"How long has this been going on?"
"Why does it matter? It's not as though you ever felt for me."
The man didn't consider this, if even for a moment. His face showed no trace of thought, only white-hot rage. It didn't seem to matter that he held no affections toward this woman. His main focus was this: this woman was his wife, belonging only to him, and should not be pregnant with another man's child.
"Come," she attempted to calm him before he could start yelling, "Think of yours."
"Do you even want the damn thing?"
"No, I don't."
A pause, "So what, then? Will you give it up? Leave it in the woods?"
"... Is that what you wanted to do to him?"
"You know damn well we only needed one heir!"
Suddenly, the door to their room opened wider. In stumbled a pair of little boys, identical in appearance. One was crying. The other held his hand and was glaring daggers at his parents.
"He didn't ask to be born, and neither did I! Who the hell wants to be the son of such a disgusting swine of a king!?"
"Roxas! Language! You're only four."
"I don't need to be an adult to recognize filth!"
That, the queen did not argue. She simply took the crying twin out to the hallway, leaving Roxas to suffer his father's belt alone.
The moon was high in the sky, the stars twinkling expectantly. Draped in sparkling silks, the queen led her son by the hand out to the garden. They sat side by side on the edge of a glorious fountain spewing dazzling waters. He fingered the edge of her robe and imagined the shine from the stars and the water had been woven into its fabrics. She knew he liked having something in his hands, so she let his habit indulge itself, humming a slow tune to calm him down. When he'd stopped hiccoughing, she gently asked, "Ventus?"
"Yes, Mommy?"
"Do you love the king?"
"Yes."
"Ignore your training. Tell me your honest opinion of him."
"... I don't think he's fit to be king. Or a father. He scares me."
"He scares me too, son."
"Should we run away?"
"We are royalty, Ventus. We do not abandon our responsibilities."
"But you just abandoned Rox."
Her blue eyes widened a fraction of a second, then relaxed, "No, I did not. Roxas was out of line, so the king reminded him of his place."
"But…"
"Ventus, please try to understand. Let Roxas learn now, instead of later. It will only get worse if he doesn't learn to behave while young. You follow his example and behave too, alright?"
"Yes, Mommy."
"Very good. It's getting late, off to bed with you."
"Okay. Goodnight, Mommy."
"Sweet dreams, son."
With a kiss on his forehead, Ventus retreated to his room. He glanced once over his shoulder to see his mother press her hands to her forehead, then went down the hall to the adjoined wing. Ventus entered the first door on his right, and he started crying all over again. Sitting in the middle of their room was Roxas, shirtless, with harsh red marks lacing his torso. Running over, Ventus dropped to his knees, hugging Roxas tight and weeping into his shoulder. A hand stroked Ventus's hair, "it's okay, it's alright, I'm okay", but Roxas stayed calm. Through the worst of times, he was never upset. The last time he cried was a memory very hazy and distant to Ventus.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. It's not as bad as it looks, really."
"They're so red…"
"I'm fine!"
"Okay, if you say so."
It was then that the brothers heard a woman's scream. They knew it was their mother's, knew it all too well. Roxas made to get up and go after it, but Ventus held him back. That night, Roxas slept holding Ventus tight, with a blade under the pillow.
Just you try something, Roxas thought before drifting off, I'll be ready.
Little did Roxas know the blade would be used for something else entirely, something that would destroy the family forever. The brothers fell into their dreamscapes and never considered they'd be older brothers soon. It wasn't important.
Maybe that's where it all started.
This was the fifth time Naminé attempted hands within the last half hour. No matter what methods she used, whatever references she tried to copy, they always turned out too thick, too thin, or just plain wrong, sometimes so much they appeared inhuman. Everyone in the village was astounded and awestruck by her portraits of faces and torsos, but even they couldn't deny Naminé couldn't draw hands to save her life. Frustrated, she closed her sketchbook and put down her pencil to don her apron. It was about time to open up anyway.
