All he could see was the swirling, clouded, gold of his mother's eyes.

Or rather, what had once been his mother.

He searched; he searched tirelessly. He wanted to find some spark, some tiny trace, that this woman was the mother he once knew. But as their eyes remained locked on one another, Oliver could barely recognize the woman. It was as if death had moved in where life once was.

"Mother?" The woman's voice broke into his thoughts, "Are you lost little boy? Do you want me to help you find your mom?"

The words stung him, almost as if she had reached across and slapped him. It hurt all the more because she was gently smiling at him, waiting for his response. There was no malice in her eyes, no evil intent. She was just a woman who wanted to help a young boy find his home once more and then be on her way.

Those soft, caring eyes made Oliver want to puke.

It wasn't his mother; it couldn't be his mother.

But her face, the way she carried herself, the tone of her voice, everything but those dead eyes looked just like her. He wanted so desperately to push away the reality, but he couldn't; not with her right there next to him yet so far away at the same time.

"It's alright, we'll find her together."

He felt himself stiffen as she spoke once more. Oliver couldn't look at her; he turned and stared intently at his hands, which were tightened into fists and resting on his lap. He wouldn't think about her, he wouldn't think about her, he wouldn't think about her.

"Oliver, stay here like a good boy for a little bit, alright? I'm going to help this boy find his mother."

She was speaking to the empty seat next to her once more. Her voice was as soft and gentle as a mother's lullaby when she spoke to the invisible child next to her. Oliver felt his stomach turn involuntarily once more as he tightened his fists, causing his short, dirty nails to dig into his palms.

He felt the soft pressure of her hand on his shoulder. Acting on an unknown reflex, he slapped her hand away quickly as he stood abruptly and turned to face her. She was looking confusedly up at him as the hand he had slapped away hung uselessly in the air. Her clouded eyes looked confused, hurt, sad.

He wanted to hate her; he wanted to hate her and love her at the same time. She was his mother and yet not his mother.

"Are you scared that I'm going to hurt you?" Came the soft voice of his mother once more, "Don't worry, I promise not to hurt you."

"…You…you can't help me…" Oliver replied quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"…You can't help me find my mom…"

"Of course I can. If we work together I'm sure we'll be able to find her and get you back home safely. I'll bet that your mother's looking everywhere for you right now."

"…My mom's dead…"

The words were awkward and tasted like ash.

"My mom's dead," he repeated with conviction as he held that clouded gaze, "My mom's dead…"

Saying the words aloud drained him. He fell heavily back onto the pew as he found himself staring once more at the floor. The words he had just said kept replaying over and over in his head. He thought that with each repetition, it would be easier to accept.

He hopped that all the years he had practiced lying would make it easier to accept, less bitter in his mouth.

He was wrong.

With each repetition, he simply wanted to cry, but the heat of the ash in his mouth robbed him of even this small comfort. All he could do was pull his knees to his chest as he stared at his still bare feet. Hot, bitter tears roiled within his stomach, but they never made their way to his face. The world faded away as he became keenly aware of the sound of blood rushing through his body.

He felt like he was drowning in unshed tears.

Then suddenly, warm arms wrapped around him and saved him from his inevitable death. He became dully aware once more of the pastor's voice intoning the Holy Scripture and the gilded cathedral that surrounded him.

But what his every sense was attuned to were the small arms that encircled him.

She began to rub slow, small circle on his back. He remembered the ritual; she used to do it every time he was upset over something. She muttered soft, comforting words that he was never quite able to catch.

This ritual, repeated so many times in his childhood, felt foreign and strange.

"It'll be okay…" He heard her say as she raised her voice above a whisper.

Why was she saying such kind things? He wanted to hate her; she was the one who had stolen his mother away from him.

"Everything will be alright Oliver."

At the sound of his name, he turned to look at her. He felt his heart catch in his throat. Her face was once more that of his mother; her eyes were no longer dull, but instead glowed with the love of life that he had always known her for. She was smiling gently down at the son she once more cradled in her arms.

Then the moment passed.

Her eyes clouded over once more and Oliver watched his mother slipped away from him once more.

Had he imagined it? Had it just been wishful thinking that his mother could still be reached?

The woman slowly released Oliver from her grasp as she smiled gently at him. Oliver could tell that she was waiting for him to say something. He knew she wanted to hear a thank you, but his mind just kept conjuring one phrase over and over again.

