...but not all parents deserve children.

(Chapter-specific trigger warnings:
- Child abandonment
- Mentions of deliquency
- Gambling)

He was ten years old.

His favorite color was red.

He preferred cats.

He came from Luonton.

He'd never been to the capital.

Chyvon stared into space, unable to answer the questions uttered to him. Guard after guard were sat in front of him, but he couldn't see them. No, what he saw was blackness, the blackness caused by a pillow on his face when he'd just woken up. He remembers struggling, but his mother soothed him, telling him it would soon be over. That he wouldn't have to suffer anymore. That she loved him with all her heart.

Then, at that moment, and just then, Chyvon had felt cradled, like when he was a baby. He'd thought about letting himself go.

But the question, which he thought was selfish, kept circling in his mind.

Why me?

He hadn't understood where his mother's sudden aggression had come from. His Mama who loved him so much. His Mama whom he loved so much. His Mama who had done nothing wrong, but who had nevertheless been seized by those big men in uniform.

He didn't dare cry. Crying never got him anywhere, so he'd always chosen to hold back his tears. He hadn't dared protest his mother's boarding. A small part of him, he thought selfishly, told himself she'd earned it.

Deep down, he knew.

He was sure of it.

He was certain why his mother had tried to kill him and not his brother or sister. He was her disgrace, after all. Through the little boy, the woman saw all that was ugliest in this world. In Chyvon's eyes, she saw his father's mocking eyes, even though they shared neither shape nor color. It was the only thing that comforted Elssia, that her son resembled her.

But the undertones were strong, and clear when Chyvon managed to take the reins when Elssia was too tired to look after the children. When Chyvon understood with disconcerting ease all the strategies set up by Jol-ik to enslave the people. When Chyvon brought ever more delirious results in terms of performance and excellence to the few school exercises accessible to the general public, distributed in the newspapers.

The boy was a King's son.

And she couldn't stand it.

...

"Hey, get up..."

Lusamina felt herself being shaken, and she opened eyes that were still glued shut by sleep. She tried to rub them to induce her eyelids to open, but they didn't want to be cooperative, it seemed. She simply lifted her head, and immediately recognized, despite her still-closed eyes, that she wasn't at home, not at Imel's. The smell was heavier, leaving a heavy aftertaste on her tongue, and the stench followed the path of the air into her bronchi. She coughed a little.

Well? No blood fell from her mouth this time. Even though she hadn't taken any medicine for...

For far too long, in fact.

Eventually, she managed to half-open her eyes to see Ging's face opposite hers. She didn't move, and neither did he.

"Your hair's a mess. And you've got drool there..." Ging shook his head before stepping back.

Yes, Lusamina could feel it now. She could feel the imprint of the hard wood she'd fallen asleep on, and the unpleasant sensation of a collar wet with drool. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as Ging's rough hands approached her head. She looked at him confusedly, and the young man seemed to hesitate for a moment, considering his next move.

"It's just- Don't move."

And, with all the gentleness that clumsy hands like his could muster, he arranged Lusamina's long black hair, which had scattered all over the place. Despite the urge, he decided not to let his fingers run between the strands, knowing full well that he could hurt her if any knots were to be found here and there. She heard him murmur something, and he got up to move away.

Ging helped Lusamina to walk outside. A migraine of hitherto unheard-of intensity had hit her in the middle of the forehead, and she found herself reeling from the accumulation of pain in her entire body. Apparently, not coughing up blood didn't correlate with being pain-free. They stopped a few blocks from where Imel and Lusamina lived. As she looked up at him, as if to ask what was wrong, her eyes fell on Ging's jaw, which twitched involuntarily, so faintly that she probably wouldn't have noticed it if she hadn't been paying attention - or rather, if she hadn't been looking at him so intently.

"Stay there." He sighed, making her lean against a wall. "Don't try to follow me, okay? I'll be right back, I promise."

Lusamina couldn't really do anything else, anyway.

...

Chyvon had been introduced to the best detectives around. To psychologists. To mothers working for the regime.

Everything had been tried at least once. Intimidation, compassion, coercion. They'd tried baiting him with games, with food, with money, even with women. But the boy remained stoic.

It wasn't the first time he'd been offered these absurd things he wouldn't do anything with. Of course, his stomach was twisting in all directions, clamoring for a meal, but he did nothing to calm the pain that eventually dragged into his skull. He was no stranger to migraines either, so he simply let himself sink into his consciousness, like a rubber band inevitably snapping back on itself. He couldn't help them. He shouldn't.

So he concentrated on the 'why'. Why had his mother been kidnapped. Or rather, how had they been able to trace her.

They'd always been careful. As Chyvon became, by instinct, more and more adept at playing cards, Elssia had watched with rapt attention. As the boy became more aware of money, accounts and numbers, Elssia had told him she was proud of him. She had been a little less proud when Chyvon returned one day with a bag full of coins. But she was very proud when he brought back a suitcase bursting at the seams with bills.

Elssia played deaf and blind when it came to her son's activities. She didn't care where he went, what mattered was that he wasn't hurt, and that he brought home enough money to make up for his absence from home for the day. The family had money, yes, but money meant nothing without a title.

So the boy hung out in the slums. He'd learned to use his fists, hide weapons, and make all the more money. He'd learned to scan a face, to lie without being caught, to smile without conviction, and yet others believed him.

Chyvon was the son of a King.

And that was the secret he kept and wouldn't give to anyone.

Or so he hoped. He would take his mother's despair to the grave. He'd hush her disgrace until it exploded. Until it destroyed him and turned him into nothing but an aimless husk. What else was he, after all?

He had never been a son, he had never been a brother. He had been, in turn, a failure and an investment. He was nothing as a person. But that didn't bother him all that much, as long as he could be of service to his mother.

Ah. How he loved his mother.

...

Lusamina looked up at Ging when he returned. He was holding suitcases in his hands, and beckoned her to start walking, but she didn't. No, she just looked at him suspiciously, and curiously. No, she just looked at him suspiciously, and curiously. He wouldn't tell her what had happened. He wouldn't tell her that-

"She's not coming back, Lulu."

There, he'd said it. But she didn't believe him, it seemed. She kept trying to move forward, but he held her back with a hand on her shoulder.

"They're clearing out the apartment, Lulu. When I asked, they said she was moving to another part of the country. I said she was hosting me for a mission, and I got to take your stuff, saying it was mine. They didn't even think to check."

He paused in his tale. Mainly because he felt the muscles under his palm tense and her whole body tremble.

"I couldn't find any adoption papers, so it's a good thing they didn't find you. I took everything I could, Lulu. Clothes, toys, drawings..."

He paused again. He still didn't dare look at her. Instead of holding her by the shoulder, he let his hand slip, until he was holding the little girl's.

"Come, I'll take you to my hiding spot."

He pulled her after him, gently, an attempt to see if she was following him willingly. She wasn't. She stayed with her feet nailed to the ground, and looked in the direction of where she lived. One by one, she watched the belongings being taken away.

The lunch box with a cartoon character printed on the opaque lid that held Imel's jewelry.

The money hidden in the kitchen baseboards, under the oven.

The weapons tucked away at the back of the cupboard, behind the jackets and artificial background Imel had placed.

She turned on her heels to follow Ging.

He asked her no questions.