Author's Note:

Hello! It's been an awfully long time. Thank you to anyone who is still reading! Work has been hellishly busy and complicated due the pandemic, and between that and a small child I haven't had much time left for writing. I hope you like this chapter-it took a lot of editing before I was happy with it. I have much more planned for this story, and several future scenes drafted already; I hope I will be able to upload more often, but I can't promise that I'll be uploading regularly again (not that anyone would believe me at this point if I did). Please let me know what you think! I love reading your comments.

Moon, Part 2

"You go ahead," she said generously. She wanted time to think about her first question.

"Excellent." He rested his steepled fingers thoughtfully under his chin, looking at her shrewdly for a brief moment before firing off his first question. "Why are you reluctant to speak of your mother?"

Sarah winced. "Really?" she complained.

He raised his eyebrows, smiling. "Surely you're not-how did you put it? Weaseling out so soon?"

She eyed him haughtily. "No." She took a long sip of wine. If she was reading him right, the more honest she was, the more she told, the more leverage she would gain. Of course, there was a certain amount of risk-she couldn't lie. She would just have to be careful not to reveal anything that he might be able to use against her family or friends. No names he didn't already know, no locations-she would stick strictly to talking about herself as much as possible. She put the goblet down and squared her shoulders, her eyes on the silver tray that he had balanced across one knee.

"Because she abandoned me," she said flatly. She stole a glance at his face, and was surprised at the expression she saw there: not sympathy, or even polite interest. His face was rapt, and he was leaning forward-he looked almost excited. A flicker of unease curled in her stomach, but she ignored it; she wouldn't get anything out of him by playing it safe. "She wasn't the greatest mother to begin with, but at least she was there. Then one day she decided she couldn't even bother doing that."

She paused to take a drink, gulping down as much of the wine as she could in a single swallow so that she could feel it burn in her throat. "She cheated on my father with some rich guy she met through her theater friends and ran off to live with him. I was twelve. For a few years after that she would visit me on Christmas and my birthday, but eventually she stopped coming." She shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. "Every now and then she wires me some money. I used to get the playbills for her shows. Once in a blue moon she sends a postcard, but I don't get them anymore. I think she forgot that I moved."

She was surprised to feel tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Blinking, she quickly tossed back the rest of her goblet and cleared her throat.

"My turn," she said. She frowned as though thinking hard. In reality, she had nothing to go on, so she had already decided to start by mirroring his own question. "What about your parents?" she asked. "What were they like?"

Something flickered in his eyes, but it was gone too quickly for her to see what it was. "I couldn't say," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I never knew them."

That surprised her-she hadn't expected to strike a nerve so soon. "I'm sorry," she said, truly meaning it. At least she had her father and Karen.

He shrugged. "It's not much loss." He looked at her for a moment, as though considering whether or not to speak again, then added, "My mother hated me, I'm told. I don't know much about my father."

"How could your mother hate you if she never knew you?" Sarah asked. "Not my next question!" she added hastily when he raised his eyebrows. "Just wondering."

His eyes were turned toward the night sky again. "She was...an unfortunate woman," he said, his voice low. "I imagine she thought me responsible for much of her suffering."

"Were you?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." He avoided her eyes, turning to pour himself more wine.

Sarah stared at her lap and picked at the embroidered trim of one sleeve. Well, one question down. That one was a bit of a waste. She would have to make the other two count. In the meantime, she awaited his question nervously.

"Alright," he said, and when she looked up he was smiling again. "What is the happiest memory you have from your childhood?

She was surprised—it was such a softball compared to his last question. "That's it? My happiest memory?"

He nodded, and as he did she noticed a hint of sloppiness in the way his head moved, bending just a little bit too far forward. He's getting drunk, she thought, uneasy, as he raised a gloved hand to brush aside a lock of hair that had fallen into his face.

"If you find the question to be too simple," he added with a smirk, "I'd be delighted to ask an extra one this round."

"You wish," she shot back. She shifted on the cushions, thinking. "I guess-I guess it would have to be my 12th birthday party."

"Birthday party?" he echoed.

"Yes," she said. When he still looked confused, she explained. "A party to celebrate the day I was born. We do them every year-at least for kids."

He nodded understanding and waved for her to continue as he moved to refill his cup.

"Anyway, there's not much to tell. My mom went all out-usually she hated those kinds of things, but that year she planned the perfect day for me." She paused, handing her empty cup to the Goblin King when he held out a hand offering to refill it. "I don't remember that much. I know we went to see a show, me and my parents and my friends—I don't remember what it was. Pizza and cake afterwards. It was maybe a month before my Mom left, but I didn't suspect anything at the time. I just knew that she was there, and so was my Dad, and they were both getting along and paying attention to me." She shrugged as she took her newly filled cup back from the Goblin King and took a long sip. "Of course, afterwards I realized…" She tried to continue, but suddenly it felt as if her throat was closing.

"She had already decided to leave you."

Sarah looked up, startled. His eyes were focused intently on hers, and he was smiling a small, knowing smile.

