Author's Note: This is a bit longer than my usual chapters. What can I say; NaNoWriMo inspired me. Thank you to those readers who reviewed the last chapter, and those who will review this one. I hope it's to your liking, now that the game is out.

This one centers around the character from the last chapter, Scarlet Connelly. More specifically, it's about her absence during the quest for the Hero of Will. Her daughter Molly is about four or five, meaning there's still a few years to go before the completion of the quest, and Scarlet's return.

Molly's finger traced the figure in the photograph, entranced. The girls who stood there, frozen in time, smiled at her, inviting her in. But it was the younger that held her undivided attention. While the older girl posed more seductively—hips swaying, leg extended—the smaller one held her fists by her head, the unmistakable pose of a hero. The photograph was grainy and held no color, but Molly knew that the younger girl had blue eyes, just like her own.

"This one's Mommy, right?" She asked, turning to look at her father, who held her in his lap.

"That's right. You'll get to meet her someday."

"When, Daddy?"

"Soon."

The girl turned back to the photograph, while her father watched her, stroking her hair from time to time. Liam could see the face of his wife in his daughter, who stared so intently at an innocent street urchin lost in time.

"Who is the other girl?" Molly did not look up from the picture when she spoke, as though afraid that it would disappear if she stopped looking at it.

Liam, broken from his trance, took a moment to reply. "Your mother's sister. Her name was Rose."

"Where is she?"

"She died. A long time ago."

"Oh."

Molly traced her mother's face again, trying to remember. The earliest memories that came to her, the only ones of her mother, were of laughter and singing. A flash of blue. A woman's voice, husky, as though rarely used. And the warmth.

"Daddy?" She asked, this time as though she did not really want the answer. "Is Mommy dead, too?"

This question brought only silence, and Liam's hands gripping the armchair. "Time for bed."

He stood, lifting his daughter into the air with him, and cradling her in his arms. Molly clutched the picture to her chest, snuggling against her father's shoulder. "I don't want to go to bed. It's too early."

"You have school in the morning."

The beds upstairs were neatly made, one for the adults, and two small child-sized ones. One of the children's beds had a light coating of dust; it had been bought for a purpose never fulfilled. But Molly's bed had an occupant waiting for her, a worn and much-loved teddy bear with a blue patch on its cheek. Once her father had set her on the mattress, Molly reached for the bear, enfolding it in the same embrace with the photograph.

"Daddy," she said, "tell me a story."

Liam pulled the sheets up to her shoulders, tucking them around her. "Once upon a time, there was a lady Hero and her dog, Thorn. The two of them were best friends, and they went on all sorts of adventures together. One of these adventures was when they went to Oakfield, to complete the Ceremony of the Golden Oak.

"The head monk was very worried, for the law stated that only two monks could visit the wellspring, to complete the ceremony. The first monk had to be the strongest in the order, though the second could be anyone. Well, the strongest monk was the head monk's very own daughter, and he didn't want anything to happen to her. So he chose the lady Hero to protect her in the wellspring cave.

"It was not easy. Getting the water meant that the strong monk had to carry a heavy jug, making her unable to defend herself. And Hollow Men lived in the cave, attacking the lady Hero and the monk at every step. But just when they had completed their mission, the strong monk learned that someone had kidnapped her father, the head monk. She took a hammer from one of the nearby statues and went to rescue him, the lady Hero and Thorn running after her.

"They were too late. The head monk died, though the strongest slew those that had taken her father. And in the moment her hammer struck, she knew that she was no longer a monk. She was a Hero herself, the Hero of Strength. She vowed to join the lady Hero in her cause, and together they would stop the evil that roamed the land."

"Auntie Hammer," Molly murmured. Her eyes were already closed, and her grip on the teddy bear slack. But the photograph remained tight in her hand.

Liam watched until his daughter's breathing deepened, signaling the onset of dreams. Then he stood and crept back downstairs, resuming his seat in the armchair.

He watched the door, wondering if tonight would be the night he bolted it, keeping out the predators and prowlers of the night. But if he did that, the beings of light, the ones that fought the darkness, would be locked out, too.

Time to tell myself a story, he thought.

Once there was a man, a tattooist, who roamed the land, searching for adventure with his pots of ink. He traced pictures on skin, leaving marks and paths that could not be removed, a tapestry of life, where all decisions are final. This tattooist was talented, and often invited to the big cities and small towns of the country. But he also stopped by the Gypsy Camp outside Bowerstone, when he had the chance.

So it was, one summer's day, when the bees thrummed low in the air, living avatars of the heat, the tattooist visited the gypsies, and met a woman. She dressed like a gypsy herself, though it was plain that she was not one of them. Their eyes met as she danced next to another woman, spinning around and around, though her eyes remained fixed on him. He had stared back until a customer drew his attention away. When he looked again, she had disappeared.

That night at his campfire, he was alone but for the crackle of the flames and the murmuring voices of the camp below. Out of the dark twilight stepped the woman he had seen. A dog padded beside her, but halted at the edge of the firelight, where it lay down and remained the rest of the night. The woman sat beside the tattooist, stretching one leg in front of her. It glowed orange in the firelight.

"I hear you are a tattooist," she said. "I would like to purchase your skills, if I may."

He gulped, and replied. "You are welcome to. Tell me what you would like."

It seemed no time at all before she was sitting in front of him, his hands on her bare back. Her skin was smooth, but the muscles beneath spoke of power beyond his reckoning. It seemed a sin to mar her flesh, and his hands trembled as they had not done for many years. But he began his work, dipping the needle into her flesh over and over again, for her eyes had brooked no argument. They were the eyes of a tattooist like himself; the eyes of a person who made permanent marks, be they good or bad, and did not look back.

Ink and blood covered his hands and her back, and when he was done, the tattooist wiped her clean and bandaged the area. And then, perhaps because of weariness, and perhaps because of his own desire, which had pulled him to her since she had danced in front of him, he leaned his head against her shoulder, kissing it.

The woman turned, his lips inadvertently sliding around her shoulder and up her neck with her movements. Startled, the tattooist began to pull away, but the woman held his face with her hand, and guided his lips to hers. With a groan, they came together, stumbling into his wagon. They mingled lips, limbs, ink, blood, souls.

In the morning, she was gone, leaving only payment for the tattoo, a gold ring, and a note. Wait for me? It read.

He did. He waited until the leaves turned red, and then dead, and when he heard boot steps crunching in the first frost, he knew it was her. The dog ran to him, licking his hand. The woman followed her companion, hips swaying the same way they had before, eyes still blue and steadfast. But she was changed. Her gypsy clothes were replaced with those of an adventurer, of a Hero. Loose white shirt, dark pants that hugged her lines, blue boots and hat and overcoat. She seemed just a little more run down, as though a darkness had stolen a piece of her. The tattooist came forward, and they embraced.

They lived happily ever after, moving to prosperous Bowerstone Old Town, buying a big house, and creating a beautiful daughter together. The woman continued on her adventures, flitting in and out of the twilight. And the tattooist waited. He always waited.

Every night he waited for her return, leaving the door unlocked for her. Tonight will be no different. Soon he will stand, and light a candle in the window, keeping vigil even when he is not awake. And then he will go to bed, his hand on the empty place beside him, listening to the dream-sighs of his daughter, and dreaming himself of the day when the door will open.

Final Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Came to me in a fit of inspiration (not a flash, because some of my ideas are more akin to seizures in the way they grip me out of nowhere). I can make no promises as to when I'll update, so this might be the last chapter for a long while. Have fun with Fable 2, everyone! Your story is waiting.