Chapter Text
Anna’s memories lie scrawled on a canvas of white and red.
A hare mask clutched dear in two tiny hands, its dove-colored face bathing in rosy light from the hearth.
Laughing.
A crimson flower blooming in a trampled glade of snow, petals unfolding in velvet shades from the pistil of Mama’s antler-speared body.
Screaming.
A child cradled gently against a chest splashed with her parent's blood, as the Huntress delivers the next little girl to the heart of her cabin.
Crying.
A numb hand drained of color, reaching listlessly to brush the scarlet-flecked face bobbing overhead.
Whispering.
“мама?..” The same word keeps stirring past Anna’s heavy lips. “мама...”
“Shhhh…” The person above her exhales uneasily. Large fingers, warm with layered callouses, awkwardly come to rest on the edge of the Russian’s shoulder.
It’s a voice she’s heard before. A rasp like the scraping of two stones together… A noise that might have held some comfort, if only the Huntress could cleanse her ears of her mother’s sounds of pain.
*
Returning to consciousness is difficult.
For a long time, Anna drifts in and out, stirring into reality for a few moments at a time before she’s drawn back by the dark waters. Fighting against its current of sleep is like struggling in a tar pit; dragging her body down further into the leaden depths with each movement.
But no bear can hibernate forever.
A low, muffled groan rumbles in the Huntress’s chest. Outstretched arms lag aimlessly over the floor, searching blindly for the sturdy oak handle of a broad axe. Blistered fingers twitch, long nails clicking upon rough wood.
The memories return to her slowly, framed in a fuzzy haze of looming black.
The heavy taste of iron in the air. Blood-slicked flesh beneath her fingers. Pain blooming hot in her throat like thorny vines of red-tipped needles.
The Russian’s hands waver towards her neck and brush the edge of frayed fabric. Crude cloth bandages wrap tight above the trace of her collarbone. Tender scratches spiderweb beyond the patched rim, marking a wide road of dry cuts that streak down Anna’s throat.
She remembers how to breathe.
Her lungs twinge with each inhale; easy to disregard under the deep ache settled in her bones. She feels as though she’s been crushed by a toppling tree trunk.
Cheery amber light spills from the hearth right ahead, overwhelming brittle eyes once they finally pry open. The Huntress winces under the glow of the dancing flames and cranes her head away, coarse wood scraping beneath her chin.
She sprawls stiffly across the hearth rug, trying to stretch out muscles wound like springs. The dull end of her axe blade suddenly digs into one sore thigh as she rolls over, prompting the Russian woman to grapple for her weapon with a grunt of irritation.
Sore joints pop and click as Anna lifts herself from the ground, leaning onto her axe for support. She takes a moment to swat at the soot speckling her sarafan before glancing around at the hollow of the keeping room.
“Sharlotta?” Her call stirs the dust floating in the air. “Viktor?”
A drowsy hiss musters from somewhere within the neighboring room. A few scuffling noises rise before Victor’s scaly snout pokes into view from the doorway. He blinks at the Huntress for a moment, snarling softly.
That’s when his sister comes shuffling in.
Charlotte mutters a few scolding words to her brother and grasps him by his nape with a sigh, bringing him to perch on her shoulders.
Starry black orbs catch misty gray irises. The silence stretches between the two women for a long minute; every second more like an hour as they hold each other’s stare. It all flashes in the deform’s rheumy eyes. Shame for accusing, guilt for punishment on their behalf… Emotions that cannot be expressed from the Twins’ side.
Emotions that are too alien for Anna to try acknowledging. She hardens her gaze and leaves the unfamiliar, unspoken thanks embedded like a barb below her tongue.
Charlotte breaks away. As his sister steps back, Victor growls at the Huntress in dismay- apparently still bitter over the wound she dealt him with her axe.
The older twin extends an arm, holding a peculiar trinket out to Anna. As the Russian woman moves to grab it, both Killers do well to keep their heads trained toward the scuffed floorboards.
This object is something Anna has never seen before. It's small and compact in her hands, prompting the Huntress to shift closer to the hearth for a better view. The item’s body is formed from dented iron. A ribbon of firelight winks hard against the metal face, reflecting in the dark sclera behind the hare mask.
There’s a rusted crank sticking from the side of the little box. It squeaks in protest when the Huntress twists it, causing tarnished cogs inside the contraption to turn. A few shrill notes of an unfamiliar melody pierce the air once the box clicks open, like a mechanical humming.
Inside, wedged over a bed of tiny lined gears, is a copper ring tied to a scrap of yarn.
The Huntress stares curiously, turning the box over. The ring slips into her palm and she brings it right to her nose, studying a string of dark lines etched in the brass surface.
Anna curls her fingers around the ring and peers up, gesturing to Charlotte in a way as if to ask, 'Is this for me?'
She receives a firm, eyeless nod.
Then, without uttering a single word, the older twin turns and trudges softly through the bare room toward the entrance of Mother’s Dwelling.
Outside, shallow waves of mist lap gently at the cabin’s foundation. Only a sliver of moon hangs overhead to illuminate the way for the siblings as they return to the Fog. Charlotte’s sloped figure cuts a path through the gloom with each sturdy foot forward. Her brother slings down from her shoulders, opting instead to fill the split void of muscle and bone within his sister’s chest.
It’s the sight of wanderers trailing to the next unknown Realm, perhaps disappearing from Anna’s forest a little more complete than in the way they had arrived.
The ring grows warm in her palm as she watches the bounded kin go. Slowly, without bothering to look down, the Huntress slides the piece of copper onto the finger between her middle and pinky.
The parting gift fits nearly perfectly.