This is a story that has been sitting in my computer for months now. It's more or less written, I simply need to tweak a few things here or there. It isn't something to be updated all the time, but I felt like delving into a new theme of writing. This is something I am kind of proud of... if you are a reader of ENOIS, TTUTE or KTTSTB then please read the A/N at the end of this chapter.

Please enjoy despite the spelling and grammar mistakes I am prone to.

Summary: Slender remembered few names, he saw too many faces and heard too many stories to afford that luxury. The names that did remain with him were truly special and usually came with an incredibly unique story. Within a leather bound book in his breast pocket Slender keeps the stories of these names; one such is the story of his daughter.

Slender's Child.

A name and a Memento

There are some names that stick with me, not a great many as I am far too busy and preoccupied with my work to pay attention to the time between, but the few that do, reside here in my inner pocket where I keep the mementos from those who allow me to fill my quota. A little leather bound book where there are but ten names, twenty number equations, and a handful figure of recipes given to me many a year ago by someone I ponder was a mother to me. But maybe that is just the disintegration of my memory giving me such a ponderance.

The most significant name, if I were to choose but one would have to be, Lily, the name of the child who was affectionately known by those who spited her as Slender's child. Now, a great many reasons brought this name into to being, and unfortunately- or fortunately depending on your disposition- her name came about after a rather remarkably unfortunate event when she was but five years old.

Her first home was not extraordinarily memorable, but even I'll admit to its beauty and its interest; for a being such as myself it was perfectly capable of allowing me to complete my job to the shortest of time frames and through a path of least resistance. Therefore it was beautiful and interesting.

Heavily wooded, it was a boreal forest made to the strict guidelines of nature's mother, had taken thousands of years to form, and to that day had very little interaction with the men of the village but five minutes down a dirt-beaten path. Mist clung to the ground, as if afraid of floating into the sky to become cloud, and it was as if a perpetual autumn slept in the woods, for it was rare that when I visited the lushness of the boreal there were not leaves on the ground in a lush carpet for my weary feet.

Now, being who I am, I am busy, so the child's story and name did not really give me pause for the longest of times, not for years after she actually receive the name with no gratitude; and it never did occur to me that it would ever make itself know within my little red book of remembrance. Even now, as my long and lean fingers brush the clever strokes where I had her sign her name, I wonder when it was exactly that I decided to hunt her down to get her name written, and how much longer after that I remained important to her. For after a certain amount of time everyone forgets my name and face; no matter the impact I have on their life, and always after a certain age.

Of course, I heard in passing the child's tale, and through this tale, her name. My territory; my stomping ground; my roost- but never my home- covers a long range of places. I am neither here nor there, and I live nowhere but everywhere, the deeper truth of the matter is that I simply travel for work. It was through hearsay that I first felt the vibration of the words rattle on about the child's tale, and I was at first greatly surprised that I hadn't realised that I had known it before.

Years ago a child had disappeared in this wood see, she had not so much as wondered off but instead had simply appeared in the wooded, autumn sleeping woods and stayed there. I remember the feeling of a child entering the forest, but again, I was preoccupied with my job, I knew she would not escape, for no one ever did.

During her longest time within the forest I passed her a few times, making my presence known, telling her I was there and that I would be with her in just a moment. Of course, like most children I meet, she was happy to wait, but unlike other children, it wasn't really from fear but intrigue. She didn't try to run, she didn't struggle against the brush of my fingers along her jaw; she didn't seem to even notice and just smiled as she explored.

The next I knew of the girl was in a place I remember now, thinking about it. And though it wasn't through personal means, I learnt of her story through hearsay in another town where the mist had the same fear as the child's own.

It was everywhere in the town on their televisions. It was mass panic. The news that is, the recipients not so much. Everyone's expressions falling over each other, it was disgusting in some instances, and true in others, because their faces all moulded into one kind of blasé. That may not make sense to you, reading this as you are, but believe me when I tell you that it happens often during my travels; I do my job and children go missing, the adults make that kind of shocked, forced sadness then move on. It's the automated response they've cultivated, for they must feel awful for the child and said child's parents, but then they can get on their lives and forget about it. Detestable adults.

I chuckle at the thought, a dark, sinister chuckle that warms me, because the adults are detestable; it's one reason I do so love my job.

Usually I pay little heed to stories of lost children and their heroic return; but I will be the first to admit to the luxury of curiosity in his particular case.

Within my mementos there is are newspaper clippings that go along with the ten scripted names, and the one most crinkled and aged would be the one I picked up from a dying man's hand in the town with the fearful fog and the mass panic news. It would be this child's story. It told the miraculous tale of the girl and to this day I smirk, because man is so naive and so easily amazed by things they are not so sure they understand.