"…Please don't touch me again…"

"Oh, I'm sorry I guess I really shouldn't have done that. You just looked so sad and lost; it reminded me of my son."

Oliver wanted to scream; he wanted to yell and insist that he was her son. But instead, he simply stood once more from the pew and turned towards the door.

"Are you leaving? The sermon isn't over yet you know."

"…I can't stay here any longer…" Oliver said quietly as he scanned the gilded cathedral with its grand organ that played achingly beautiful music. He didn't belong.

"Well, I hope you'll come back some day. Oliver and I come every Sunday to hear the sermon."

Oliver gave no vocal response, instead electing to give a simple nod of acknowledgement.

"I hope you'll come..um...oh, I'm sorry but I don't believe I caught your name."

It's Oliver; I'm your son; I don't want to leave; please stop me.

"…My name is Cody."

"Cody? It's a good name; it fits you perfectly," She said with a nod of her head as if to confirm what she had said, "I hope to see you next Sunday Cody."

It felt surreal to hear his mother call him by a name that wasn't his own. She smiled with as much warmth as any mother would at her son.

Only she wasn't his mother; not any more.

Without another word or a backwards glance, he quickly snuck out the door and away from the picturesque cathedral.

As his feet slapped methodically across the pavement, his thoughts jangled violently against one-another. He saw Ann, her smiling, trusting face; he saw Al, his impassive, stone-like face; he saw the specter of his mother, her kind, clouded eyes. As the rate of his thoughts increased, he found himself running.

The cold, night wind whipped against his face as he tried to think of everything and nothing all at the same time. As his bare feet padded against the cold cobbles beneath him, another thought entered his mind.

He had forgotten to steal the shoes.

When he finally stopped running, his breathing was short and ragged as he gulped in the cold, biting winter air. He could tell that his cheeks were flushed from the exercise, but that only seemed to make him colder as he pulled his arms around himself and looked at the street about him. In his running, he had found his way back to his home.

Or rather, what had once been his home.

His house, like his mother's eyes, had clouded over and was unrecognizable. But he remembered. There was a post near the front of the house that he had painstakingly carved his name into, with the assistance of his father; the soft, warm curtains that his mother would take down and wash every Sunday; the sound of laughter and tears and acceptance and occasional fights.

Once there had been the sound of family; now there was only the silence of the night. All the objects he remembered, all the small, nuanced things that marked this house as his own had been swept away, never to be seen again.

His mother was dead; his family was dead.

He had to remember that.

He fell heavily to the cobbles of the street which caused the fresh, damp snow to soak into his clothing. He stared at the building that was once his home; he thought of the woman that was once his mother; he thought of everything he had lost. He didn't want to move. Some part of his heart hopped that if he sat there long enough, if he could just be a good boy and sit quietly through the entire sermon, his mother might reward him. Perhaps the clouds would clear from her eyes and she would once more clean the curtains as she sang to herself.

He didn't know if that was true, he had never managed the impossible feat of perfect stillness that his mother required from him.

As he stood there staring with dry eyes at the cobblestones beneath him, he knew he would never be able to be the boy his mother wanted him to be. It was just so hard to sit quietly through the entire long sermon.

With each exhale of puffy, white breath into the night air, he felt a small measure of hope escape from his chest. He wondered how long it would take for him to breathe all the hope out.

One puff of breath; a piece of hope gone.

His only measure of time was the breaths that continued to escape him.

Two puffs of breath; two pieces of hope gone.

By the time he reached twenty-five, his chest felt heavy and he felt an overwhelming desire to close his eyes and lie down in the streets. He didn't care who saw him or what they said; he only cared that he would finally be able to rest.

As he laid his head down on the cold, snow-soaked street, he closed his eyes with a final, contented sigh. His head felt light as the dark and inviting realm of dreams began to lay claim to his mind. It felt so good to just stop...

"Goodnight…big brother."

The memory returned to him quietly, unexpectedly.

"Goodnight…big brother."

This time the voice rang louder and clearer in his mind. His weary mind wanted desperately to push it away.

It will be so much easier to just lie here, A voice in his mind whispered enticingly to him, Let the night claim you; you deserve to rest.

But the memory would not be denied. The words kept playing over and over in his head.

"Goodnight...big brother."

Suddenly he remembered everything he had gained since he lost his family. He thought of Ryuto, of Yuki, the two children that meant more to him than his life. He thought of how making the two of them smile and remain safe had almost become an obsession. He thought of just the other day how they had all laughed together as they ate the stolen food from the church. The memories burned through his apathy like a white, cleansing fire.

