FicWad

She hates the way she looks. It's like some sort of nightmare, only she can't wake up. It changes how people perceive her and no matter how she dresses, how she speaks, how she acts, how she styles this ridiculous mop of hair, they only see the Lost Child.

Red hair, bright like blood and rubies, hangs in obnoxious ringlets to her waist, the stuff so thick it barely stays in a single braid and never gets out of her face. Skin pale, like the porcelain china she always wanted to own in her other life, her veins a pale blue underneath. If you hold her up to the light, she wonders, can you see through her like those expensive plates? Somehow, her lips are still red, red like she's kissed cherries all afternoon. She doesn't need makeup, can't stand the stuff. Couldn't even when she was big. She's short, four feet if she doesn't wear tall shoes - which she does as often as she can.

Tonight, it's awkward black and white saddle shoes to match a disgusting white dress with a black vest. The skirt is covered in ridiculous black polka dots. But it's not her party and attendance was requisite.

She stands in a corner and scowls at everyone, her doll clutched in both hands so she doesn't have to pretend to want to eat or drink or dance or talk. The doll looks just like her, white skin and red hair wearing a black and white dress. It always looks like her, even down to the frown on its face right now.

Other guests twirl around the room in elaborate dances or cluster in small groups to plot and plan. The lady and lord of the party sit in elaborately decorated chairs that no one calls thrones on a dais at one end of the room. She's already done her duties to them, elegant curtsey and stupid words meant to soothe them.

She wants to leave, wants to run, wants to be home so she can find the little lost ones and bring them home, make them know that no one will ever help, love, protect them but her, let them stay with her until they die, their bodies unaged, but dust just the same. It is /her way/, has been since The Mother came and made her the Lost Child. Solitary, away from these others. Just with the children. The way she likes.

"You look particularly charming tonight, Little Red Death," says a deep, rolling voice from beside her. She glares at D'arseigh, putting the force of her will behind it so that he will remember his childhood fears and flinch from her. He just laughs, plaited black hair brushing the floor as his head dips. "Feisty, too." He nods to the pair on the dais. "They're disappointed. You were supposed to come and be a good little poppet tonight. Look lovely and stately. Make everyone think they have the favor of The Mother. But you're not happy and everyone knows it. So now everyone will think that they have the /dis/favor of The Mother."

"I care not what favor they think they do or do not have," she says between gritted teeth. "They are inconsequential to me, and The Mother has never given me more or less favor than any of the others."

"But she created you," D'arseigh points at her, finger hovering just in front of her but not touching. That he fears her, even in this subtle way, makes her feel better. D'arseigh is bearable in a way the others are not. "The rest had to bring themselves around."

"She did not create you, either, Master D'arseigh," she replies, curls shaking around her head as she looks away. "Does that mean you made yourself?"

His laughter would have brushed over her like a lover's touch if she were bigger. But she is not and never will be again. "I do not know that I made myself as much as I simply assumed a vacancy." She sees him gesture out of the corner of her eye, does not bother to catch it. "Darkness needs a deity as much as everything else."

"Your flippancy makes you a mockery at court," she takes the road most traveled. All the rest attempt to change D'arseigh, to mold him into a more presentable façade. Even now, he wears clothes that are not formal enough, just a polo shirt and a pair of khaki pants, displaying his muscled form. The look is slouching and disobedient. It would only be worse if the shirt was stained or the pants wrinkled.

D'arseigh just laughs. "I thought you were better than that, Red." She sees, through a curtain of red curls, his lips smile thinly. "Seems you're just their poppet after all."

She turns on him, hands fisted at her sides, doll forgotten on the floor. Stamping her foot in the only gesture of frustration open to her, she cries, "You are nothing but a sniveling excuse for a mortal acting as one of us! They put up with you out of habit, nothing more."

She whirls away, her doll in her hand without even a thought, seeing the opening, the reason she can give that she left the party unexpectedly. She will stalk out the door as best she can in this ridiculous outfit and return to her children. Tonight, she will take them to hunt. Tonight, there will be blood shed by those who hurt the ones she protects. Tonight, -

His hand is on her arm, holding her back. She curses her smaller form, knows that she has the same strength he does even with his greater size, but he has better leverage. A small scene will become a large disgrace for her.

