, ma'am."

"Johnny! Wait!" You exclaim. A few townspeople look at the scene in shock, shaking their heads.

"Johnny!"

Johnny Ringo turns to you. "YN, you can't just run up to me like that. Don't you know how dangerous this place is? Besides, reputation is everything around here. I'd hate to see you branded with a reputation because of your association with me." He takes his hat off. "Trust me, I'm not worth your trouble." He looks intently into your eyes as if waiting for something.

"Can we just take a walk?" You suggest. "Just talk?"

He shakes his head. "I don't want anyone to think you're with me. It won't go well for either of us. That I can promise." You watch a tormented Johnny Ringo walk to the Silver Palace saloon.

You can feel your heart swell with defeat and sadness. You know what he's telling you is true; Tombstone was a town where reputation meant everything and once you've been branded it ain't easy to change what people think.

Ringo doesn't want anyone associating you with the red light district. He feels the special spirit that flows from you is too beautiful. Too important and he knows he could never forgive himself if anything happened to you.

You slowly walk back to the hotel. You decide to count what you've earned and start looking for a more permanent residence.

You head to the local real estate office. Bob Miller, an investor puffs on his cigar while shuffling through papers. He was a short and heavy set man who was always wiping his sweaty head with a handkerchief. You enter and he looks up and puts the papers aside.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" He asks, surprised to see a woman standing before him without a man.

"I want to see about renting a small cottage. Just one bedroom."

Bob stands, puffs his cigar and pulls his pants up as they're always hanging below his large belly.

"Your husband isn't here with you?" He asks.

"No. I'm not married. It's just for me."

He glances at you, his eyes wide. "Well, the bank doesn't loan money to women and well, we never had a woman renting anything here by herself. You fixin' to stay here for a while?"

"Yes. My business is my own. I-"

"Hold on, little lady. You plan on starting a sporting house? With one bedroom?"

You give him a confused look as he is implying you're a prostitute looking to rent a house and convert it to a house of ill repute.

"No. I work at the ice cream parlor. I just don't want to stay in town. That's all!" You clarify.

He continues puffing his cigar, looking a bit restless. "I've got a few little cottages open. But for me to take you without a husband... Well, I just don't know about that."

"Just tell me where it is! I can meet you there."

He looks over at you. He sees your desperation.

"Four fifty a month. I'll need the first month's rent in advance. Place hasn't been properly cleaned yet."

You open your purse and hand him a ten dollar bill. Since you began working, you've managed to save forty five dollars.

Bob checks the bill and puts his hat on.

"Ride past Oak Hill, I'll meet you at the pond." He tells you.

"I don't have a horse yet," you tell him. "Haven't had the need just yet."

"Well, Jack Pierce owns the livery. You can ask him to show you a few good animals. He's got a few geldings you might be interested in."

"Alright," you answer. "Thank you. I'll meet you at the pond."

Once you secure a home, you decide you'll purchase a horse and a good saddle.

Johnny Ringo stands at the bar and orders whiskey. He downs two shots and then pours another, wanting to sip it slowly. He feels like a fool for letting you go. His protective side showed itself; he's a pure gentleman and would do anything to feel the comfort of a woman's touch. And for her to show any signs of concern ignites a fire in him so strong, even Wyatt's icy blue stare could melt it.

At the Silver Palace saloon, Johnny is drowning his sorrows with whiskey and poker. He'd been lucky so far; a full house, two pairs of Jacks and three of a kind. He downs his last shot, collects his winnings and moves towards the door. Before he can exit, Wyatt, Morgan and Virgil walk in. Ringo Ringo tips his hat and moves past them.

"Not so fast, cowboy," Virgil warns.

"A man can't drink and play poker around here?" Ringo barks back. He's drunk, stumbling around.

"You can play all the poker you want and drink yourself into the grave for all we care," Morgan interjects.

"Stay away from YN," Wyatt demands.

"I told her already! You self righteous sons of bitches!" Ringo's head is spinning.

"Good. We have enough trouble around here with your kind!" Virgil groans.

"What about your kind?" Ringo asks indignantly.

"Sober up, cowboy!" Wyatt warns.

At that moment, Doc Holliday strolls in.

"Well, Mr. Ringo. Evidently you have succeeded in the task of making a complete fool of yourself."

"Damn you to hell, lunger!" Ringo spews.

"I reckon I just might," Holiday answers sarcastically.

Wyatt takes a hold of Ringo and tosses him aside. Ringo stumbles and hits the floor, an intense rage burning inside of him. He desperately wants to fight Holliday, but even in his drunken state, he has enough sense to know he's slower and Doc's hands were steady even after he's downed enough whiskey to kill a horse.

Ringo pulls himself to his feet. He turns and leaves quickly, not wanting to get into a shootout. In his frustration and anger, he can see your face and it fills him with a mixture of joy and sadness. Joy that he knows you and sadness in the reality that he can never have you.

He kicks the dirt while he goes to find Curly Bill who's enjoying moonshine with Claudia, the ramera he was with.

"Juanito!" Curly Bill bellows when Ringo enters the place.

"Meet Claudia," Curly says, tapping the woman on the behind. "She'll take real good care of you! Won't you, sweetheart?" Curly Bill winks at her.

"Of course, Johnny. Tell me what I can do for you."

Ringo looks away and heads to the bar.

"Aw, come on, son!" Curly Bill grunts, taking a shot of moonshine. "It ain't nothing!"

"Maybe next time," he says.

Curly Bill knows not to push Johnny. He watches his friend suck back shots at the bar.

"What's gotten into you, Ringo?" Curly inquires, motioning for the bartender.

"Don't ask, Curly. My head ain't straight."

"Of course it ain't! All them books you're always reading. I sure as hell wouldn't waste my time reading!" Curly Bill declares, guffawing loudly.

Johnny smirks. "It wouldn't hurt for you to spend a little time learning," he groans.

"I know all I need to know, Johnny! My game is rustling cows and horses too. Hell, I don't need to read old Willy Shakespeare for that. You may be smarter and well better lookin' than Old Curly, but I'm as tough as they come." Curly Bill sucks back his drink.

"You ain't still thinking about that little lady from the ice cream parlor?" Curly asks inquisitively.

Johnny turns and gives Curly a look. "You wouldn't understand," Johnny says.

"Johnny, I understand that women like Claudia over there are the best it's ever gonna get for us. May as well enjoy it while you can!"

Ringo stares Curly Bill down, knowing the big rustler was right.

"Ringo, Tombstone is a dangerous place and it ain't no place for a lady like that. You'd be doin' nothing but protecting her. What would folks around here say? You'd have those damn Earps breathing down your neck all the time and everyone here would assume she's a chippie. If you care about her, you won't get involved with her. She'd just break your heart anyhow."

"Enough, Curly." Ringo groans.

"Alright, son. Just giving ya some friendly advice is all." Curly turns and looks at the saloon and the patrons filling up the place. "Women are wonderful, ain't they Johnny?" Curly laughs.

"Yes. They are, Curly. They sure are." Ringo takes the bottle and heads to the door. He moves through the batwings and heads to the livery. Amos is, as usual practicing with his pistol.

"Saddle her, Amos," Ringo says calmly.

Amos replaces the gun in the holster. "Sure thing, Mr. Ringo!" The kid answers. "I'm gettin' real good with this here pistol! I might be faster than Charlie Quantrill someday!" Amos looks confused for a moment. "Hey, was Jesse James as fast as Quantrill?" Amos asks.

Ringo shakes his head while checking the saddle.

"I don't know, kid. I used to think I knew. Keep practicing. You never know when you're gonna up against someone real fast." Ringo tips his hat and spurs his horse along. "Come on, girl. Take this old cowboy home." He laughs. "Home?" The only home he ever had was in Texas. He headed back to camp. A few Cowboys were there, firing shots at empty whiskey bottles. They nod at Ringo, acknowledging his presence. Johnny takes the bottle of whiskey and sneaks away into his tent where he can experience solitude. He begins to write in his journal...

She doesn't know how dangerous it is around here. She's naive and lovely. I'm not sure why I can't stop thinking about her. I want to be the man that protects her. Perhaps I could take a walk with her...

Ringo closes his journal and tosses it aside. He holds his head in his hands, unable to shake the intense hold you seem to have over him.

He falls asleep and enters into another dream. This time he feels the oppression of the Union in his heart. He can see a house on fire. He covers his mouth to avoid the smoke and moves towards the house. Then he sees you...

"Johnny!" You scream. "Help me!" You run towards the front door, but it collapses before Johnny can save you. He awakes, gasping for air.

"YN!" He looks around. Then he realizes his reality.

Johnny rubs his temples while he sits up. He wishes he never saw you set foot off that stage...

You and Bob plan to meet at the cottage that afternoon so you gather a few things together and walk to the pond located just south of Oak Hill. When you arrive, the cottage looks somewhat new and there's room in the front for a small vegetable garden. You envision yourself pulling weeds out in between small rows of potatoes, zucchini, carrots and onions. You smile to yourself. With a location outside of town, you keep your fingers crossed that Johnny Ringo will come see you. You know he cares for you and you feel a rush of warmth and excitement flow through your body when you see him. If you could just break through those walls he hides behind...

"Ah, there you are." Bob pulls in the reins on the horse pulling his small, black carriage. He hops down, almost losing his balance and you can't help but laugh at the scene. He wipes his head with a handkerchief and grabs a small stack of papers. He pulls a key out of his pocket and leads you up the small stairs to the front door. The heavy door swings open and you both walk in, the door creaking.

It's perfect! You smile to yourself.

A round throw rug with dark patterns lays on the wooden floor and the kitchen is to your left. A small vase of silk flowers rests on a small table with four chairs and just past a small hallway lies the bedroom. A well furnished room with a twin bed decorated with a white and blue bedspread and a bookshelf is located on the wall near the door.

"Well, like I said, it's small. Perfect for a person alone. Oh, he says, let's go over everything."

You both sit at the table, you move the vase to the small wooden counter. Bob takes a pen out of his pocket and shuffles through the paperwork.

"I can rent it to you for a one year lease. After one year, rent usually goes up a bit. But not much around here. Most folks stay in town."