Naminé's little shop was nestled between the bakery and the library, on the corner of the edge of the quaint village of Blackberry. It was often quiet, both inside and out. Blackberry had two sections: the market with all the stores, and the housing street, with town hall in the center, all made of cobblestone streets and timber. The market was always stocked with fresh produce and eager customers, but it was never too rowdy. Festivals were the only days the volume got louder than a dull roar. There was, however, always music, sounding either from nature or people playing instruments. It was soothing, quiet, peaceful. Naminé listened to it blissfully as she set up her paintings in display windows. One, two, three, in equal distances from each other. The wooden sign was flipped around to tell the world Naminé's was open for business. She sat behind the counter, flipped open a new page, and started sketching a finger, holding up her own as a guide.
"The second and third sections are the same length," she gnawed on her lip, "but so is the first one if I include the nail… right? No? But what if I don't? Whose hand is this anyway?"
She sighed disappointedly at her nubby nails. She'd quit the nasty habit of nail-biting when she was a kid, but it definitely left an impact. It's not as though she actually wanted long pretty nails like other girls. They got in the way of her work and would only end up chipping. Having anything but nubs would be impractical.
"Maybe these drawings look ugly because I have ugly hands…" Naminé frowned. Of course, the new drawing didn't look like a normal hand at all. The ligaments were too long, too bony, and a little too hairy. Another heavy sigh, then the bell over the door chimed. In walked a common customer, a jolly old man that adored the arts and their makers.
"Naminé, good mornin'!"
She left the sketch on the counter and greeted him, "Morning. Is it cold out there?"
"Oh, nothing an old man's bones can't handle," he chuckled, "The snow isn't that high. Barely reached my ankles."
"I'm glad to hear. So, what can I get for you today?"
"Ah, I was wonderin' if you had any new sculptures. My niece is comin' all the way from Whittlebane for her birthday and I wanted to give it to her as a present."
Naminé gestured to the back shelf, lined with all of her clay masterpieces, all of which did not have hands either. There were humans among the animals and beasts, but all of them were handless. No one seemed to mind and pretended not to notice when they bought them, "What does she like?"
"She's a horse-girl. Completely obsessed with the things."
"Horses are pretty, who wouldn't like them?" she chimed, handing him a rearing stallion, "How about this one?"
"Whoo that's a fine one! How long did it take to make?"
"A week," she watched him inspect it proudly, "They're easy to make once you know how their anatomy works."
"Did your mother teach you?"
"No one taught me anything," Naminé answered stonily.
His face fell, "My apologies. Didn't mean to bring her up."
"It's alright."
"Why don't you come to the pub with me when you close up?" he recovered, giving a reassuring smile, "I know you don't drink and all, but it's warm, there's nice people there. It'll get you out of the house."
"Last time I went, you got too drunk to walk."
"We'll split a hot chocolate and play some cards, if you want."
That brought a smile to her face, "Okay. I'll meet you there."
He paid her for the horse and departed with a friendly wave. As Naminé seated herself behind the counter, already she began dreading the evening. Social gatherings were not her forteé. Regardless of how well it goes at first, Naminé usually ended up not talking to anyone, since they'd gone off to talk to someone else. She felt she was taking up too much space while being incredibly tiny at the same time. Eighteen years old, and she couldn't remember having any friends. It had never bothered her; it meant she never had to worry about pressuring situations or drama. From the moment Naminé was born, it'd always just been her and her art. The thought contented her, though it was lonely at times. No boy had ever courted her. No girl had wanted to befriend her. Only the old man had ever taken her places, like the pub or the local dress shop. To everyone else, Naminé was known as the artist on the corner, and for Naminé, that had to be enough.
"You'll be okay," Naminé repeated to herself for the rest of the afternoon, "Don't worry."
At last, the sun had set. The torches had been lit along the street. It was time. Slightly trembling, setting her sketchbook back in its proper place on the her nightstand, Naminé swapped her apron for her coat, and went outside for the first time in a couple days. She locked the shop's door, again saying "you'll be okay" with cold breath. In her pocket jostled her painting rag, an item that brought her comfort when she felt it brush her hand. Her mittens wrapped around it in her pocket. A shaky nod and another, "you'll be okay", and she was off, trying her best to focus on the music and not the people flocking to the pub down the road.