But the light is dim around them and he is using his power. No one will notice them now and it makes her stop squirming.

"Never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth, Red," he says quietly, hiding his eyes with a tilt of his head.

She peers at him more carefully, eyebrows bunching. "I did not mean it," she replies just as soft. "But you called me /theirs/. And I am no one's but my own."

"I did not mean that. We should both leave," he releases her arm and the lights come back up and the noise of the party whirls around them again. "This place makes us too tense. It's no fun here."

"I agree," she lets a small smile slip over her face.

They both head for the door and she can't bring herself to care that she will be questioned as to why she left so early and why in such disreputable company. Does she not want The Mother to be proud of her? Shouldn't she be on her best behavior so that The Mothe/r does not think ill of her? She shakes her head, sliding that voice into the ice she keeps at the center of her. Nothing survives there. What they think makes no difference and it isn't her performance /here that The Mother will judge. She knows that.

The night air outside the castle is crisp, like the bite of a snow-fed stream. Autum is burning itself down. She turns to D'arseigh, expecting him to be gone. Instead, he's looking at her like he's trying to decide what to say. She's about to beat him to it, wish him a good evening and leave, when his mouth opens.

"I'd like to come with you." He seems surprised to hear the words come out. "You're going hunting, aren't you?"

He's never been able to read her mind before. No, she must be becoming too predictable. That's unacceptable. "I don't know, Master D'arseigh," she begins.

His eyes catch the light and she's not sure how she can see the difference between the darkness and his eyes, they're made of the same stuff, but his eyes are shining like beacons and it's like he's pleading but he isn't. "Sind," he uses her name in a whisper, like a prayer. No one uses her name. It isn't unknown, but it's rude to call her such when she is the Lost Child. Her name used to be a label. Now her title is all she is.

"The children," she turns away quickly, so she doesn't see his expression. Begging one god to another is a sign of weakness. D'arseigh isn't normally weak and she doesn't want him to think she'll use this against him. She thinks she'll enjoy the company. "They will enjoy you along. They like your tricks and your toys."

There is a smirk in his voice, all confidence and bravado restored. "Of course they do. I have the best toys."

*

The nightgown she wears on the hunt is always the same, but there is comfort in this habit. White cotton hangs to the tops of her feet, tiny lace hem brushing over her toes. A matching bit of lace rings the collar and cuffs, her hand just peeking out of the sleeve to clutch her doll. She knows she looks even more innocent in this than the fancy party dresses. A sleepy little girl, readying for bed.

She's not.

She's brought five with her tonight, more than enough: James, Elyssa, Margot, Fiense, and Cam. They had crowded around D'arseigh after she selected them, five pairs of bright, eager eyes looking up at him. To his credit, D'arseigh had managed a polite laugh and produced honeysweets from his pocket, handing one to each of them. Margot and Fiense stared at the little lumps of sugar in their palms, but the rest ate theirs happily. Eventually Cam stole the candies and ate them and Margot smiled at him. Fiense just looked wistful, as he always did.

The night air is still and tinged with sweetness. She knows the night-blooming flowers that provide the scent follow D'arseigh, but the mortals don't ever seem to notice that and it never warns them of his imminent arrival.

They stand, the seven of them, outside a small farmhouse in the middle of an agrarian countryside. She doesn't wonder if she's ever been here before, in this form or the last. She knows this place because a child in her care does; Cobble, who cannot speak now and who was mostly dead when she found him. He is still mostly dead, but he allows others to know that pain as well through the thoughtful use of knives and sharp wire. Cobble does not need to be here, though. His pain is still fresh, will be fresh for another hundred years. By that time, the one who maimed and beat him will be dead. That is unacceptable.

There is a candle dancing in the darkness on the table of the farmhouse. The man inside is stooped now, but was once tall and proud, a man with a wife, a son. He is awake, despite the late hour and how his bones ache. Dreams of blackness haunted him right out of his solitary bed.

They do not knock at the door. There is no need. Each of the children clasps a darkened object. They are D'arseigh's toys, and only these children know how to play with them, wicked black blades, prickly cudgels, sharp edges.