After you sign the lease, Bob gives you a copy of the agreement and a receipt for the first month's rent.

"You can move in now." Bob tells you. He puts his hat back on. He fiddles with the reins of his horse. "I'd give you a ride back into town, but uh... Reputation is very important around these parts. Would hate to see a lovely lady like yourself the center of town gossip."

"I understand," you answer. Johnny already informed you about the importance of reputation in a town like Tombstone.

You enter the home and put away a few things. You didn't bring much with you because you figured you could purchase whatever items you needed. The place looks clean and well managed. No dust lies on the bedspread and some dishes occupy the modest cupboard. You check for silverware and find a few random spoons and forks. You pump some water into the sink and feel pleased you have water. You glance outside at the soil in the front and sides of the house. You decide to go into town in a bit to purchase some grub at the general store; some fruit, fresh vegetables, bread, fresh eggs, a small side of bacon and coffee. Then your next goal involves purchasing a reasonable horse. You know you'll need a carriage or little buckboard. You refused a side saddle some time ago and you fear what people will think of they see you riding without your knees touching.

You pour some water into a basin and wash your hands and face. While you're wiping your face with a towel, you think of Johnny and wonder what the cowboy is up to.

Johnny sits outside his tent, leaning on the chuck wagon. He sips his whiskey slowly and listens to the slow cackling of the fire. He tosses stones into the fire. His thoughts return to you and the day you ran up to him in the middle of the street. His eyes fall to the ground. He fears for your safety and also desires you; he can't remember when he wanted something so badly.

A part of him wants to go to the hotel, break your door down and take you, making wild love to you. Then when he allows his mind to imagine you struggling under him, he's filled with guilt and shame. He sips more whiskey and stares into the fire. Pony Diel is on the other side of the chuck wagon rolling dough into biscuits. He whistles to himself, singing in between:

"I'm a good old rebel and that's just what I am...I'm glad we fought against it, only wish we'd won." He continues whistling.

Johnny finishes the last line for Pony..."I don't need no pardon for anything I done..."

Johnny lights up a cigarette, using his boot to strike the match. He lets the smoke billow from his mouth in a small funnel. "What's for supper, Pony?" Johnny asks.

Pony chuckling. "Biscuits, bacon and beans. You expectin' something better? Go into town. Out here, it's cowboy grub. Take it or leave it. Should be ready in a little spell." Pony goes back to whistling while Johnny finds his Bowie knife. His toenails have grown to the point where his feet feel cramped in his leather boots.

He removes his boots and then his socks. He wiggles his toes and begins to slice each toenail carefully. Each cut reminds him of the different events he'd been through. He can hear Curly Bill's loud guffawing and the sound of Curly's horse trotting into the camp

"Hey, Billy!" Curly calls Billy Clanton.

"Yeah, Curly?" Billy asks.

"Picket my horse, will you? But don't ride him. Just walk him over."

Billy complies and takes Curly's horse to the picket line and removes the saddle.

"Well, look at that?" Curly chuckles. "Johnny Ringo, feared outlaw tendin' to his toenails!"

"Gotta do some grooming, Bill. Makes me remember I'm still human. Johnny looks down at his calloused feet, the balls and heels are dirty with deep cracks in the callouses. He finishes up.

"You got competition in the ugly feet department," Curly laughs. "I gotta tend to my own doggies soon. Your feet ain't as ugly as mine!" Curly grunts.

Johnny continues his work. "Nobody alive has feet as ugly as yours," Ringo reminds Curly Bill.

"I reckon so." Curly answers. "But hell, gotta tend to those little things. Even us outlaws gotta take care of certain things."

Johnny finishes up and puts his socks back on, then his boots. Curly Bill sighs and can feel his own overgrown toenails.

"Well, it's my turn, I reckon."

Johnny lights up a cigarette. Curly Bill takes his knife and then removes his boots. He shakes them out and then takes his socks off.

"Damn, Bill," Johnny remarks, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Make it quick before you stink up this whole place."

Curly Bill guffaws loudly while he begins the task of cutting his toenails. Scars from riding in rough terrain showed in the sunset. Curly wiggles his toes for emphasis. "These feet have been through a lot. They ain't tender, that's for sure."

"Ain't seen my own toes for a spell." His evens his jagged toenails so they don't snag his socks.

"Well, they ain't pretty, but they'll do."

"They're downright awful," Johnny answers, taking one last drag of his cigarette.

Curly Bill chuckles and skips his feet back into his boots, the familiar feeling of leather bringing him a hint of comfort.

"Juanito, you still thinkin' about that little lady? Not that I blame you. She's beautiful."

Johnny feels a pang in his heart. "Bill, she's gonna get me killed."

"I reckon. You start daydreaming about her when we're out rustling cows, you could lose your head real fast. You won't be fast no more."

"I know that," Johnny answers. "My hands aren't steady when I'm thinking about her. And that damn Doc Holliday. He can down enough rot gut to kill a damn horse and I've never seen hands so steady." Johnny shakes his head.

At that moment, Pony rings the chuck wagon iron. "Chuck's on! Come and get it!"

"Let's eat, Johnny." Curly Bill says.

The Arizona sun begins to set and the air feels still with the occasional breeze filtering through town. You walk quickly to the livery where Amos is sharpening a knife. When he sees you, he quickly puts the weapon away and tips his hat. His awkwardness due to his youth is endearing to you.

"Afternoon, ma'am? I don't have your horse. Least I don't remember putting up any horse for ya."

You shake your head. "I'm looking for Mr. Pierce. Id like to purchase a good quarter horse if you got one."

Amos shifts a little. "Yes, ma'am. We gotta a few quarter horses. I'll get Pierce for you. He's over at the assay office! I'll fetch him for ya."

When Amos returns, he follows Jack Pierce. Pierce, a tall man with dark features and wearing a new suit walks towards you. He tips his hat. You acknowledge him with a nod.

"We got a quarter horse, she just came in last week. You're just in time. You need a saddle too? I got a few used side saddles -"

"I want to purchase a small carriage and a traditional saddle."

"You plan on riding without a side saddle?" Pierce inquires, raising his eyebrows.

"I would like to ride the small carriage into town. There's a small area around the back of the ice cream parlor."

"Well, iffin' you ride in on your saddle, you can leave her here at the livery. Ten cents a day."

"Ten cents..." You ponder. With rent being $4.50 per month and another forty cents for the livery, you believe you can afford it. Since you plan on growing a vegetable garden, you wouldn't need to purchase too much grub in town. If you need, you can help yourself to the free chuck Fatty provides during the day.

"Do you have a carriage?" You inquire.

"Certainly, young lady. Come to the office here, we'll get everything in order for you."

Amos tips his hat to you as you leave. "Ma'am," he drawls.

"Get Daisy ready, boy," Pierce orders. "Get a saddle too. Check to make sure it's sturdy with a good cinch."

"Yes, sir," Amos responds. While Amos is busy with the horse and saddle, you follow Pierce to his small office. Pictures of Appaloosas and Arabians decorate the wall.

"Alright," Pierce begins. "Daisy is a reliable quarter. She won't give you any trouble. But I wouldn't enter her in any races anytime."

You chuckle under your breath. Pierce fills out a contract. You give him the money for the horse and agree to rent the carriage for five cents a day.

Everything is coming together. You say to yourself.

When you return, Daisy is secured to the carriage which only seats two people. It's a light brown color with beige trim. Nothing fancy, but good enough for you.

"Thank you!" You tell Amos, who blushes at your compliment.

"Sure thing, ma'am. Happy to help!"

You brush Daisy with your hands and she whinnies softly. "Come on, girl!" You mount the carriage and drive yourself home. Once you arrive, you unhitch Daisy and secure her in the small stable provided. The stable was built to house only one horse. You ensure she has oats and water before you massage her with a brush, talking softly to her. "We're gonna be friends, Daisy. You're going to help me win his heart, aren't you?" You smile to yourself. Johnny will see you as capable and independent now. And he won't have the fear of being together in town; he can easily ride out to your place to avoid public scrutiny. Your determination to secure a relationship with Johnny Ringo grows more intensely now.

You kiss Daisy good night and head inside. While in town, you picked up some grub so you fix yourself a little stew and tea and then get into bed, ready to start your day in the morning.

When you wake up, you can feel a soft breeze flow into the open window. You can hear Daisy neighing in the stable. The sky reflects in a bowl of blue with a few clouds moving slowly through the dying wind.

You rise, make yourself some coffee and prepare for your day. You ride your new carriage into town and unhitch Daisy, taking her to the livery.

"Ma'am!" Amos declares. "Nice to see you today! I'll take care of Daisy for ya."

You give Amos twenty five cents to pay for a few days and then give him a five cent tip.

"Much obliged, ma'am!" Amos says.

"Thank, Amos!"

While walking to the ice cream parlor, you see a help needed sign at the hotel restaurant. You decide to talk to Steele and Fatty while on your break to see if the job pays more than a dollar a day.

While scooping ice cream for patrons looking for relief from the heat, you hope Johnny Ringo comes in. Throughout the morning, you don't see him. You sigh, remove your apron and tell Bob you're taking your break.

You head to the hotel restaurant for lunch. Big Nellie is sitting at the counter, sopping up beans with a tortilla. She ignores you and continues eating, licking her fingers indignantly.

Fatty comes out of the kitchen, mopping his sweaty face with his apron. "Oh, Nellie! You keep eating, you ain't gonna be able to see your feet no more!"

"You should talk!" Big Nellie answers with her mouth full.

"You see?" Fatty tells you. "Stuffs herself all the time while I do most of the work!"

"Get a table ready for YN," Steele orders Fatty.

"Of course." Fatty answers. He brings you to a small table. "Special today, roast with mashed potatoes."

You gaze at the paper menu. "Light lunch, please."

"Of course! A special vegetable soup and a little salad. Sound good to you?" You nod.

After you finish your meal, you walk over to Steele.

"You're looking for help?"

"Yes," Steele answers. This place is getting busy and Big Nellie can't keep up with the demands. We need some assistance."

"What's the pay?" You inquire.

