A/N: Nurture v. nature: which one shapes us more? An experimental standalone two-shot exploring the idea in a vaguely Cass/Raph context—she could love their son, raise him right, but could she ever truly erase his father's influence? What follows are two independent answers...neither of which is particularly pleasant. Rated for elements of angst and horror.
Dedication: This one's for Kamitose, my Cass/Raph partner-in-crime.
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He's beautiful, all wide silver-blue eyes, sweetly curious, soft blond hair sweeping low over his forehead and he smiles, showing gapped baby teeth as he flings his arms out for a hug and calls her "Mommy". He's beautiful, sunshine and bright innocence, sweet, high laughter as he runs and plays, and she feels warm pride spread through her chest, comforting, because it's been four years, and even through her worry, her fear, through pained, sleepless nights, he's still here, all rosy-cheeked innocence as he turns his face to the sun.
And he's "three and a HALF" and likes frogs (laughs when Mommy shrieks) and he never understands why Mommy holds him so tightly on the cloudy days and why she paces at night, why she looks fearfully to the east, to the mountains, and cries in her sleep. But she loves him, loves him so much, and she laughs and plays with him and calls him silly, teasing affection, as she wipes smudges of chocolate from his mouth and cheeks. And they're happy.
But one day, he hears Pyrrha and Patroklos laughing and talking gaily of their daddy, how he's strong and courageous and gives them sweets even when Auntie Sophie tells him not to, and he doesn't understand and tugs at Mommy's skirt with chubby hands, stares with wide, tear-filled eyes and asks why he doesn't have a daddy. And Mommy kneels down and holds him tight and cries and cries until he's telling her not to even though he's crying, too.
She puts him to bed, tucks him in, runs a hand through his hair and kisses his forehead, and she loves him but she's still crying and her throat must hurt because she's running her fingers over her neck, and he doesn't know why, but he's scared.
He lays wide-eyed in bed, pulling the covers up to his chin as the night grows longer and mommy finally stops pacing and goes to her room, and he's been so scared that he wonders why he's not when dark shadows move and part and twist and there's a man there now, observing him curiously with reddened eyes, madness, evil, hellfire, and he should be scared but he's not.
He sits up and stares back, watching silently.
"What's your name?" the shadow-man asks, and his Greek is surprisingly beautiful and it flows and his tone is nearly kind, and even though names have power, he's not afraid. He tells him.
The man moves slightly into the dim glow of moonlight cast through his tiny bedroom window, and he thinks he must be a king or a prince or somebody very important, because he's dressed in black and gold and silver and he has a sword at his hip, glinting steel, and he even looks important, high cheekbones and an arrogant smile. "And how is your mother?" he asks gently.
And he can't help it, can't help crying because mommy's been crying and she's scared and no one will tell him why. The man smooths out the covers with one gloved hand and sits beside him, and he watches as he cries and finally pats his shoulder. "Come now," he chides. "What do you hope to accomplish with all this crying, hm?"
But he loves Mommy so much, and she loves him, and it hurts that he can't make it better. The man pauses before reaching out a hand to brush a few strands of blond hair from his forehead, and when he sees pale-blue eyes he stops, stock-still, and stares. "You have my eyes," he says, a low voice, a whisper, and he doesn't understand because his eyes are red and mommy calls his baby-blue, but mommy's eyes are bright, bright green and maybe he has his daddy's eyes, except he doesn't have a daddy, and then he's crying again.
The man silently hands him a silk handkerchief, all delicate embroidery, and he blows his nose and tells him, and maybe Mommy's sad and scared without his daddy, because he knows he is. The man surprises him by hugging him delicately, even though the front of his fine shirt is soaked with tears, and he hears him saying that he's sorry. And he doesn't understand, again, and he's tired of not understanding and he's tired of crying until the man says he loves Mommy, too, and he stares up at him with wide, teary, hopeful eyes.
He loves mommy, and he loves Mommy, and maybe he can help now and make her smile. The man dries his tears and pats his shoulder, and he says, "Perhaps your father could help." And his face lights up because he must know, and the man stares at his blue, blue eyes for a moment before telling him to get his cloak, quietly.
And that's the first time he's almost scared, when he thinks of leaving Mommy, and he wants to curl up under the covers until the man goes away, but he loves Mommy, and Mommy loves him, and he'll do anything to make her happy.
He gets his cloak, and the man helps him fasten it and calls him a good boy, and there's a crooked smile on his face, white baby teeth and trusting innocence, as the man leads him outside to a waiting carriage.
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Over the mountains, and he tries to be brave, even though he knows even Mommy is afraid of the mountains, and everyone speaks strangely and it's dark, very dark, and he's scared.
The man smooths his hair, comforting, as he sits silently beside him, and he doesn't understand why it feels so familiar, why his hand upon his brow feels comforting and gentle, all warm pride and affection, like Mommy, just like Mommy.
A thought, and he's scared to ask, but he turns baby-blue eyes to the man and asks, slowly, quietly, if he's… And he can't say it, but the man laughs deep and rich, and reaches out to ruffle his hair. "Smart boy," he says approvingly. "Just like his father." And there's a faint smile on his lips when he answers his unspoken question with a yes.
And somehow he knew, and he's happy and sad and suddenly frightened all at once.
Her name is Amy, and she's small-framed and has red, red hair and red, red eyes, and he doesn't think she likes him very much.
"He's blood," she says, and she's wary and distant until the man (Daddy, he thinks, but it's strange and unfamiliar) hugs her tightly and promises that she'll always be his little girl, and she settles, only slightly.
"Cassandra," Amy says, and he starts, just a little, because that's Mommy's name, and he misses her now, misses her so much.
"She kept him from you?" Amy asks, and the man (Daddy, but it's still strange and he's still scared) nods and it seems fairly light, fairly easy, but his fists are clenched and his eyes are narrowed and he's angry, but he swears he'll take care of him now.
Amy comes and takes his hand, and he jumps because she's cold, and she pulls him along carelessly, taking him to his new room, and it's cold and dark and so is she (and so is he, daddy), and he thinks of Mommy and sunlit warmth and tries and fails not to cry.