The man has eyes only for her, though, watching her pad soundlessly to his table. His face is pale, eyes wide. Despite how his heart patters in his chest, she won't let him die. Not yet.

He begs, but she does not hear the words, only looks at him, head cocked, face innocent. He asks for absolution, but gets none from her, from the children. From D'arseigh, who stands wide in the doorway, watching with tight lips and fierce eyes.

They leave with reddened hands and faces, the children giggling in their mirth and delight. The hunt always leaves them refreshed. It makes her feel better as well, but she can't say how. Perhaps their pleasure is hers?

D'arseigh is silent as they slip through the woods and over rolling hills, flying like zephyrs, their feet never really touching the ground. She pulls them to the next place, but she is watching D'arseigh.

It is another man this time, but there is a woman in his bed as well. She is unharmed because she is not a defiler of children. D'arseigh holds her arms when she tries to help the man. That is good, because it is difficult to hinder a grown woman who is desperate and in spite of the peace the hunt brings, killing those who have done her no wrong outrages her. The children are too pleased tonight to have their fun doused by her anger.

D'arseigh is still silent and stony as they fly to the last place, this time in a city full of lights and laughter, even with the threat of dawn approaching. She has never watched D'arseigh this closely before. She can see the strain around his eyes. He does not dislike the killing, he does enough of it himself in his own capacity.

She stands beside the lady, her ghostly pale hand holding her in place while the children pull in close. Elyssa says quietly, "Mother," and the woman jerks and looks at the girl, but she is not her mother and Elyssa doesn't look at all like the woman's daughter. Once they descend, she continues standing there, watching D'arseigh now. He doesn't seem to see anyone but the mother going down, down, deep.

She is curious and pulls him inside the house that is hers in the middle of a dark wood, where no one can ever find it. The children disperse immediately, going to tell others and sing about their lovely evening hunt.

Her gown is still stained, blood edging the hem and splashes of dark red across the front and sleeves. She doesn't bother to change it.

When she serves him tea, silently, she slips a hand over his and then she knows. He was a broken child. Long before he was a god and long before her other self was born. She only knows because it is just there, on the surface. Why he has kept it hidden all this time is a mystery to her, but it is no mystery why he comes to hunt with her in the autumn, every autumn. All broken children need retribution.

"You would have lived among my children," she says softly, setting the teapot on the table between them. The sitting room is warm, a fire flickering merrily in the fireplace and the first fingers of dawn creeping in the window at the east end.

"I'm older than you," he says gruffly. "There wasn't a Lost Child then, Red."

"Not until The Mother lost a child, yes. I have heard the tale." She nods. He looks less substantial as the day bleeds forth. The light won't reach them, she knows, but just the fact that his realm is fading makes him fade as well.

"She had only two," he says quietly. "One is lost and the other is," he pauses. "The other is locked away."

She does not ask. D'arseigh is the only one who sees the second child, ever. Only he knows her name. No one else dares risk the knowing. When she speaks, the words are dreamy and unfocused, "Do you think The Mother blames us?"

His laugh is abrupt, humorless. "The world or the gods?"

"Both."

"Maybe if we had stopped her. Maybe if they hadn't been so intent on sending their message to The Mother. Maybe if she had taken my advice and gone home." He shook his head. "Too many maybes. Even The Mother has to acknowledge that it was all out of her control."

"Why?" She sounds like a child and she knows it and she hates it but she can't help the asking. This is the reason she is the Lost Child and there's a difference between knowing the stories and knowing the /reasons/.

"The Mother doesn't control everything, despite what some like to believe," D'arseigh dips his spoon in the tea and it turns dark, becomes thick, rich coffee. The smell of it wafts about the room. "If she did, we wouldn't be living without her. Her silence and grief have made us all weak."

"I have never known her voice," she replies carefully. "Does that mean I would be stronger?"

D'arseigh gets up, paces to the fireplace, then back to the bookshelf on the opposite wall. He pauses and stares at the spines of the books as though they will give him enlightenment. "No." The word hangs between them for a few minutes and she waits for him to finish his thought. He does, eventually. "The voice of The Mother would not make you stronger. It would temper you and you wouldn't seek revenge for the children anymore." He looks more distraught than she feels when he turns to her. "You are the child she made for herself, Little Red Death, when all she felt was pain. If she stops feeling that pain, you will, too."