"Pay a buck fifty per day plus tips." Steele scratches his head and asks, "Beg your pardon, but aren't you working for Bonney at the ice cream parlor? You're looking for a change?"

"Something like that." You respond.

"Well, give Bonney a notice," Steele suggests. "He won't mind. Big Nellie is always available."

"Sounds reasonable." You say. "I'll let him know today. When can I start?"

Steele looks at you. "How about the first of next month?"

"Looks like I'll be seeing you next month," you say.

You walk back to the parlor full of excitement and a bit of apprehension.

You keep watching to see if Johnny comes in, but to your disappointment, he never shows. You hear plenty of commotion coming from the street and you can hear Curly Bill's loud guffawing while he struts down the street, baiting law enforcement officers to take his pistols.

At the end of your shift, Big Nellie comes in to help clean and get her free scoop of ice cream.

After you give Big Nellie a heaping scoop of vanilla ice cream, you remove your apron and go to where Bonney is counting receipts.

"Mr. Bonney, I have to give my notice. I've been offered a job at the restaurant."

Bonney removes his glasses and looks at you.

"Well, it sure was nice having you. But there's always Big Nellie and there's a couple of ladies from the sporting house that can help. Not as pretty as you, but I understand you need to earn a little more."

You nod. Nothing will stop you from positioning yourself in line so you can talk to Johnny Ringo. You know the Cowboys eat at the restaurant often so it's the perfect place for you to work.

"Thank you, Mr. Bonney." You tell him.

Bonney puts his glasses back on and returns to the business of counting receipts. He clears his throat.

"This is a growing town, there will be plenty of people looking for work. How about you give me one more week?"

"Yes, of course!" You respond with delight. You hang up your apron and head out the door.

It's all coming together! You say to yourself.

Your last week drags on, but your determination keeps you going. With each scoop, each end of your shift, you become closer to serving Curly Bill, Johnny Ringo and the other Cowboys that dine at the restaurant. You chuckle to yourself while working.

Johnny Ringo and Curly Bill head to the Oriental to play a few rounds of poker, hoping to get lucky.

Wyatt sits at the Faro table while Doc and Morgan stand around, watching.

Curly Bill and Ringo sit at the poker table with a few other patrons and start playing. The first round, Curly wins with a full house and the second round, Johnny gets three of a kind. Wyatt quietly observes the Cowboys, ensuring they don't start any trouble.

Curly Bill tips his hat to Wyatt.

Curly Bill's luck continues so he plays a few more rounds before lighting up a cigar.

"Well, guess I'm good at this game." Curly declares. Both Ringo and Curly head to the bar to order more whiskey. Curly looks around at the few sporting ladies.

"What are ya thinkin', Johnny?" Curly bellows curiously.

"How bout spending some of our ill gotten gains on some lady fun? Little taste of home sweet home?"

Ringo feels tempted and imagines holding you close. Every other woman would remind him of you and although he's desperate for a woman's touch, his throbbing masculinity is almost unbearable, he decides against it.

"Oh, come on, Johnny. Women are beautiful. Women make everything better, don't they?" Curly says low. Johnny nods and decides his bodily functions won't relent and with the mounting pressure laying on his mind, he knows a woman can release the rage that consumes him. He follows Curly Bill up the stairs. Curly guffaws while tapping the behind of the woman he chose to lay with.

Johnny knocks on a closed door and a Mexican ramera opens it.

"He follows her curves and although the room fills him with a rare sense of tranquility, he feels saddened that he cannot make love to you. He also hopes you do not learn of his tendencies towards prostitutes; the only women who seem pleased to see him. Even when he reeks of whiskey, they offer smiles and kind words. Women were the only people he knew that ever showed him concern; even if that concern comes with a price, he doesn't care that much. A woman who tells him to stay careful fills him with inexplicable joy and comfort.

"I'm Maria. Tell me what I can do for you."

Johnny takes his hat off and she moves closer. They fall into a passionate kiss and Ringo holds her with the intensity he would if you were in his arms.

After his rage is released through her affection, she lays her head on his chest.

"I need you, YN..." Johnny whispers.

Maria sits up and looks at him.

"She must be something special if I can't distract you from her." She tells him, her accent thick and barely recognizable.

"Si," Johnny says softly.

Maria returns to her position, enjoying the gentleman gunfighter. He strokes her hair and she moves her hand to touch his face and she feels tears at his temples.

"You are ok, senor?" She asks.

Johnny wants to believe she genuinely cares. He knows you would...But he embraces the illusion anyway.

Instead of answering her, he makes love to her again, wanting to experience the passion of a woman. The only passion worth risking everything for.

Johnny Ringo falls asleep while Maria rests her head on his chest. His dreams bring him little relief; he imagines you on top of him, your strong thighs keeping you well balanced. He brushes the hair away from your face and you look at him with desire. You throw your head back and let out a sigh of passion. He moves his hands on your body; cupping and caressing your breasts while you ride him delicately with just enough strength and pressure to drive him wild. You smile down at him before throwing him over so he's on top of you. He slowly removes the little clothing you still wear, licking the space between your bossom. He gently laughs while you enjoy the moment too. He spreads your legs apart and uses his strength to keep you still. While you lay in helpless delight, he gently tickles your flower until you burst with pure ecstasy.

When he awakes from his peaceful and amazing dream, he feels his heart pounding with intensity so great, he needs to stand up to shake it out of him. He moves to wash his face, splashing water on himself from the basin that's available. He glances into the small mirror provided and only sees the sadness in his eyes. The longing for the true love of a good woman. And the only woman he can dream of is you.

"Senor Ringo," Maria says.

"Can I bring you more pleasure? Can I help you forget YN?"

Johnny flashes her a look of anger. She backs away and Johnny softens his approach.

"Lo siento..." Johnny says, taking her hand and kisses it.

"Esta Bien," Johnny tells her, his eyes growing intensely sad, full of guilt and shame. He always carried a space of shame when he indulged in the pleasures of women.

Ringo allows her to pleasure him again. While she mounts him and brings him to the moment when he's fully released from his rage, he feels his heart swell with sadness. He allows his tears to flow. He closes his eyes and falls into a fantasy that his moment of ecstasy is brought on by your touch.

Ringo generously pays her and gives her a little extra for her discretion. He leaves, feeling less full of rage and frustration, but guilt and shame creep around his heart. He lets out a sigh and composes himself. He walks with his signature gait back to the livery.

Amos was sitting down reading a dime novel. When he sees Ringo, he immediately stands, adjusting his hat.

"Says here Billy the Kid shot a man from fifty yards away! You think I'll ever do that?"

Ringo smiles at the naive boy, who has dreams of becoming a gunfighter. "I don't know, kid. I used to think I knew a lot of things. But remember, people don't choose to become gunslingers. The gunslinger life chooses us."

Amos looks confused. "Whatchu mean, Mr. Ringo?"

Ringo shakes his head. Amos saddles the horse for Johnny.

"Nice quarter horse," Johnny remarks. "When she get here?"

Amos shrugs. "Little over a week ago. YN from the ice cream parlor is keeping her here."

"Is that so?" Johnny asks, his voice just above a whisper.

"Matter of fact, I reckon," Amos responds. "She sure is a sweet lady, ain't she?"

Ringo looks to the ground. "She is that," he answers.

"Well, she told me she's gonna be working at the hotel restaurant."

"When?" Ringo inquires.

"Day she bought Daisy. Sure is a nice horse."

"I wonder why she..." Ringo begins thinking. He and the Cowboys enjoy dinner at th toe hotel restaurant often. His heart skips a beat thinking about seeing her more regularly.

"What's that, Mr. Ringo?" Amos asks.

"Nothing." As always, he checks the cinch. After he mounts his horse he heads to camp.

The following morning, you wake up early, eager to start your first day at the restaurant. You make yourself a small breakfast and some coffee. Once ready, you go to the stable to retrieve Daisy. She whinnies and seems happy to see you. You talk to her while hitching her to the carriage.

"It's coming together, girl. I won't give up. Don't let me give up, girl!" You kiss Daisy in the nose. You decide to pick up some carrots for her after your shift ends. You enter the carriage.

"Giddyap, girl!" You say, your voice is full of enthusiasm. You ride into the busy town and you're a few minutes early. You survey the area, hoping to see Johnny Ringo. To your disappointment, he's not at the restaurant. You shake off your doubts and take Daisy to the livery.

"Mornin', ma'am!" Amos declares happily.

"Good morning, Amos." You give him a quarter tip.

"Thanks, ma'am! Come on, Daisy!"

You let out a sigh while hurrying to the hotel restaurant. When you enter, Steele walks over

"It's going to be real nice having you work here with us. Head into the kitchen, Fatty will show you the ropes. I reckon you'll learn quick."

Steele's prediction came true; you picked up everything quickly and after a few days, you were taking orders and ensuring patrons got their meals quickly. You and Fatty sometimes joke a bit and you appreciate the camaraderie.

At the end of the week during the lunch rush, Johnny Ringo, Curly Bill and a few other cowboys enter the restaurant. Their presence commands the attention of everyone in the area and Curly Bill soaks up the flattery he feels from the fear he evokes in people.

Your heart races with excitement and you head into the kitchen to catch your breath. You reach into your pocket and pull out a small tube of lipstick. You put a bit of color on your lips, fluff your hair and head to where the Cowboys are sitting.

Curly Bill asserts his dominance and authority, hoping you too show signs of fear, especially in the presence of his cowboys.

"Well, ain't you a sight," he drawls.

Your eyes show gratitude and you feel overwhelmed by your nervousness. Curly Bill smiles almost deviously. He nods, expecting your obedience.

"What can I bring you gentleman?" You ask, your voice shaking a bit. You try your best to maintain control, but the sight of Johnny Ringo along with the Cowboys fills you with a gear you weren't quite prepared for. You can see now why so many folks are truly intimidated by these men.

"Most folks don't have the guts to talk to us. Usually Fatty takes our orders," Curly Bill declares.

You feel your heart sink at Curly Bill's comment.

"I'm here to help Fatty," you answer, showing a smile.