"Yeah," she said, as though she had intended to pause there all along. "I mean, it wasn't until years later that I finally put the pieces together, but yeah. She had already been sleeping with that guy for months-they were just waiting for the right time." She shrugged. "That's it-that's my answer."

"Thank you," he said, raising his cup to her. He was looking at her with that same strange smile, like he had just noticed something very interesting. It made her nervous, and she rushed to ask her next question.

"What about you?" she asked. "What is your happiest memory?"

He was ready with his answer. "When I first saw the sky."

That made her sit up and pay attention. "What?" she asked, frowning. Did he mean the day he was born? Could he remember that far back?

"When I first saw the night sky," he repeated, looking up at the moon. "That is my happiest memory."

She waited, but he did not elaborate. "Uh," she said pointedly. "It sounds like there's a lot more to that story."

He raised an eyebrow. "I have answered the question," he said.

"What?! That's not—"

He raised a hand, laughing, and she stopped, startled. She had never heard him laugh like that before; it was a pure, light sound with no hint of irony or derision. "Spare me your indignation," he said, smiling. "I do not wish to say any more tonight—but I will promise to tell you the story some other time. Does that satisfy?"

"Barely," she grumbled. "And only if you give a much better answer to my next question."

"I promise, I will be most thorough," he said, gesturing grandly with his goblet, careless of the wine that slopped over the sides. "May I ask my next question now?"

"Fine."

He drank from his cup, looking at her shrewdly over the rim. His cheeks were flushed and his hair had fallen haphazardly across his face. "Why did you wish your brother away?"

She glared at him. "I didn't," she retorted, just barely managing to avoid adding the words you asshole.

He frowned at her. "You certainly did."

"I had no idea what I was doing," she protested. "It was a story. You just took advantage—"

"You might not have intended for him to really disappear," he interrupted, sounding as though he were making a generous concession. "But the truth is, you must have wanted him gone. The desire must have been real. Otherwise I would not have heard your call." He held her gaze as he took another sip of wine. "My question is: why?"

She flushed and looked down, glaring at the fringe of her cloak.

"Now, now." he scolded. "You are bound to answer. Or must I tell you what I will do if you do not hold up your end?"

Despite the light, teasing note in his voice, that frightened her a little. She scowled.

"Well, why do you think?" she retorted, her cheeks hot. "You remember what I was like."

"Tell me."

She glared at him, tempted to give him a curt, incomplete answer, as he had just given her, but she had one more question left, and he had promised to be thorough. She didn't want to give him any excuse to avoid answering again. "Because…because I was a spoiled brat who hated everyone around me." Her cheeks burned, and she continued recklessly. "I hated my mother for leaving, I hated my father for letting her go, I hated Karen for forcing me to admit that she would never come back, and I hated Toby because everyone loved him and no one could stand me."

She brought the cup to her lips with shaking hands and drained it, avoiding his eyes.

"You judge yourself so harshly."

She looked up, startled at the gentleness in his voice. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated. "Only that you expect a great deal from yourself. And from others." He paused, then said carefully, "It is bound to cause you pain."

She frowned, half-certain he was teasing her again. But there was no hint of irony in his expression. In fact, he looked more sincere than she had ever seen him look before; sympathetic, even. She felt her cheeks burning, and looked away.

"My turn," she said, turning to refill her goblet herself to buy a little time. "And you better make it good."

"Of course," he said dismissively.

The silver of the pitcher was thick, and, though they had already drunk most of the wine, incredibly heavy-and she was a little drunker than she had realized. As she struggled to keep her grip on the handle and pour the wine without spilling., she wondered what she should ask. His last words to her, about expecting too much, echoed through her mind.

She set the pitcher carefully back down on the brazier and turned back to him. "Tell me about your mother," she said.

He looked at her sharply, as though started, and his eyes widened before he seemed to catch himself. A look of cool disdain slid over his features. "That's not a question," he said dryly-and a little too quickly.

She rolled her eyes, but inwardly rejoiced. She'd finally struck a nerve. "Fine: what do you know about your mother?"

"Very little," he said stiffly. When he did not continue, she stared at him meaningfully over her cup. "I know her lineage, and the story of my birth. That is all."

"Tell me that, then," she insisted. "The story of your birth, not the other stuff."

He was silent for a long time, avoiding her eyes and looking out over Labyrinth. The openness and sincerity that she had seen earlier in his face was gone, replaced with a careful, blank expression.

Finally, he lifted the heavy pitcher from the brazier and emptied it into his cup.

Sarah watched lift the cup to his lips uneasily; she was getting sentimental, as she often did when she was drunk, and it was hard to keep from feeling a little guilty about prodding what was obviously a sore spot for him. "You don't…" she blurted out impulsively, not even sure what she was going to say. "I mean...if you'd rather not, I could—" But he waved a hand dismissively.

"Not at all," he said. "I owe you a thorough answer. It is only that it has been a very long time since I spoke of her." He glanced up at the moon. "Somehow, it seems a fitting subject for tonight. Tell me what you want to know."

"Ok," she said uneasily. "I guess…what's her name?"