There is horror blooming in her chest but it is pushed back by anger. She has done what she was meant to, took all the children who were broken and made them happy. If she cannot fix them, it is because only The Mother can make them whole. But she has done her duty, her honor, her job. And if The Mother returns, she will unmake that existence as she once unmade the existence of a tired, broken-souled woman who couldn't stand to be battered again. She remembered that woman all too well.

"I will refuse to be changed," she says darkly. "The Mother must know that I have performed as I ought. She cannot do this to me."

"She is The Mother," he replies, but his back is facing her again and she cannot see his expression to determine whether he's laughing at her. "The world begins and ends with her."

Traitorous, treasonous thoughts crowd her brain. To remove The Mother, that she might not return. Make The Mother stay away. But he is right. The world cannot exist without The Mother, and The Mother cannot exist without the world. It is a law that is unbreakable, beyond time.

But The Mother will not return without the Daughter. The Daughter who was stretched on a rack and displayed above a city during a time of drought and war, who had taken mortal form to help those who her Mother had created.

And though the Daughter cried and cried, still The Mother paused
For they were all her children there, and she was but the cause
But war sung on and people, torn, thought not about the cost
Now Mother sighs when children die, but all they see is Lost

Part of a poem one of the muses had constructed as a remembrance of the time. It makes more and less sense in light of D'arseigh's words.

"I save children," she says, finding the words flowing out of her without pause, dismay without even the comfort of anger. "I save them and then make the ones who did them harm pay for their transgressions."

"There's one child you can't save, Red," D'arseigh replies, walking back and setting a book on the table in front of her. "And you can't kill transgressors who are already dead."

Then he's gone to whatever hiding place he reaches when the sun shines bright and chases him away and she looks down at the book. /Lessons of The Mother/, a volume of children's fables to teach the young.

She remembers reading the book as a girl, remembers praying to The Mother to take away the pain, take away the hurtful father. The Mother had not. She had only come to take her away after the Daughter was gone, when she would be useful. The Mother's whims could be fickle, but the Lost Child's rages are unabating. She swipes the book from the table and throws it into the fire.

She will not be changed. She is finally wanted, needed, and she will not allow that to slip away. For she has always known being without a mother is less of a hardship than having one who does not care.

*

Others come to find her. They wander in her woods, lost, until she notices them. When she does, she will often allow some of her children to find them and play with them as they will. Occasionally the mortals will come back as servants. Very rarely, a god will slip in and she will be forced to meet them, even if it is not in the mansion they sought.

She will stand among the trees, her children wide-eyed and crowded behind her, as though she is a mother to protect them from this entity. She might be able to, but she would prefer not to find out.

Renfei has never visited her before. But somehow he knows the protocol she prefers. He stands on the edge of her woods and waits until she notices him, until her power flares over his. She narrows her eyes. It has been months since D'arseigh left, and even more frequent hunts have not calmed her anger. She does not wish to see this god. She does not wish to see any of them.

She storms out of the woods to stand in front of him, dress red like blood and black like night, hair flying around her, eyes blazing green like eldritch. Renfei bows to her, eyes downcast and formal. He is lithe and spry, long limbed, short haired, harshly so. He is contrast: light blue eyes, dark brown hair; black cloak and clothing, bright silver swords crossed at his back. He is also of balance, rendering ruthless equality.

"Lost Child," he says, his voice a breathy whisper, almost a hiss. "I have come to ask a question of you, may I proceed?"

"You have bothered me," she says angrily. "I require peace and tranquility to do my work."

"You appear neither peaceful nor tranquil. While I may have bothered you, I do not believe I am the first." He doesn't smile, even though her mouth twists in a frown. "I have come to ask a question," he repeats. "May I proceed?"

She shakes her head. Even so, she spits, "Proceed."

"Thank you, Lost Child," he bows again, elegant and graceful. Always so mannered and perfect. She wants to throw mud in his face, on his immaculate clothes. Make him dirty and spoiled. She is not happy and the world should not be content either. She will hunt tonight, she decides. "Has The Mother sent you word?"