Curly Bill folds his arms and sits back, enjoying the exchange. "That so?" He asks rhetorically.

You nod.

"Bill," Ringo begins.

"It's alright, son," Curly drawls. "Just making sure she knows who's in charge around here." Curly still sits with his arms folded. He can understand why Johnny is so smitten with you.

You look around the restaurant and notice other patrons waiting for your service.

"Why don't you look at the menu and I'll come back," you answer, your voice shaking.

Curly Bill nods. "But don't think we're friends." He growls.

"Bill," Johnny begins. "Let her be," Johnny says. Johnny understands Curly's need to dominate people and the need to maintain his reputation as a feared outlaw. Any sign of weakness could bring trouble to men like the Cowboys.

"Look at her smiling like she ain't got no care in the world," Curly continues. "Folks ain't nice lessen they want somethin'," Curly reminds Johnny.

Curly Bill already sucked back several whiskey shots before they came to the restaurant and the effects of the rot gut caused him to grow impatient and sometimes down right mean. Ringo hopes Curly Bill doesn't cause a scene and he also hopes you don't get your feelings hurt as that is a reflection on him.

Ringo feels torn; he understands the position he and the gang are facing by letting their guard down too quickly. He also cannot stand to see you afraid of him.

You return with a smile and a tray of coffee cups. You head to the kitchen and return with a pot of coffee and begin pouring coffee for the Cowboys.

"Thank you," Johnny says softly.

"Much obliged," Ike Clanton grunts.

The other Cowboys murmur their mild gratitude, still skeptical of your kind demeanor.

"You're very welcome," you say smiling.

Curly Bill leans forward. "You think you're better than us? Just going about like you ain't scared of anything?" He grumbles.

"I'm just here to serve you. Give you the best service I can." You continue smiling, hoping it will soften the rough exterior of this wild and dangerous group of gunfighters. But their skepticism of kindness towards them bubbles under the surface.

"As long as you know who's in charge around here and it ain't the law," Curly growls.

You nod your head and manage a smile, still trying to hide your fear.

"You got guts. I'll give you that," Curly Bill observes. "Most folks would have run for the door by now."

"Well then you would lose the opportunity for me to serve you," you respond doing the best you can to keep your emotions from flowing.

Curly Bill grins mischievously, hoping his reputation and larger than life personality is working on you.

Curly Bill sits back and looks you up and down.

"I reckon so. But we ain't friends," Curly declares.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, gentleman?" You ask, smiling as best as you can.

"You're nothing but a pretty face!" Curly Bill drawls. "You think you can stand here and not be afraid? Do you have any idea who we are?"

You nod your head. You suck back your tears. You also understand that Johnny doesn't want to start a situation he wouldn't be able to undo.

"Good," Curly says. "See? You ain't as fearless as you think you are!" Curly Bill slurs.

Your heart sinks.

"Come on, Bill," Ringo interjects.

"Alright," Curly Bill responds. He looks at you. "But this ain't over." He gulps his coffee and wipes his mouth with his large hand.

You return to the kitchen and burst into tears. Fatty comes over and puts a hand on your shoulder.

"I guess I shoulda warned you about those Cowboys," Fatty says with regret in his voice. "A pretty lady like you don't deserve that."

You resolve to regain your composure and your strength. You suck back your tears and run your hands through your hair. You nod. And the realization of the dangers of living in a boom town becomes clear. Far from the farm you grew up on you find yourself almost regretting coming here. But you see Johnny's face and you decide to keep going. In your defeat, you find the courage to face Curly Bill and the Cowboys.

You take a deep breath. Fatty gives you a reassuring hug and a pot of coffee. "Go refill their coffee, sweet lady." Fatty winks at you and mops his head with his apron.

You return to the dining area to refill their coffee.

"Your meals should be right out," you say softly.

Curly Bill, feeling pleased he's intimidated you, sits with his arms folded. He nods. "Good. You just walk around here without a care, is that it?"

"Mr. Brocius, is there anything I can get for you?" You ask. You look at Johnny, whose eyes glisten with concern.

"Thank you for your service to us," Johnny says.

Your heart skips a beat and you smile at Johnny.

"Well, ain't that real nice," Curly Bill responds with a hint of envy in his voice.

"You're welcome," you respond and with trembling hands, you pour their coffee.

"Not as tough as you think you are," Curly Bill grunts.

"Mr. Brocius, I'm not here to upset you." You say, a hint of fear in your voice.

"Then why are you here?" Curly Bill leans forward. "Just flash that pretty smile and serve people?"

"I'm just here to do my job."

"As long as you understand I'm the one in charge around here and iffin' you don't understand that real quick, you'll be walking a fine line."

Johnny looks at you and then back at Curly Bill. He doesn't want the scene to escalate with you getting hurt and he knows he needs to maintain his loyalty to Curly Bill and the Cowboys.

"You've been real nice and we appreciate it." He tells you. He puts his head down and then sips his coffee. You return to the kitchen and are able to carry four dishes at once. You walk over to their table, ensuring you serve Curly Bill first.

"Well, look at that," Ike Clanton mutters. "Carrying all them plates."

Curly Bill and the Cowboys begin eating and you return with two more plates for Stillwell and Barnes.

"Is there anything else I can bring you," you ask.

"Keep that coffee coming," Curly Bill answers, without looking at her.

"Of course, Mr. Brocius," you respond. You head back to the kitchen, tears welling in your eyes. The weight of the feeling of defeat lays upon you like a dark cloud. Fatty comes over with a cup of tea for you. "I'm really sorry, YN. Them boys...Well Curly Bill Brocius... he's a feared man. He don't trust easy.

You nod.

"There's somethin' else," Fatty continues. "Curly Bill has earned the respect of his men and he's earned the respect of everyone who's crossed him." Fatty wipes his head with his apron.

"But..they got heart." Fatty wipes his head again. He rubs his tired eyes.

"Curly Bill has a soft spot. Trust me. I know. You may already know how important reputation is around here."

"I saw nothing soft about him," you say. "He looks like someone I would never want to upset or..." You lower your eyes.

"I reckon you didn't..." Fatty replies. "Curly Bill went through some bad stuff after the war." Fatty places his hands on his hips.

"Almost got eaten alive by insects at a makeshift prison at a Texas Rangers camp. 'Those sons a bitches tied Curly Bill to a stake and left him there half the night! Old Curly had insect bites on him from head to toe." Fatty shakes his head. "You can understand why he's so cautious. And that ain't all. He and Dutch Martin were arrested in '79 by Texas Rangers. In the dead of winter, he and Dutch were tied up with their arms behind their backs so they couldn't warm themselves. Ringo was apprehended by a Union group and they tied him to a fence post and whipped him until he almost passed out." Fatty shakes his head. "Those Yankees took everything. They just kept coming, marching all over the South."

You nod your head slowly. You lost family during the war and your family is scattered. You never endured the torture Curly Bill and Ringo did. The Union was especially cruel to Confederate outlaws.

You gather yourself, run your hands through your hair and take a deep breath. "I'm not giving up," you tell Fatty. "I left everything behind to come here. I'm getting a taste of the west."

Fatty grins. He puts a supportive hand on your shoulder. "I reckon you are. Just keep up the good work. Curly Bill will soften a bit. He ain't all bad. You're a lovely lady and well, that's..."Fatty pauses. "Gives folks a reason to wonder. But I reckon you working here will help. You'll be able to meet folks around here."

You nod. You take the coffee pot and return to the dining room.

With a trembling hand, you pour coffee into the cups of the Cowboys.

"Much obliged, ma'am," Ike Clanton tells you.

You show an appreciative smile. "Of course."

Ringo hates seeing you in such a state of fear and knowing one of his own caused it, rips at his heart. "Thank you, YN. We all appreciate your fine service."

"Thank you, Mr. Ringo, you say, your voice low and your eyes to the ground.

"Johnny," he tells you.

Curly Bill smirks. "Well ain't that a fine how do you do?"

You return to the kitchen and come back with fresh, hot biscuits. Curly Bill eats without acknowledging anyone. Then he looks at you.

"Alright," he grunts, shoving food in his mouth. Johnny eats slowly in a more refined manner. Although his mother came from a farming background, she carried herself in such a way, she appeared sophisticated and elegant. She always enjoyed her meals slowly. And in some ways, you remind Johnny of his mother; underneath her delicate appearance, lived a woman of formidable strength and courage with beauty time couldn't alter.

You bring the Cowboys their tab; it comes out to $2.50. Curly Bill hands you a ten dollar bill and tells you to keep the change. A stark contrast from his behavior earlier. You wonder if perhaps Fatty was right and that a softer side of the big rustler would reveal itself. When your shift ends, you enjoy some soup before you go to the livery to retrieve Daisy. Your heart still aches from the harshness you endured under Curly Bill Brocius, but you know you cannot quit and allow him to push you out of town.

When you arrive at the livery, you see Johnny Ringo talking to Amos.

Johnny sees you and feels his face grow red. Your hair flows freely and your beautiful eyes seem to sparkle even through the dying sun. Johnny straightens up and tips his hat.

"Take care of her first, Amos," Johnny orders. "I'll get my horse after."

"Sure thing, Mr. Ringo!" Amos obliges. He heads in to retrieve Daisy. Seeing her brings you unexpected comfort and relief.

"Hey, girl," you whisper, kissing her on the nose. You hold back your tears that want to burst through your tired eyes. Seeing Daisy makes you feel like you're seeing an old friend who can offer some relaxation and relief from your stressful first day working at the hotel restaurant.

"Mighty nice horse," Johnny comments. "She really seems to like you, YN." He smiles a genuine smile at you.

"She's my only friend so far," you reply, regretting your comment. "I mean, I haven't had a chance to really make any friends yet."

"You've been busy since you arrived," Johnny comments. "First working at the ice cream parlor, buying a border and buggy and then putting up with the Cowboys during lunch today." He looks down at the ground and shuffles his feet as he does when he's feeling nervous.

"Yeah, I reckon so," you tell him. You let out a sigh and run your hand through your hair. Johnny fights his internal urges. The throbbing manliness of his body weakens his knees. He knows his face must be red and he's grateful for a shadow that stretches across his form, hopefully hiding his flushed demeanor.

