Baby's wide-eyed and gentle, carefully running his brightly-colored oils over a fresh sheet of butcher paper as he plays at Mommy's feet. Pink tongue faintly visible, poking out from the corner of his lips, eyes focused and intent until Mommy looks to him, worried, brushes floured hands on her apron and leans down to watch him draw.
Night-blackened castles, moonlight and ravens, hell-red eyes burn up at her from flat, bleached-white paper, and she looks to him, fearfully.
He doesn't speak for a moment, just runs white fingers over bloody shadows, staring into painted eyes. "I had a dream," he says quietly, intently, and Mommy looks from him to the paper and trembles.
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Such a sweet boy, everyone says at first, and they like it when he laughs, smiles, gapped baby-teeth, bright like Mommy, and the older ones remember when Mommy was little, and they call him sweetheart, baby darling, tousle his white-blond hair and pinch his cheeks.
And he hates it, hates stinging cheeks and tugged hair, but Mommy's complacent until the day he scowls and leans to bite at pinching fingers, not hard enough to draw blood, but even so there's a mark upon the woman's fingers, chain-linked teeth marks, shiny-dark against her skin, and she pulls back, shrieking, grasps her fingers and shouts demon-child, cursed thing! and points at Mommy, but Mommy just grits her teeth, shouts back, takes him by the hand and leads him off, and he's surprised to see that she's crying.
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Bastard.
That's what they call him, a few years later, when he's older, just a little, and he knows it's not a nice word because Mommy scolded him when he asked what it meant, but it's also way they fairly sneer it, twisted features and mocking laughter, and they push him, hard, and he lands with a thud on his backside in the dirty street.
Everyone knows your mother's a whore, they say. Your father was probably just some gutless john of hers who took off when he found out about you.
They're older boys, and he's so little next to them, quiet and gentle, and for that he's their favorite victim. It doesn't help that they listen so intently to what their parents say, that his mother's just a low-class slut who doesn't even know the father of her bastard child, just stares, vacantly, into the middle distance when she's asked, and even her own parents have disowned her for her harlotry. Always a strange one anyway, the Alexandra girl—rushing out at on strange "quests" for months at a time, just like that sister of hers, but at least the elder girl had made good, married well and borne her husband two children.
Not this one, who'd returned from the eastern mountains one frigid early November morning, dazed, disoriented, just barely swollen with child and falling, desperately sobbing, into her sister's arms.
Why don't you fight back? one boy jeers now, back to the present, slings mud in his face, in his eyes, stinging, pulls back one foot and kicks him, hard, and he cries out, doubles over.
Mommy's always told him not to fight back, not to strike, just come and find her and she'll make it better (doesn't answer when he asks why, just strokes his hair, stares into his eyes for a too-long moment before making him promise).
But Mommy's far away, at the bakery, and he could run but his legs are as little as the rest of him, and he'll never make it in time…
Another boy spits, and there's cold saliva wet against his cheek as they shout bastard! Son of a whore! There's a bruise forming upon his shin, purple-black.
He knows he should find Mommy, call for help. Because he's scared, and it hurts, and he's all alone…but now, as he digs his fingers into the dirt and comes shakily to his feet, raises his eyes, glinting, glinting in the orange-red light of a dying sunset, he realizes he's angry. And it burns within him, fiery and overwhelming, voices whispering, dark and feral, tempting, violent, we won't stand for this, will we? and his vision turns to red and he moves.
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It's hours later, the first light of dawn slanting over baby cheeks, rosy-red, and Mommy finally comes for him, breaking free from the two men restraining her, shouting curses at her, angry, hateful, and she stumbles slightly, crying when she sees him, biting one knuckle against the sobs, I never wanted you to be like him, my gods, never like him…
And everybody's crying, shouting, screaming, at Mommy, at him, and he's sorry he made Mommy cry, truly he is, but it's not his fault—they never should have made fun of him, should have known better, and it's not his fault he got so mad, it's not his fault at all. But Mommy's crying and scared as she turns horribly widened eyes to him where he stands, isolated, a careful distance from the fearful crowd, cold and blood-drenched (it's not his blood, anyway), shouts and horrified whispers echoing in his ears, demon-child, monster…
And he frowns, just a little, not at them because he doesn't care, not really, but because he doesn't understand why Mommy's not proud of him, because he is, terribly proud, because he stood up for himself, and he's strong and brave and just knows that if he did have a daddy, he'd be proud, too, and the thick coat of dried blood around his mouth tightens and flakes as he smiles helpfully, easily, flashing bloodstained teeth, until Mommy finally looks away, sobbing silently.
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The first time Daddy comes, he doesn't have to ask—he knows it's him, because he has his smile and his hair and his face, noble planes and arches, pride and strength, and he understands what Mommy doesn't (he's proud when he tells him, oh yes, laughs and ruffles his hair affectionately, and he likes it when he does it).
And he's happy, brilliantly so, and he doesn't understand why Mommy's not, why she gasps, harsh, sudden when they walk through the door, and he's smiling and holding Daddy's hand even though he's not scared, not at all, and Mommy reaches quickly for her sword until Daddy moves to catch her wrists, holds her fast, tight against him.
"He's mine," he says, eyes burning into Mommy's until she shakes, but she's still strong and shouts I won't let you take him.
"Oh, but Cassandra," he says, falsely sweet as he kisses her with soft, bloodstained lips and she closes her eyes, helpless, struggles weakly in his embrace, against his grasp, "can't you see that I already have?"
And his eyes are bloody red, just like his daddy's, and he's so proud, of himself, of his daddy, and he smiles, bright, white, shining teeth, so happy, as Mommy finally goes limp in Daddy's arms, her eyes burning, throat bloodied, and together they're a family at last.