She throws back her head and roars as best she is able. The sound is still petulant, childish, and she hates it. Her hands clench into fists and she whirls on a tree to her left, knuckles meeting wood with a sickening crack. The wood splits and the tree falls. Her hand is bruised and bleeding, but healing as the seconds pass.

She grits her teeth and answers. "I have not seen The Mother. The Mother has not sent me word. I feel that she never will and I will be thankful for it with the exception that I will forever be sought after by cretins asking the same relentless question!"

There are no children with her and she is glad. Her anger would have them in an uproar. They will likely be inconsolable when she returns. The hunt will be large. All will want to go and a dozen children will be too many. Another hunt tomorrow, then, for the rest. She will still need the calm.

"I will not return to ask the question again, Lost Child," Renfei replies, completely unfazed by her reaction. "But in light of your complaint, may I ask a favor?"

"I don't want to do you a favor. I want to stay with my children." She is still tense and angry.

"If The Mother does contact you, would you contact me? I would appreciate adding that factor into my equations." Renfei is still, there is no extraneous motion, nothing to attract a predator's eye. She does not know if that is due to her presence, because she knows that he considers her at least moderately dangerous, or if he is always motionless until he needs to move.

"You didn't say when," her eyes narrow.

He lifts an eyebrow, curiosity passing briefly over his otherwise blank face. "I would like you to contact me as soon as she does you," he clarifies.

"Not when I should contact you," she grits her teeth, shakes her head. Blood red curls fly around her and she pushes them away absently. "You said 'if The Mother contacts me,' not 'when.' Does that mean you do not expect her to return?"

Renfei shrugs, one shoulder sliding up, then down. "I cannot answer that simply. She never left in the time before you were made. But she has been gone now for hundreds of years. If I did not know The Mother, I would think she remade herself into you." His eyes narrow slightly, searchingly, and she glares at him harshly. "You are not she. Your power is different. The Mother was always more forgiving than you are prone to be."

"Would you be," she spits, harsh and uncompromising, "if my place were yours."

"I am unforgiving now, Lost Child," he says simply and she wants to hit another tree, make it splinter. Make him splinter. "If you require a less severe counterpoint in order to evaluate your performance, I am not the best choice."

"I do as I see fit and no one will judge me," she knows her lips barely move, the sound low and angry as it leaves them. "Not even you."

"My judgment has never been reserved for gods, save for when The Mother ordered it so," he bows slightly and she wishes he would stop being formal, stop being polite, answer her anger with anything other than apathy.

"Is that why you need her so?" she sneers. "Because you wish to discipline the rest of us?"

He shakes his head and something like regret passes through his eyes so fast she almost doesn't see it. "I have never had the hand to discipline the gods. I have never wanted that responsibility. I only wanted to establish a balance in the world and make it hold. When I achieve that goal, I will be done."

"And then what? What will you do when people upset the balance you have created?" The argument is an old one. She knows it applies to her as much as it does to him. If mortals become too afraid to harm children, her place in the universe will cease to be. She thinks neither will it ever come to pass, nor that Renfei's balance is fated to last, even if it is ever truly established in the first place.

"I believe that people living in a true balance would correct any imbalances themselves." Renfei shakes his head. "But I am more able to enact the balances I seek with The Mother's presence bolstering me. It is the same with all the gods."

"Except me," she says very, very quietly.

"Except you," he concedes.

"What do you believe will happen to me when The Mother returns?" Her voice is deeper than anger now. She shivers with it.

"It depends on why she returns," and she does not imagine that he looks just the slightest bit careful when he says it. "If she still grieves the loss of the Daughter, I believe you will remain unchanged. If she does not, she might reduce the potency and scope of your abilities. I do not know which is more likely. The Mother's departure was a surprise to us all."

"I protect the children," she whispers. She lifts a hand to her face and feels the tracks of tears there. They have been flowing for a while now, but he has not reacted to them. She does not know why either thing has occurred. "I will not stop protecting them. I do not see how anyone could make me stop."

She expects him to shrug, say, "She is The Mother," as all the other gods do, as though The Mother is somehow inscrutable, unknowable, and thusly, unexplainable. But he doesn't.