Johnny clears his throat. "It's real dangerous here, YN. Keep your head about you. This town ain't fit for a woman like you. Big Nellie is one thing; she can handle herself well. But you... You're... Different," he finally manages to say.

"After the war, my family just scattered throughout the country, trying to repair their lives. Our farm is...Gone."

Johnny nods sympathetically. "I'm sorry to hear that," he offers a half smile.

"I guess I wanted a fresh start and I couldn't stay in Kansas. Everything reminded me of..." You pause.

"Yankee oppression?" Johnny finishes.

You nod. "Yeah. I would walk through town and see most of the buildings leveled. I wasn't going to stay there and try to rebuild. I needed to get away from all of it."

"And you chose the town too tough to die," Ringo says, forcing a smile. Johnny squints from the sunlight. "Trust me, Dodge is worse."

"That's what I've heard. I was never near Dodge City," you reply. "I'm hoping to find my way here." You tell him.

"I'm sure you will," Ringo responds. He looks around to ensure nobody is watching him interact with you.

"Well, I should get home. I'm doing breakfast and lunch tomorrow. I really need to get some rest."

"I thought you were staying at the hotel?" Johnny inquires.

"I was. I am renting a small cottage just about a half a mile from here."

Johnny raises his eyebrows. "Really?"

You stand a little taller, feeling confident that you're independent.

"Yes. I didn't want to stay in town. Where do you stay, Johnny?"

Johnny Ringo felt a lump in his throat. He doesn't want to tell you that he sleeps in a tent at the Cowboy camp and he's too ashamed to admit he can't usually afford to stay in town. He feels flushed again and anxious to be elsewhere before someone sees the two of you together and makes trouble for you.

"We got a shack about a mile from here. It's not so bad." He feels himself growing embarrassed. You don't push the issue since you understand how secretive Johnny Ringo can be.

"I should get home," you say to Johnny. "I just need to hitch Daisy."

"Let me help you with that," Johnny offers.

"Oh, Johnny! You don't have to!"

"It's alright. I've hitched plenty of horses." You walk together and Johnny hitches Daisy and then helps you into the carriage. He hands you the reigns.

"You take care of yourself, YN," Johnny tells you.

"Thank you, Johnny," you smile, feeling a little lighter and less stressed. "You're welcome. Get home safe."

You watch Johnny with his signature hair back to the livery. Your heart skips a beat while you relive the moment in your mind and your heart.

When you return to your modest house, you unhitch Daisy, ensuring she has water and grains. You brush Daisy and talk to her.

"This was a tough first day...I really like Johnny Ringo. I think he likes me too. I just don't know. Curly Bill treated me so badly and I am so afraid of that man! But then he gave me a very generous tip. I don't know, Daisy!" You start to cry a little.

Daisy brings you home and you unhitch the carriage, ensure Daisy has grain and water and head back to your modest home.

After a modest supper of meat and vegetables, you clean up a little, make yourself some tea and get ready for bed.

Johnny Ringo heads back to camp with a smile on his face. He relives the moment he shared with you. Seeing your beautiful eyes gazing up at him with concern and your clear devotion to him. He feels guilty over the scene with Curly Bill. He lets out a sigh and continues riding slowly. If he tries to intervene, Curly Bill with his unpredictable nature and dangerous tendencies could have caused further harm to you. The last thing Johnny Ringo wants is for you to leave.

He dismounts and tells Ike to picket his horse. Ike begrudgingly obliges. Johnny takes his saddle and rests it near his tent. He can smell the familiar aroma of beans, bacon and biscuits.

Ringo enjoys his food slowly, sipping coffee in between bites. He notices the sun falling behind the mountains and he laughs to himself that he rarely allows himself to delight in nature's wonders. He can still feel your presence and the aroma of your perfume still lingers in his nostrils. He takes a bite of biscuit and notices his mood starts moving in an upward direction. Normally, be would finish eating, grab a bottle of rotgut and retreat to his tent to either write his sorrows in his journal or escape them through old Willy Shakespeare. But on this early evening, he feels a renewed sense of peace. He looks over at Curly Bill, still a little annoyed for the way the big rustler treated you. Curly Bill could demonstrate charm and charisma at times and other times he feels an overwhelming need to assert his authority and throw his weight around. In Curly's mind, places like Tombstone don't suffer fools and if a person can't handle the harshness of such territory, they should head east where life is more predictable and safe.

Curly Bill viewed women in a way that usually included indifference; a means to an end. Women cured a man's loneliness and longing for human connection. In the end, Curly Bill possessed more of an unromantic view. Johnny figured it stemmed from Curly's past, present and his fierce reputation. Curly often pointed out that women cause a man weakness and if she's a beauty, the memory of her could make a man daydream and he could lose his cool, his mind...And his life.

And much truth came from Curly Bill's perception. Their line of work came with dangers such as rival gangs, Apaches or vengeful Commanches, grizzlies and other wild animals, rattlers and trigger happy bounty hunters. So, in a sense Johnny could appreciate Curly's perspective on women. He also feels Curly Bill can take it too far, especially if he perceives someone in a light that shows they lack fear of him or don't seem intimidated. He also possesses a side capable of strong feelings and Curly's loyalty was unshakable. Johnny knows eventually Curly Bill will give you a chance to show your own loyalty.

Johnny finishes his meal and lights up a new cigar, blowing the smoke in billows of tiny clouds that swirl through the stiff air. He can't help but feel a renewed sense of happiness. For the first time in a very long time, Johnny Ringo allowed himself to feel the warmth of happiness and he embraces this vulnerability with slow and steady steps.

"Juanito!" Curly Bill bellows, awakening Johnny from his peaceful moment.

"Curly," Johnny responds.

Curly Bill sits next to Johnny, holding a coffee cup full of whiskey. Curly sips it and grimaces. "Not sure where Pony found this rot gut."

Johnny looks forward, almost ignoring Curly's presence which poses a serious challenge; Curly Bill wasn't easy to ignore.

"Well, I reckon I took it a little too far with that lovely lady."

Ringo flashes a look at the big rustler sitting next to him, a look of disbelief.

"You always want people afraid of you. And most people are, Bill." Johnny speaks softly, enjoying his cigar.

"Too much damn tornado juice," Curly answers, trying to find an excuse for his obnoxious behavior. "Hits my head hard." Curly Bill let's out a sigh. He feels disgusted with himself when he's had so much and can't leave the damn fire water alone.

"Well, maybe you owe her the apology," Ringo suggests.

Curly Bill frowns. "Well, I guess."

"You ain't afraid, are you?"

"Me? Afraid of some pretty little thing like that?" Curly guffaws. Internally, he struggles with the idea of offering a genuine apology which would create a rare moment of vulnerability the big cowboy isn't used to.

"That'd be real fine, but not in front of any of you boys," Curly grunts. Ringo chuckles seeing a softer almost fearful side of Curly Bill Brocius.

The morning sun bathes your room with its welcoming of a new day. You push the covers off and let your bare feet hit the wood floor. You stretch and yawn while moving to your basin so you can wash up. You hear Daisy neighing a little. After a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs and a biscuit, you dress yourself in a modest beige skirt with a pink and white blouse. After brushing your hair, you head out to hitch Daisy.

"Good morning, girl!" You announce. You kiss her nose and she puts her head on your shoulder. "Today's gonna be better!" Once hitched, you ride into town and put your buckboard behind the hotel and walk Daisy to the livery.

Amos is sitting on the ground with his legs out and crossed at the ankles. He stands up and adjusts his hat.

"Mornin', ma'am," he says with enthusiasm. "I'll take real good care of her!"

"I know, Amos," you answer. Amos has been one of the few people in town who makes you smile.

When you enter the restaurant, Curly Bill is talking to Fatty while the Cowboys are outside, talking and puffing their cigars.

You pause in mid step at the site of the rustler. You lower your head.

"Good morning, Mr. Brocius," is all you manage to say.

Curly Bill pats Fatty on the back and moves towards you, your heart racing. You look around for Johnny, but you don't see him. You can hear the Cowboys laughing and talking outside. The restaurant isn't open for breakfast yet and you're wondering what Curly Bill wants from you. You fear he'll advise you to stay away from Johnny and then start mocking your fear.

He takes his hat off and looks around.

"Good morning," Curly responds, his voice low.

"Can I start an order for you?" You ask, your voice shaking a bit.

Curly Bill can't help but feel a pang of guilt for making you fear him so much, especially since you have shown kindness to him and his Cowboys.

"No, that's alright. I just wanted to say I owe you an apology for the way I acted the other day. I guess I ain't used to someone being so nice, especially someone as pretty as you." Curly Bill can feel his chest tighten at his vulnerability; he's not used to letting his guard down.

He's pleased when you smile and then look at the floor.

"I appreciate that, Mr. Brocius," you answer, the trembling in your voice diminishing.

"Call me Curly Bill! I think you earned that right, puttin' up with me and all."

You manage a smile and Curly Bill feels a sense of envy towards Ringo and perhaps that motivated his harshness towards you. You want Johnny Ringo and Curly, along with the other Cowboys can't help but feel a sense of jealousy. That Ringo can charm you, but they cannot.

"I...." You begin.

"You don't owe me nothin'," Curly Bill tells you.

You nod to show you understand. He puts his hat on and brushes a hair behind your ear. Your first instinct is to move away, but his presence commands respect and authority in a way unfamiliar to you.

"Johnny sure is lucky," Curly says.

"Johnny?" You ask, your face turning red. You didn't realize your affection for Ringo showed in your face.

"It's alright. I know Johnny likes you and well, you like him too, flaws and all. We should all be so lucky, huh?" Curly drawls.

You smile and Curly Bill winks at you before stepping out, the sound of his jingling spurs echoing on the wood floor.

Your heart feels lighter, but you still experience a sense of uncertainty. You watch Curly Bill meet up with his cowboys and they head down the street. You glance around, but don't see Johnny and your heart sinks.