He knew then; he knew that he couldn't give up.

Slowly, he lifted himself onto his elbows and opened his eyes. He saw the house that was no longer his, but instead of feeling his hope drain away once more, his mind recalled the dilapidated building he had made his new home.

He hauled himself off the ground and stood on wobbly legs once more. He stared at the building for a moment longer before he turned away to make his way back to where Ryuto and Yuki were. As each step closed the distance between them, the hollow feeling in his chest abated slightly.

By the time he reached the street their home was situated on, his chest felt lighter and the hopelessness that had weighed it down before had all but disappeared. He knew he wouldn't be able to forget completely, there would always be that shadow lurking at the edge of his heart. But he also knew that with the help of his new family he would be able to move on. As he looked at his family's home, a small smile found its way on to his features.

The smile quickly withered as he drew closer to the building.

Something was wrong.

The door of the building was standing wide open and blowing gently in a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere. Panic began to set in as he ran towards the building.

"Yuki! Ryuto! Where are you guys!" He yelled as he entered the doorway. He was met with silence. He ran instantly to the spot where Ryuto had fallen asleep earlier. His covers were still there and looked to be mostly undisturbed; there were no signs of a struggle. When he went to go check the loft where Ryuto had told him Yuki was sleeping, he found an almost identical scene.

As he climbed down the ladder, heart hammering in his ears, he swept his eyes about the room in a desperate search for the other two children. What he found made his heart jump. He wasn't sure if it was in hope or despair.

The clothing that he had laid out for Ryuto and Yuki was gone.

It didn't look as if it had been forcibly taken or destroyed; what was once there simply wasn't any longer.

"They have to be here somewhere," Oliver said aloud as he ran out of the building and into the streets.

As he wound through the maze of back alleys that surrounded their home, Oliver called desperately for the other two children. Over and over again he screamed their names. Over and over again he was met with silence. He yelled until his voice was hoarse and yet he would not give up the search.

He had lost his mother; he wasn't going to lose his brother and sister.

He had no idea how long he searched for, it could have been hours, it could have been minutes, but somehow he had ended up back outside their home once more. He was out of breath from both shouting and running, but he set his feet to explore another alley that he had yet to go down.

"Big brother…"

Oliver felt his heart leap into his throat for what must have been the thousandth time that night. He spun around desperately searching for the source of the voice.

"Ryuto? Is that you? Where are you?" Oliver called as his voice escaped in cold puffs.

"I'm…over here," Came the soft reply.

It took Oliver a few second longer for him to realize that the young boy's voice was issuing from a thin alleyway between their home and the building next to it; it was a place that Ryuto had often used as a hiding place when the three of them would play hide-and-seek. Oliver rushed over to where the young boy was laying and took the thin figure in his hands.

The young boy was bundled in the clothing Oliver had stolen from the church. Under normal circumstances, Oliver would have been livid that the young boy had snuck out in the middle of the night when he had repeatedly told him not to. In the very back of his mind, Oliver supposed, he was slightly angry.

But the most prominent emotion in that moment was fear.

The young boy was bleeding profusely from a large laceration on the top of his head. His eyes were half closed in pain and Oliver noticed that his ankle was strewn at an odd angle. The young boy's breathing was shallow as he looked up at Oliver with a mixture of relief, fear and remorse.

"What happened to you? What are you doing out here in the streets in the middle of the night," Oliver questioned as he continued to cradle the young boy.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," The young boy said as Oliver held him to his chest, "I…I saw that you left something out before you left and I was super curious. When I saw it was clothes, I woke up Yuki and we put them on. We were- we were…just gonna go outside for a little bit, but, but-"

"What happened?" Oliver asked with urgency. He could tell that the boy was quickly losing consciousness, but he couldn't let him slip away without a hint as to where he could find Yuki.

"T-The Child Sweepers came. We just opened the door and suddenly they were there. They grabbed Yuki right away. I-I wanted to stand and fight, but, but, one of them hit me on the head and, and then all I could think to do was run. I ran and ran and I-I think they gave up at some point. I tried to make my way back to the house, b-but I feel down and I c-couldn't move any more. It hurt so much. I-I let Yuki down. She's gone. I-I-I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it's okay," Oliver lied as he gently rocked the young boy, "We're going to go somewhere to get you help. Once you're feeling better we'll go find Yuki together."