It took him a moment to respond, as though he were considering multiple answers. "My uncle called her Arie," he said finally.

"Alright. Um…how did she meet your father?"

"I don't know." He hesitated. "No one does."

"She didn't tell anyone?"

"No," he said, his face still set in that careful, blank expression. "She never revealed his identity."

Sarah eyed the Goblin King doubtfully, trying to reconceptualize him as the offspring of a tragic romance. "People must have had some idea," she pressed. "She must have said something."

"Oh, I'm sure she did," he said grimly. "Though I doubt if anyone could have made sense of it." When Sarah looked at him, questioning, he added reluctantly, "She was mad."

Sarah blinked. "Mad? Like insane?"

"She began having fits and fled her home and her people shortly after it was discovered that she was with child," he said. "She did not recover, or return, until after my birth. Afterwards she refused to speak of my father—or me, for that matter."

"Maybe she wasn't mad at all," Sarah said, feeling a pang of sympathy. It couldn't have been easy, having a child all alone, so long ago. "She might have had her own reasons for acting the way she did."

He shrugged. "Perhaps. Still, her behavior was strange by any standards. I was told she refused to change her clothes or set foot inside any dwelling, even a barn, from the moment I was conceived." He paused to drink before continuing tersely. "She wandered the countryside, clad in rags. The people whose farms she wandered through put out offerings of food for her to eat and covered her with blankets when the nights were cold."

"That was nice of them."

His looked up at her, his smile fond and patronizing. "It was prudent," he explained. "They feared the curse of her people should she die upon their land."

"Oh," Sarah said faintly. An image from a folk tale popped into her mind, of nervous peasants leaving bowls of bread and milk by the back door, currying favor with powerful forces. Hoping to ward off bad luck. Sarah couldn't blame them for trying, but given her own experience she would personally something more far more drastic.

Like moving.

"Still," he allowed, "it is true that it was only thanks to them that she did not starve-or freeze, since she slept every night under the open sky." He paused to take a long draught of wine, and when he resumed speaking his voice was quiet and wistful. "On nights like this, I sometimes wonder if that was really madness, or if she simply had a stronger affinity for the night sky than those around her could understand."

Sarah waited, uncertain whether or not she should speak as he stared up at the moon. Finally, he continued, his voice taking on the quality of a story teller.

"One day a swineherd saw her on the road outside his property, bloodied and walking slowly in the direction of her people's lands. She did not respond to any of his entreaties or even acknowledge his existence. Troubled, he quickly drove his pigs back to their pen."

His voice grew quieter, and she had to lean forward to hear his next words. "And that is where he found me." He was looking down at the Labyrinth, the blank mask slipping back over his features. "Naked and screaming in the mud."

He looked up at her then, for the first time since he had begun, and whatever he saw on her face seemed to embarrass him. "Forgive me," he said his voice still quiet, his words slightly slurred. "I should not have told you any of this." He seemed to have forgotten that she had asked.

"It's fine," Sarah said quickly, not wanting him to stop. She had no idea whether this information could be of any use to her, but she didn't care; she was fascinated.

"Well," he went on, looking aimlessly at a point somewhere over her shoulder. "The swineherd took me up, wrapped in his coat, and was able to get word to my mother's people. They retrieved me and induced my mother, her madness having for the most part subsided, to care for me. Which she did, though somewhat indifferently. I was sleeping at her side, three nights later, when I was stolen away by my uncle, weak with hunger and only half alive. At least, that was the story he told."

His eyes fell once more on the Labyrinth, and when he spoke again, his voice was bitter. "I did not meet her again until I was much, much older. And then, not for very long." He drained his goblet and stared aimlessly down at the swirling pattern of lights, saying no more.

The wind had grown still colder. Sarah buried her hands in the fur-lined pockets of her cloak; she gazed down at the Labyrinth, but instead of the twinkling lights she saw a tiny, helpless newborn screaming in fear and confusion as it lay naked and cold in the mud. She saw it later, alone and hungry in a nest of ragged blankets, no longer bothering to cry because it had already learned that crying did no good. No one would answer.

"How could they have left you there?" she asked softly.

He looked back at her, puzzled. "Hm?"

"With her—how could your family leave you alone with her when she was insane—and after she'd just abandoned you like that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't think they gave much thought to it," he said.

"How could they not?" she said, incredulous. "How could they just leave a baby alone with a madwoman to starve and die and do nothing to help?"

He smiled at her, a sincere, if slightly drunken and confused smile. "Because they did not want to-or perhaps because it did not occur to them do so," he said. "She was my mother—the obligation was hers. Who was to care for me, if not her?" He shrugged as though the matter were insignificant. "Children were not common among us, even then. It is possible they would not have known how to care for me, even if they did try."

He paused and reached for the pitcher. When he found it empty, he frowned.

"I'm afraid I must apologize," he said, smiling wryly at her. "I seem to have drunk all the wine." He tossed the pot onto the ground beside the brazier. "And, as usual, I find myself having to tell you that the night did not go exactly as I planned." He stood, brushing off his clothes before extending his hand to her. "It's getting cold," he said. "We should get back."