Johnny Ringo sleeps soundly in his tent, letting the warm sun and soft breeze bathe him like a peaceful embrace. He opens his eyes and looks around. He can hear some cowboys talking or laughing while others do odd jobs such as gathering fire wood for their campfire, checking the shoes of their horses or boiling water to do some laundry. He exits his tent and stretches, feeling aches from sleeping on the hard ground all night. He moves slowly to the chuck wagon and sees Pony greasing one of the wheels.

"Mornin', Ringo!" Pony declares. "My hands ain't right for making no chuck right now, but there's some biscuits left. Got some jerky too."

Johnny pours himself a cup of coffee and grimaces. "It's damn cold, Pony," Ringo complains.

"Yeah, sorry," Pony answers, spitting on the ground. "Forgot. There's a little fire left there. You can heat it."

Johnny places his cold coffee near the dying fire. He uses a small washcloth to hold the handle that grew hot from sitting near the fire. He sips it and then grabs a couple of biscuits.

"Where's Curly?" Johnny asks, without looking at Pony.

"Said he had to take care of something in town." Pony answers, shaking some grease off his hand.

""Damn, ain't got no washin' water!" Pony growls. "Hey, Claireborne!" Pony shouts. Billy Claireborne looks up. "Fetch some washin' water!"

Claireborne puts his coffee cup down, grabs the bucket for washing water and heads to the river that flows near the camp.

"Hurry up boy!" Pony grunts. Claireborne looks back and then shakes his head.

When Claireborne returns, he places the bucket of water near Pony.

"About time!" Pony frowns.

"Shoulda fetched the water before you started greasin' that damn wheel!" Claireborne answers.

"You wanna eat, adjust your attitude, son!" Pony shouts.

"You overheat the coffee and the biscuits are like rocks sometimes!" Billy Claireborne fires back.

"I reckon you'd be a better cook?" Pony challenges Claireborne.

"Calm down, Pony," Ringo commands, sipping his coffee and chewing on a biscuit. "Sometimes your biscuits could break a man's teeth, Pony." Johnny dips the stale biscuit in his coffee to soften it. He laughs to himself while he enjoys the improvisation of dunking a stale biscuit into warm coffee. It seems something you would do.

"Curly's in town, you say?" Ringo inquires, squinting from the morning sun.

"Yep," Pony says, washing the grease off his hands. To Ringo's disgust, Pony takes the greasy water and throws some on his face. Ringo shakes his head at the level of how uncivilized his comrades are.

"Well, I'll be damned," Ringo whispers.

"What's that?" Pony asks.

"Nothing. I'm going into town to get some breakfast," Ringo smiles, thinking about enjoying a meal at the hotel restaurant.

Ringo saddles his horse and spurs him into town. He rode fast, enjoying the wind against his face and the feeling of a strong horse between his legs. This carefree and often lawless life became the only existence he knew. An untamed way of living without the restrictions of law and order. And his brotherhood with his cowboys gave him a sense of belonging, a part of something that wouldn't condemn or admonish him in the way society and even his family did.

Johnny slows his gelding and walks to the livery. He sees Daisy and relief floods through him; it was the proof you're waiting tables at the restaurant.

"Well, howdy, Mr. Ringo!" Amos announces, holstering his shiny pistol.

"Good morning, kid," Ringo answers, a hint of excitement in his voice. Excited to see you.

Amos takes the saddle off the horse and watches Ringo cross the street with his signature gait.

Ringo looks around and sees a few of his red sash companions scattered throughout town. Some of them were lounging near one of the hotels while others chatted with prostitutes, some lighting up cigars. He doesn't see Curly Bill, but can hear his loud guffawing coming from one of the saloons. Johnny decides to let his companions be while he gets some breakfast and a moment or two with you.

Johnny Ringo walks into the restaurant and waits to be seated. Fatty, who is making bacon and biscuits and frying eggs winks at you.

"There's fresh coffee!" Fatty announces. "You take some coffee to Johnny." Fatty returns to cooking and calling out orders. Big Nellie helps out when she can, taking orders and serving up plates. She considered leftovers a reasonable tip most of the time, but also grabbed change with her fat, greedy fingers.

"Good morning, Johnny," you say kindly, pouring coffee into his cup.

"Good morning to you," Johnny responds with a playful tone in his voice.

"It's wonderful to see you," you answer, suddenly feeling foolish. Johnny notices your apprehension and puts his hand on your arm. "I feel the same way about you," Johnny tells you.

"Johnny..." You whisper softly.

"What time do you get through working?" Johnny asks, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'm off after lunch," you tell Johnny, your voice is low.

Johnny takes your hand much to your surprise. "Take a ride with me later," he entreats.

"Really?" You ask, your beautiful eyes full of wonder.

Johnny smiles.

"Take Daisy home. I'll meet you there so no one sees us leaving together."

You nod to show you understand his need for discretion. He tips his hat and walks across the street to find Curly Bill.

You rush to the restaurant, your heart pounding with anticipation and delight. You serve the hotel guests and other patrons with a renewed spring in your step. Finally, you will gain the opportunity to spend time with Johnny Ringo.

Fatty looks over at you and wonders what caused your sudden shift in demeanor. You always exchange pleasantries and smile often, but today that smile seems like a door to a secret world. In a town like Tombstone, people didn't smile unless they greeted another resident and even then, people usually nodded, tipped their hats or said, "how do you do?" But your smile was contagious today and Fatty couldn't help but wonder.

Big Nellie clears plates, sopping up gravy with leftover biscuits, in such an indignant manner, you feel tempted to learn of her upbringing. She hardly spoke and often took breaks. She and Fatty talked in the kitchen, sometimes laughing, but you could never make out the conversation. Tombstone was a lonely place and people looked for relief from it any way they could.

Nothing happening in town can bring you down today. You move quickly and happily through the restaurant, taking orders, clearing tables and even helping out in the kitchen washing dishes.

You take a break while waiting for Emmett to open again for lunch. The day moves slower than you'd like; your mind goes to Johnny Ringo whose company you will get to enjoy later. The clock seems still and barely moving.

When the oil cloth table cloths are wiped down and Fatty is preparing meals for lunch, your heart swells with so much anticipation, you can hardly contain your smile.

Several people enter the restaurant when Emmett reopens for lunch. You quickly move to the door, seating the guests and offering menus.

The menu features beef stew with biscuits, fried chicken served with mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits and green beans, rice and beans were usually on the menu everyday and there's also fresh fish served with vegetables. Quite often, oysters are featured on the menu also.

While you kept yourself busy serving lunch, Johnny went to a bath house. He paid for his hot water, towel and soap while thinking of you and how he loves having a reason to indulge in a hot bath. Ringo smiles while he scrubs his feet and toes, wanting to present himself in a way he feels you deserve. Johnny soaps up his arms and chest, throwing the small bar of soap in the air and catching it like he's a young boy again. The young boy girls at church would gawk at; Johnny Ringo, the mysterious boy who seemed under a spell of darkness that wouldn't relent. A man who struggled with his faith, guilt and shame that seemed to wrestle constantly with neither side winning; just a constant struggle. He lets out a sigh before rising out of the wooden tub, taking a hold of a towel. After he washes up, he puts on clean clothes and heads to the barber for a shave.

You continue glancing at the clock that sits in the corner. Time still moves slow, but steady. When your shift ends, you, like Johnny, take a bath in town, put on a new dress; a pink and black simple skirt with a matching blouse. You put some color on your lips, your heart racing and head to the livery. Amos tips his hat.

"Well, howdy, ma'am! You sure look nice today."

"Afternoon, Amos." You smile, handing him fifty cents for a tip.

Amos retrieves Daisy for you.

"Real fine horse," Amos says, leading Daisy over to you.

"She really is!" You answer, bringing Daisy to your small carriage.

"See you tomorrow, Amos," you tell him before heading to your cottage to wait for Johnny Ringo.

You race towards your cottage, the wind blowing through your hair. Daisy whinnies and gallops gracefully. The moment you reach your home, you get busy ensuring Daisy is unhitched and has grain to eat. You wipe her down with a brush, kiss her on the nose and rush into your house to get yourself ready. You choose a royal blue blouse with a light brown skirt. After applying some color to your lips and brushing your lovely locks, you gaze out the window to check if you see Johnny riding over.

You hear the distant sound of a horse galloping and when you look out your window, you see Johnny Ringo riding at full gallup towards your cottage.

You hold your heart while you lean against the wall, letting a deep breath out. You do your best to remain calm, despite your excitement. You take a few deep breaths while listening to the horse approaching. The footsteps of the heavy hooves begin to slow as Johnny approaches you.

You check yourself in the mirror near the water basin and smile to yourself.

Your heart skips a beat when his knuckles knock on your door.

You open the door to find Johnny Ringo, the deadliest pistoleer since William Bonney and Charlie Quantrill."

Johnny takes his hat off the moment he sees you. He looks down and then back at you. An overwhelming sensation of passion and shame start to wash over him. Your soft hair, the way the sun hits your eyes and creates a heavenly glow...

Johnny feels his neck grow hot and flushed at the sight of you. He slowly exhales, allowing himself to gain control over himself.

"Johnny!" You exclaim.

Ringo looks to the ground,still holding his hat. Your excitement upon seeing him fills him with a sense of warmth and comfort with a hint of excitement.

"Well, howdy, YN," Johnny finally says.

Your heart pumps so lively inside you that you fear Johnny may hear it. You open the door further to allow Johnny into your house.

"Thank you," he says. He looks out the window, sighs and then looks back at you. He feels foolish for not bringing something for you, even if just a bouquet of flowers. He came empty handed and he suddenly feels flushed and embarrassed.

"What's wrong, Johnny?" You ask with sincere concern.

Johnny Ringo shakes his head and smiles. One of the elements about you that he loves involves your sweetness, gratitude and how easy you are to please.

Johnny looks at the floor. In his rush to see you, he forgot to bring something for you to show his growing affection.

"It's just that uh...well," he rocks back and forth on his feet.

You move close and hug him tight. His bodily functions betray him and he experiences a throbbing he can't control and hopes to God you don't notice his sudden loss of self control. He takes a deep breath and sighs, absorbing the wonderful sensation holding you brings him.