"The Mother goes deeper than us all," he takes a half step closer, coming up short as her eyes light in anger again. He has not raised his hand, not made any other movements. She will allow him that slip. "She is the beginning and the end of this world. She was made, as the mate to it, by unknown forces greater than us all. Or perhaps she tied herself here, but we are uncertain because she never gave us that knowledge. Without her, this place will cease to be. Without this place, she is nothing. We are all a part of her creation, a vast magical construct, which she maintains. When she is close to us, we feel her more forcefully and those of us who are gods are granted more power as a benefit."

"I'm the child she made for herself," she quotes D'arseigh, though neither man would appreciate bringing him up in this conversation.

"You are what she could not be, Lost Child," he replies, solemn whispers floating between them. "She would have to take your place in order to unmake you completely. Once a god is chosen, that god cannot cease to be. There is too much of her that is caring and tender to hold your power."

Others look at her, see a child often in pain. They go to comfort her, to take her in their arms and hold her. It is not what she wants, has never been what she wants, not even in her other life.

Renfei sees her crying, angry, frustrated. He does not step forward to take hold of her, to smother her with kindness she does not need. She respects him for that, even if he would not coddle a real child under the same circumstances.

"It would not be just to change you," he replies, finally, when she is no longer messy with tears. "I do not believe The Mother capable of such a thing."

"I do hope you are right," she looks him in the eye. He is not lying to her. She does not think he is capable, really. He is too focused on his goal to be otherwise.

*

She sets out without her children on the night of the new moon. They will sleep easily this night, because it is her will.

She skitters across the ground, black dress to match the darkness and a ribbon of white at the end of her plait, to contrast, foot touching a town square, an outlying farm, a deeply forested glade. The darkest places are the best, so she wanders among the trees, hanging in the shadows. It does not take as long as she expects.

"This must be a first, Red," D'arseigh steps from behind a tree to thin to hide him. "I've never heard of you searching out one of us. Of course," he grins, "I could be wrong and you're looking for someone to slaughter in these woods. Wouldn't be the first time."

She shakes her head, feels the solid weight of her braid against her back. "I came for you. I need something from you."

D'arseigh's eyes widen. "You need something from me? I'm flattered, but I'm not sure what I can offer you." She is saddened, just the slightest touch, at how quickly his eyes narrow in suspicion. "You want me to come and provide toys for your children again, don't you."

She shrugs, tries to affect carelessness. She knows she still looks tense, because it is how she feels. "It has been five years since you came to play with them. They miss your treats." She doesn't say it's the longest he's ever stayed away.

"But that isn't all?" he prods with his words. He is standing closer, though, close enough that she can almost make out his face.

"No. I need something from you, I need to see someone." She meets his eyes, sees the recognition and dawning horror there, but she continues regardless. "You know the person I speak of. Take me there."

D'arseigh steps back, hand in front of him in a warding gesture. "I can't do that, Red," he sounds scared now, truly, in a way she has never heard from him before. His voice is shaking. "I can't take you."

She examines his face carefully, but she is confused. "You are reluctant, but I do not believe it is because you wish to protect yourself or your charge." She shakes her head. "And not even to protect me. Why do you fear?"

"I-I don't fear," he stutters, but it is obvious to even him that it is a lie, a bad one, especially for him. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself. "I have been told the consequences and I'm not willing to risk them. It's too much."

"It is my life," she growls. "It is all I have. If I do not speak to her, I cannot prevent my own destruction."

"Red," he shakes his head, but he is more collected now. "I can't. And I won't. It would hurt her. It might hurt the rest of us. There's too much at stake here and as much as I like you and appreciate what you do, I can't. I'm sorry."

She watches him, her eyes boring into his. He looks sad and resigned. It is not a good look for him, his lips turned down, eyes shifting constantly. She is still angry, cannot hide it, but she will not escalate the situation. "Do not seek me out. Do not come to hunt with me. You are forbidden from it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lost Child," and she is frighteningly crushed by his use of her title. Always the nickname, the shorthandt. Making her more than what she is. He turns away from her and is gone.

She wants to cry, to kill, to destroy. Instead, she returns home, leaves the children in bed, and sits in front of the fire sipping tea and reading daydreams meant to amuse, planning the hunt tomorrow. It should not like feel like utter defeat.

It does anyway.