It is an interesting story, the girl went missing from her suburban backyard early in the summer time, it was her birthday and the party had just ended when she slipped away into the mist forest that should have had no entrance. And this isn't so surprise in to ones such as me, children go missing 'with no explanation' all the time; and I pick them up and take them home.

Ah, I do remember that time clearly now, the feeling was sudden and warm, but a young female child did enter my domain when I was just checking my inventory and which order it was I was to fulfil next. She was young and naive, but the warmth of her entrance was like a siren call; I had to use all of my temperance not to claim her then, but work comes first in my line of life, so I simply left her to her own devices; after all she seemed fairly happy to be playing in the forest. I always did love it when the children laughed and smiled, so I was not about to rush my work and miss the giddy laughter of exploration from the girl.

I seemed to have forgotten about the child though, because next thing I know the newspaper article in my breast pocket reads about the amazing reappearance of the child three weeks later no more worse for wear than when she disappeared; if anything in a better condition than when she left. Now, I still don't understand how that could be possible, for I certainly didn't care for her, and within my woods there are no others –like me or like man- who could have cared for her; another curiosity that led me to remembrance of her name.

I still question how exactly it was that she slipped me by.

After all, according to this rather aged newspaper, she had all the signs of my arrival.

"When the police arrived at the child's home to investigate further into her disappearance it was made obvious that the child had been through a rather difficult time. 'For a while she had been having nightmares about this creature,' her mother told reporter Jake Llung. Apparently the child had been having horrendous nightmares about a man dressed all in black that called her to the forest to have a tea party and play games. When police investigated her lovely little bedroom they found disturbing pictures of the described creature all drawn in black on colourful paper: 'The most common label for these pictures' police officer Ivan Scott describes, 'was 'he's always watching-no eyes,''; what does that mean for the little girl who arrived home, three weeks later? This reporter doesn't know."

It's always interested me, how man gets such entertainment from the sorrow and mysterious circumstances of others; that, and how the girl escaped me having showed every sign of my arrival; an invitation from me you could say.

First were the nightmares, as they always appeared to be. But to the children, they were not nightmares; they were beautiful places with beautiful things. I was there, in every child's dream, as it was my job of course. They would call to me, ask me things like 'when are you coming' and 'sir, are you near yet?' it was beautiful really; to be loved so unconditionally by the children who I collected and saved.

Of course, to the adults- their parents- their peers who dreamed not of me but of candy and fairytales, these children had nightmares of a ghoulish man with no face. A man who wore black and stole children; surely they were cruel these adults, I did not steal children, I simply escorted them somewhere new- I always did the righteous duty of guiding them home.

As for my apparel, well I'm quite fond of it, not only does it help me to keep up my appearances, but it does ever so help me to dress darkly for my work. My suit is long and supple, laced with the blacks of onyx and the threads so thin they could be spider's webs. Usually but not always I wear a top-hat upon my head, and I feel smart and elegant. A tie around my neck to keep my crisp white collar closed, and my six cufflinks shaped simply as circles are always done up to perfection; I always check that they shine just as brightly as my shoes, because I am but a business man and I must be presentable for my work.

So this young girl escaped my grasp when she was five, she called to me and I made her wait and she made me wait. It isn't often a name stays with me, and it isn't often I allow myself the luxury of curiosity. It might have been the wonderful pictures, or the strange sensation of attraction, but I decided, on that night when the little girl appeared on the mist enshrouded streets of her home, that I would make catching and watching her, my duty; if for no other reason than to get rid of this tiresome boredom. It isn't often after all, that a child escapes me.

This isn't very long, but it's a prelude to Slender's child. Please review, I would appreciate it!

READERS OF:

E'la Nostra Ora Incisa Sull'anello: All of the current chapters have been edited and a new chapter is in the works. If you feel like it take a look at the edited chapters and feel free to PM me about the changes etc if you've already reviewed! I love you all my longest standing supporters!

To the Untrained Eye: I have edited all the previous chapters and am In the process of uploading them. Two new chapters are in the works and I can promise them to you all before the end of the year. Thank you for being so patient, I know there are so few Eyeshield 21 fics and I am proud to be one of the authors who write them.

Knots that Tie and Strings that Bind: The next chapter is almost complete, I will get it out to you before the year is up. I may even get it done before/for Christmas if my plans don't go astray. Please be patient and thank you for your outstanding and warm support.

I hope you all enjoyed enjoyed this chapter and look forward to more. I love all my readers, thank you so much!

~~Bleach-ed-Na-tsu :3