Your body aligns with his and for a moment, no violence or war or oppression can separate your dedication to each other.

"I should have brought you something... Flowers...I guess I couldn't wait to get here," Johnny answers.

"Then it would have taken you longer to get here!" You answer with enthusiasm.

Johnny pauses and then smiles a warm and genuine smile. Your words wash over him like a sweet rain storm.

"You sure got a way with words, YN," he tells you. "Makes a fella feel appreciated.

You chuckle softly, the realization of Johnny Ringo in your home causes your heart to burst.

"Well, how about a ride?" He suggests.

"Perfect!" You answer. " Then you can take your time picking me some lovely wildflowers!" You grin mischievously.

Johnny, without thinking, cups your face. He moves to kiss you, hoping he's not being too forward. He pauses and simply looks into your eyes.

"Only the prettiest flowers for the prettiest lady!" He answers, guiding you by your hand.

Johnny mounts his horse and then pulls you up so you sit comfortably behind him. You lay your head against his back and you seem to fit perfectly. He loves the softness of your form against him.

The light trot turns to a gallop and the feel of the wind against your face, blowing your unbound hair wildly around your head.

The warm breeze and aroma of wildflowers that are framed by Palo Verde trees paints a landscape so oddly different from the bustling town.

Johnny Ringo turns to check on you. "You're awful quiet back there, YN. You doing alright?"

You squeeze Johnny tight, kissing his ear which causes him to flinch and then chuckle softly.

"I take that as a yes," he smiles, finding your vulnerability irresistible.

"Oh yeah, cowboy!" You answer. "Let's keep going!"

"Yes, ma'am," Johnny replies, spurring his horse who breaks into a run. The air feels sweet and the wind blows past the both of you and dkr that moment, you and Johnny feel more than just a connection; an interloping journey of love seeking and a release of all the pain that stirs in the hearts of those brave enough to pull through the war. Ringo's heart swells with pride and fascination at the wonder he's sharing with you. No admonishes or harsh words flow from you. Only the admiration and wild attraction the two of you share.

Johnny slows the horse to a slow gallup and then the horse fades into slow gait until Johnny pulls the reigns in.

"Well, my lady, here we are."

You look around and see a small body of water; beads sparkle and dance on the surface while the leaves on the trees shake to the ground. The warm sun feels like a friendly hug rather than the impending heat that's usually felt in the hotter months.

Johnny gets down and instinctively helps you off. You stumble a bit, holding onto him for balance. He holds you close, giving you reassurance.

"You alright, there?" He asks.

You look up at him, his eyes wide with amazement and a touch of apprehension and shyness. Johnny never encountered these feelings when laying with the calico queens, but something about your smile awakens something in him he cannot reconcile. The stark contrast of his rough and dangerous life to holding a beautiful woman who's shown incredible perseverance and loyalty just to get close to him. He feels a mix of excitement and a sense that he doesn't deserve you.

Your eyes stay fixed on his and he can feel his throbbing masculinity grow more intense. He wants to back away from you in shame that he couldn't control himself. But when your blouse falls off your shoulder and reveals a hint of skin, Johnny's demeanor grows weak and he almost stumbles. Before you can say anything, he cups your face and kisses you so gently, it even surprises him.

Your lips feel soft, the way he imagined they would. He can taste hints of strawberry and mint on your lucios lips.

When he pulls away, you see the vulnerability in his eyes; the vulnerability he tries so desperately to conceal behind his dark and brooding demeanor. But today, he feels that dark cloak fall from his strained mind. He takes your hands and kisses them passionately.

Johnny Ringo looks down at you and he feels your body trembling. He kisses your head. He then moves and gets a blanket from his saddle bag.

Johnny puts the blanket down and then pulls you close. He lays down near you, your body still shaking from receiving a kiss from Tombstone's deadliest man.

While you lay on your back, he slowly, but carefully begins to undue the buttons on your blouse. To your own surprise, you allow him to continue, knowing how primal a man like Ringo can be. While he caresses your breast, he kisses you again, sending spasms through your body. You gasp in delight and he smiles. The weakness enveloping your body prohibits you from moving. Johnny whispers in your ear, "you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He continues caressing your breast, moving his hands in a surprisingly delicate motion.

"Johnny," you whisper. You try to sit up so you can kiss him, but a spell of pure love embraces you will not allow you to surrender to your desire.

"Shh," he whispers, kissing your trembling lips. He wonders if fear stirs within your heart; fear that his dangerous and unpredictable personality will surface and perhaps take you against your will. That he may dominate you in the heat of ecstasy and hold you down while he explores your body.

He takes your hand and kisses it reassuringly.

"I'll stop..." He whispers, feeling his body throbbing.

Johnny Ringo composes himself, taking a deep breath. "I just want to feel close to you," you tell him, your heart suddenly swelling at your own weakness and fear. Johnny could easily become lost in a woman like you; lose his grip on himself and without focusing on the consequences of his haste to have you.

Johnny sits up and sighs. He slowly and sweetly buttons your blouse, his hands shaking from the intense interaction he just shared with you.

You regain your composure and touch his back. He takes your hand and holds it, turning his face away from you in shame and guilt.

"Johnny," you say, your voice barely a whisper.

Ringo takes his jacket and wraps it around you in a loving way, like he's shielding you from the world. You touch his face and notice the tears in his eyes. His inner conflict speaks so loudly, you shiver.

"You deserve better than this," Johnny says, his voice almost breaking with emotion. "Better than a roll on an old blanket with some dumb cowboy who could never be good enough for you!"

You finally sit all the way up and can feel your heart sink in defeat. But you also understand the complexities of a man like Ringo. He can't bring himself to treat you in any other way, but in the way he feels you deserve.

Johnny composes himself and puts his arm around you while you lay your head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, YN. Sorry for bringing you out here like you're some damn ramera!"

"Johnny, I was...Am overwhelmed. That's all." You reassure him.

"All the more reason to take better care of you. I won't ever let anyone think bad of you. They can think what they want about me! They already do." He tightens his grip on you, but in a soft way. " But you...To have yourself caught up in a...a.."

"Wonderful man?"

His eyes dart towards yours. "You say that because you don't know. You don't know me. Don't know who I rode with!"

"Johnny," you begin. "Please let me care for you."

"Why? So you can be disappointed like everyone else in my life?" He looks down and shakes his head. "I'm so damn stupid, I almost..."He looks at you, his bottom lip trembling, almost unnoticeably, but you understand he's a conflicted man.

"And to think I actually contemplated just touching you," he says softly.

"Johnny..." You whisper again.

Johnny stands and lifts you by your hand so you can stand. He folds up the blanket and puts it away. Then he lifts you up and carries you to his horse, feeling he needs to make it up to you...Show you he's more than some worthless gunfighter and outlaw. But a man you could be proud of.

He rides back to your place in silence. When you arrive at your cottage, he walks you to the front door. You almost ask if he wants to come in, but you can see the apprehension in his eyes.

Ringo takes his hat off and holds it in his hands.

The only thing you can say falls from your lips and fades into the late afternoon air, "Johnny..."

Johnny Ringo touches your face, caressing your chin with his large and calloused hand.

"Thank you, YN," he finally says.

You stand before him, tears welling up in your large, expressive eyes. Johnny feels a deeper sense of inner conflict over seeing what he's done to you.

"Johnny!" You finally manage to say. "Please can I see you again? Please?!" You try not to beg, but to reassure him you care about him. He's too much of a gentleman to dare answer right away.

He looks at the ground. He can't understand why you have such a hold on him.

Johnny takes a step forward. He moves your hair away from your face. "Well, I sure would like that," he says.

"Johnny! What's got you so upset?"

"I would never forgive myself if anything ever happened to you," he responds while he strokes your face with his large hand.

You nod to show you understand.

You watch the Shakespearen quoting gunfighter mount his horse. He tips his hat to you and rides off. You lower your head and cannot stop the tears flooding from them. You understand why Johnny didn't want to make love to you on a blanket outside, but why did he grow so cold towards you? How he wrapped his jacket around you...His silence on the ride home, his tears.

You open your door and slam it shut, causing the vase on the small table to fall over. You fall onto your bed, releasing the passion that resides in you. Tears stream down your face and you slowly fall asleep.

Ringo heads to town and goes to the Dead End where Annie works. He doesn't intend to pay for any services, but needs to vent to someone familiar, someone from home.

"Howdy, there, Johnny!" Annie exclaims, seeing the gunfighter move through the batwings. The jingle of his spurs echo on the wood floor. He slowly walks to the bar, looking like a wolf without a pack.

"You look like you were hit by a train, Johnny," Annie says, pouring whiskey for him.

Johnny down the shot and takes another.

"I know something of what you're feeling -" Annie begins.

"No. You don't." He answers without emotion in his voice. He takes his hat off and puts it next to the full bottle of whiskey.

"Well, no matter, Cowboy! You're here so let Annie take care of you." She leans in closer. "Twice...One on the house, remember?" She asks, recalling moments they shared together.

Ringo smiles. A roll with a whore feels more natural to him than to make love to the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. He shakes his head at that realization. He knows he could never become aroused with Annie and maybe not any other woman. He desires you above all else and his passion for women seems to be dying through the birth of the relationship he has found with you.

"What's with you, Johnny?" Annie inquires, wiping the bar with a towel. She lifts his chin to look at him. He's tempted to slap her hand away, but the gentleman side of him wins over and he simply turns away.

"You wouldn't understand," Johnny drawls, taking another shot.

"In my business, I hear everything!" She brags.

"Yeah, business. That's all women like you understand." Johnny stares into his empty shot glass.

"That's why I'm here! Same as you, cowboy. Business. There's no other reason to be here." Annie tilts her head and studies Ringo. She tosses the towel aside and shakes her hands out.

"What?" She mocks his indifference to her. "You're looking for love? Is that it? You know how many times I heard men talking about how they'd give up everything for a loving wife! A beautiful woman who wants to save you from yourself and spend her life dedicated to you, right?" She rolls her eyes.

Ringo holds back from banging his fists on the bar. He knows her words ring true; it's a lonely life he led. A life that could never give you what he feels you deserve. He curses under his breath. He tosses money at Annie. She takes it and throws it back to him.