"But- but…" Ryuto said before his protests died in his throat, "…I'm sorry…"

"It's going to be alright," Oliver stated, repeating the lie his mother had told him earlier that night, as he gently took the young boy onto his back. He felt Ryuto's muscles go lax in relief as he leaned his head on Oliver's shoulder and hooked his arms around Oliver's neck.

"I'm sorry," He kept repeating over and over, each time his voice growing softer, "I'm sorry."

"I told you it's going to be okay," Oliver tried to convince both of them as he continued to walk with the young boy. He knew he had to get away from their home; The Child Sweepers would likely come back in an attempt to find Ryuto or to see if there was anyone they had missed.

He had only one choice to make.

He headed back to the church as he kept whispering soft assurances to the young boy on his back. He kept telling him how they were going to find Yuki and free her from her captors; it was going to be a grand adventure like none anyone had ever experienced before. After they were reunited, they would have a feast with all the finest food in the world. Then, they would go to bed on soft pillows and beds with warm blankets.

"Doesn't that sound nice?" Oliver asked. His voice sounded strained to his ears; he could tell he was near his breaking point. He had to hold on; for Ryuto's sake, he had to hold on.

The young boy gave no response to the fantastical story; he simply repeated 'I'm sorry' once more in his quiet, quickly fleeing voice.

"You can apologize to me once we find Yuki," Oliver said with false bravado.

By the time they reached the church, Oliver was breathing heavily from exhaustion. The weight of Ryuto on his back coupled with the mental exhaustion of earlier that evening caused Oliver to wear out quicker than he had expected. It took the last of his strength to will his feet to carry him and Ryuto the rest of the way to the front door of the church.

"It's going to be okay," Oliver assured him once more as he looked up at the intricate door, "I have friends here; they'll take care of you."

Oliver wasn't quite sure if he was lying or not. It was true that Ann had helped him escape and invited him to come back, but he wasn't sure that meant she would be willing to help them now. He hoped desperately that her benevolent nature earlier that day hadn't been some sort of sick, twisted lie.

"Of course I would know all about those…" Oliver thought bitterly as he laid his hands on the doorknob. The doors were closed tight; he assumed the Christmas Eve service was still going on inside. He didn't care. He would interrupt anything if it meant a chance for him to save the young boy current clinging to his neck. With determination in his eyes, he tightened his grip on the large gilded handles and gave a mighty tug.

The door remained closed.

Panic set in as Oliver pulled on the handle once more. Once more, there wasn't the slightest amount of movement of the door. They had locked it.

With desperation, Oliver began to bang on the doors.

"Please! Someone open the doors!" He called in his already hoarse voice, "Ryuto is hurt! You have to help him! Open the doors!"

He could hear the sounds of the choir performing and he with dark clarity, he realized that the people inside couldn't hear him over the sound of the strong, sweet voices.

To Oliver's ears, the song was sounding Ryuto's death knell.

"Please!" He called once more as he began to pound more furiously on the door; someone had to hear him if he was loud enough, "I don't care what you do with me, but please! Help him! Please!"

"Don't care what happens to you? Sounds like a deal to me kid."

Oliver didn't have time to turn around before he felt the sharp crack of something smashing into the back of his head. He fell instantly to the ground with a heavy thud as starbursts of pain littered his vision. His vision began to grow fuzzy around the edges as he was dully aware of the feeling of someone hauling him off the ground.

"This damn runt won't let go," A gruff voice said as Oliver felt someone attempt to pry Ryuto from his back. Oliver wanted desperately to fight back, but the pain in his head was slowly spreading to other parts of his body and his vision was fading rapidly.

The only thing he was keenly aware of was the small arms wrapped around his neck and the frail voice repeating one phrase over and over into his ear.

"I'm sorry."

"No…I'm the one that's supposed to be saying that."

"I'm sorry."

"I…I couldn't protect you!"

"I'm-"

The voice is cut off abruptly as Oliver feels the small hands around him forcibly removed. He began to struggle then, his legs kicking out in any direction in hopes of making contact with flesh. They can't; they can't take away his family!

"Damn, this kid's still got some fight in him."

"Then shut him up."

Another strong crack to the back of his head and Oliver's body went limp. He was only vaguely aware of the feeling of being bodily thrown into a vehicle that caused his body to jump and bang against the floor beneath him. The angelic voices of the boys' choir were quickly swallowed by the darkness.

A/N: This chapter ended up being pretty long...anyways, what did you guys think? Let me know and thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed so far!