"Save it for a poke, Johnny! When you get lonely enough, you'll be back!"

Ringo takes the cash, the bottle and leaves the bar. Annie takes a shot glass and throws it on the floor, wiping sweat off of her head.

"Damn cowboys!" Annie grumbles under her breath. "They're the worst when it comes to love dreams!" She grabs a broom and begins sweeping up the glass. "That man!" Annie shakes her head.

A few patrons head to the bar, slapping cash on the bar.

Annie nods her head and puts her hands on her hips. "I like men who know what they want!" She declares and pours herself a shot.

You awaken with a start. You run your hands through your hair and toss the covers aside. While stumbling towards the basin near the sink. After splashing cool water on your face, you wipe it clean and toss the towel aside. You let out a sigh and put your boots on so you can check on Daisy. When Johnny dropped you off, you forgot about everything. Your heart still sinks with the heaviness of Ringo's latest joust with his guilt and shame; neither one falls to defeat.

Daisy whinnies when seeing you, clearly excited by your presence.

"Hey, girl," you whisper, tears falling from your eyes. "This is tougher than I ever thought!" With teary eyes, you take care of Daisy, ensuring she's clean and has fresh water and grains. You kiss her goodnight and return to sleep, exhausted from your day.

Johnny gets his horse from the livery without acknowledging Amos, who could sense tension from the older gunfighter. Amos knew not to probe Ringo for any information; when Ringo grows quiet, it's always best to leave him be. Johnny tips his hat to Amos who nods in return. Johnny rides back to camp, the image of your tear filled eyes, the only thing he can see.

Ringo rides into camp. He can hear Curly Bill guffawing and telling his stories, adding to them each time he tells them. Other Cowboys busy themselves by shooting empty whiskey bottles or other chores. Pony mixes flour and milk and prepares biscuits, along with bacon and beans. The familiar aroma of horse shit, intense body odor and bacon flood the camp while Johnny retreats into his safe place.

He slowly drinks the rotgut he purchased. He takes his journal and begins to write:

I can't get her face out of my mind. I wish to the Devil in Hell and to the God in Heaven that I never saw her! Johnny crumples the paper and tosses it. Then he recalls his time with Charlie Quantrill and the Youngers. While slaughtering Jayhawks in Liberty, one of Quantrill's men was shot in the face at close range and his teeth blew out the sides of his head. Another met his maker by shotgun so violently, his arm was blown off.

Ringo recalls the lack of emotions shown by Quantrill, who instead of shouting or cursing his enemies, he sat, sharpening his Bowie knife with a stone. He slowly and methodically worked on the instrument of death, not saying a word. Ringo himself recalls how he fell to his knees at the sight of the deaths and swore he would never take a human life...He almost laughs loudly at the irony of it all. The death He experienced and the torture he endured at the hands of those damn Jayhawks!He tosses his journal, feeling the weight of the world's troubles on him.

He dozes off for a few moments.

The following morning, you realize you get the day off and you rise out of bed with a renewed sense of determination. After enjoying tea and a biscuit, you wash up, put on a cream colored skirt with a royal blue blouse, brush your hair and add color to your lips. Pleased with how you look, you quickly head to the stable, where Daisy whinnies with delight.

"Today is the day, girl! I did not come here to just walk away!" You saddle Daisy instead of hitching her to the wagon. You mount up and ride like the wind. Daisy moves from a quick trot to a gallop until she's running at full speed. The wind blows through your unbound hair and the air seems warm and sweet.

You keep riding until you can see...

The Cowboys camp.

Your determined spirit pushes you to ride close enough to the camp that the Cowboys can see you. Some of the horses at the picket line rear up. Curly Bill springs to his feet. "What in the hell is this?!" He shouts. Curly Bill runs over to you.

"What do you think you're doing? Ain't no women belong here!"

You dismount and refuse to back down.

"Hold on a minute now!" Curly Bill bellows. "You can't just ride in here! This ain't no place for you, woman!"

Curly Bill Brocius stands, looking larger than life, his loud voice booming. "You can't just ride in here like that!" Curly says firmly.

"I need to see him, Curly Bill! I rode all the way out here!"

Curly Bill can see the determination in your eyes. He takes his hat off and does the best he can to maintain his composure as he certainly isn't going to admonish or curse her.

"Well, I ain't one to interfere like that. Hold on there. I'll get Johnny for ya. Stay here." Curly orders. He walks to Johnny Ringo's tent.

"Juanito," Curly groans. "Come out, boy! Reckon you got a visitor!"

Ringo rubs his eyes and looks at Curly Bill and believes he's dreaming. "What the hell, Curly!" Johnny grunts.

"Johnny. She's here."

Johnny sits up with a start. "She... When... What? I ain't in the mood, Bill!"

"Johnny! She's here! Came riding through here like it's her damn place! You know no woman belongs here, but she ain't leaving lessen she talks to you first!"

Johnny Ringo peeks out his tent and gets a clear view of you. His heart skips a beat and he runs his hands through his hair. He sits for a moment in an attempt to process the scene before him. Curly Bill chuckles and closes the tent flap. "I wouldn't keep a beauty like that waitin'!" He guffaws loudly, not thinking or caring if you hear it.

"He'll be right with you," Curly Bill tells you, trying to keep himself composed while he notices your unique appearance.

"Thank you," you answer, standing next to Daisy.

A few other cowboys take their hats off to get a better view, while others share glances and shrugs. Curly Bill sits back down and lights up a cigar and uncorks a bottle of fire water. He can't help but feel a bit envious; he can't imagine a beautiful woman wanting him so much, she's willing to risk her own safety and reputation just to be close to him.

"Women..." Curly Bill whispers to himself. "They bring a man to misery. And when they're beautiful like that..." Curly Bill shakes his head.

Johnny gets himself together and emerges from his tent, blocking the sun with his hand as he's holding his hat. He stumbles for a moment and staggers to his feet. He looks at you with shame and you return the look with one of love and encouragement.

"Johnny Ringo!" You shout much to the surprise and shock of the Cowboys watching. Some of them hoot and holler while others exchange glances and smile or nod.

Johnny exits his tent and sees you standing there, your hair flowing in the breeze. He walks closer to you, still processing the reality before him. He whispers your name and his eyes grow wide with wonder and awe.

"Why... How'd you... What are you..." He stammers over his words.

You stand, your arms crossed, your eyes full of determination and a resistance to any intimidation. "I'm not leaving until you tell me why you just left! No explanation! Nothing!"

Johnny moves closer to you. "Please keep your voice down," he says, looking over at Curly Bill and the other Cowboys.

You sigh. "Alright. But I'm not leaving until you talk to me! Why did you leave?"

Johnny's mouth falls open; women don't fight like this and they especially wouldn't risk their safety and reputation just for him. The emotions that strain his heart seem so unfamiliar and raw.

"I don't know," he whispers. "I've always been this way. You don't know me. I already told you not to waste your time with me!"

He turns to walk away, but you move in front of him. "You're NOT going to walk away from me again!" You say, your voice is rising again.

Johnny stands in shock at your boldness. He opens his mouth to speak, but can't find the words. The darkness inside of him begins to stir, but seems to blow slowly away, revealing a light he rarely experiences. He almost smiles, but maintains his cool. He brushes a hair away from your face. He says your name and then in an awkward manner, he removes his hat and stands like a child would stand, waiting for an admonishment.

"Johnny," you say softly. "Stop! Stop this!"

"I can't," he answers. "I am what I am and you just don't understand -,"

"Don't tell me I don't understand!" You say, your voice rises to the point, some of the Cowboys look over.

"YN," Johnny starts. "Find yourself a better man. I'll never be good enough for you!" Johnny turns to leave and you move so quickly, he can't avoid you. The part of Ringo that no one cares enough about to search for begins to awaken and that terrifies him more than any gunfight ever could.

"Johnny Ringo!" You say loudly. "I don't care who's watching! And I'm still not leaving!"

Curly Bill stands up and gazes at Johnny. Ringo signals Curly Bill need not worry.

"YN...I... Don't know what to say." Johnny puts his head down in shame.

You take his face in your delicate hands. He pulls away, feeling ashamed that you're seeing him in such a vulnerable way. Your hands feel soft and cool, a reminder of what the world could someday offer him.

"I..." He begins.

Your fiery eyes grow wide with concern and something unfamiliar; a sweet softness that demonstrates your unwavering commitment to him. He toys with the idea that love flutters in your heart. Love for him... Something he gave up on years ago when the war took everything. And the war brought a flood of sorrows through loss, sickness and death. Ringo saw the cruelty the human spirit can impose. Watching his family lose everything, his mother's disappointment in him, his father's death...How his family barely tolerated him now because of how he chose to cope with his loss. The way his sisters scowled at him when he returned to see them. He can still recall their harsh admonishments:

"Just look at yourself! You could have been anything and you chose to be a thief and a killer!"

"How Papa would feel if he saw you now! He was a good man, a lawyer! You're nothing and you have nothing! Even the clothes you're wearing were probably stolen!"

And after that, he never saw his family again.

Now you stand before him like a beacon of hope and light, nothing but concern in your eyes. And not the insincere concern of a ramera; real, genuine care for him. A warm feeling rushes through his chest.

"If you knew about me, you'd know to stay away from me," he tells you.

"Johnny!" You beg, practically falling on your knees. You suck back your tears and look him in his eyes. Your strength begins to betray you and your eyes glisten with tears.

"Johnny," your voice a whisper. "Why won't you talk to me?"

Johnny sees your pain and curses himself for causing it. He turns away so he doesn't have to see that sadness in your expression.

You take a deep breath, pulling yourself together. The idea of losing control of yourself or bursting into tears in front of a bunch of surly cowboys causes you to regain your strength.

You see Curly Bill and a few others glance over and then return to their tasks.

"You know where I live! Come this afternoon, please, Johnny!"

#tombstone movie #tombstone cowboys #johnny ringo #curly bill brocius #creative writing #tombstone 1993 #cowboys from tombstone movie #tombstone historical fiction #stories about johnny ringo

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