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Some mornings came with a cream-colored envelope on a stand for cakes. Days such as these had become more frequent as of late, and while the contents of the envelope could rarely be guessed at (a summons; a verse in ancient script; cards for the upcoming World Duel Carnival; candies and coins; once, a handful of dirt), the paper with its silver raiser and glass dome would always be found in the very same spot on the antique desk in V’s room. How it was delivered without ever disturbing his sleep, he did not know.
This time, the envelope had yielded a letter.
V,
Did you know that you weren’t the first? She lost the first two, your darling mother, and so she was determined to make sure you lived. She’d snarl at strangers, insisting they’d upset the balance that kept you warm in her womb. Only two people had been permitted to prepare her food for all those months, and the first one she threatened with flame and knives for not bothering to weigh and tally each ingredient in one of her dinners. (He died only a week after we let him go. A massive heart attack, you understand.)
She couldn’t stand to be around other babies. She complained of their smells and their eyes, saying she could sense their jealousy that you remained safe and sleeping inside her while they were soft and prone to this world. They wanted to kill you, she said. They wanted you to be as miserable as they were. Are you miserable today? Did you have bad dreams? Do you recall her face at all?
You should also know of her faith in the books. Sometime during the pregnancy, she lost her trust in the wealth of digital knowledge surrounding her, swearing with her swollen red face that she would only consult the world of print and pages for advice in raising you. She could’ve killed herself among the mess she called her library. She ate so many roots. She kept powders in satchels, wrote a log of her dreams.
Isn’t it wild? You’d have thought her a loon.
Your creature,
Tron
▬
"She could see fairies. Especially around your crib."
III nearly dropped the tea tray then and there. “Tron?”
"Fairies, III," Tron replied, unmoving. So fixed was his single eye upon the gridwork of screens before them that III didn’t dare say a word, fearing he would break Tron’s concentration.
"She saw fairies," he continued, matter-of-factly. "Bit one of their heads off as you slept one night. Some of the blood got on your blankets, but you didn’t stir."
III swallowed thickly. The loop of cartoons and their bluish glow had a wicked way about them, one that illuminated Tron’s mask in a gleam that made him seem somehow even more distant. Finally, he set the tray down. “Our mother, you mean?”
If Tron heard that, he didn’t indicate as much. He kicked his legs; swung back and forth in his seat as antsy children do. “The good ones were blind and the bad ones had six webbed fingers on each little hand. She blamed them if you cried, demanding them to leave you alone. The rain drove them into the house by the thousands, so she’d bundle you in special silks and sneak you out in the downpours.”
The enormity of his father’s madness threatened to overwhelm him, sometimes. Every anecdote Tron spun these days left III trembling harder than the last. His only solace through these tales came in the form of greater conviction. I promise we’ll be a family again, he thought. I swear it. So wait for me.
Tron looked up at III, smiling sickly, and for a moment III was sure he must have heard that. “She died with thunder in her ears.”
▬
A shallow dip in weight at the foot of his mattress woke IV immediately, sending him bolting upright and unraveling the threads of sleep in his mind. “Who’s there? What do you want?”
"Hey, did I ever tell you about your mother?"
Recognition crashed in on IV almost as quickly as his dreams had taken leave of him. “Tron? What—” He glanced to his bedside. “It’s—it’s three in the morning.”
"She grew up in a mountain village," Tron went on. "They were isolated, remote. If a wayward hiker happened upon them, they’d shoot him full of arrows and gather up the body before the bears could get to it. I’d ask her what came afterward, but she’d never tell me."
IV wasn’t usually one to be left speechless, but Tron was nothing if not proficient in achieving the unlikely. Distantly, the clouds outside had journeyed on past the moon, throwing pale light into the room they sat in.
Tron continued. “A river set the southern boundary for the villagers. Untouched by the hand of industrialization, the trees grew thick and impossibly tall here, and their sap made the riverwater sweet and clean. She said that river raised her. She said it brought her closer to angels.
"Her parents worried of her. She’d leave straight after breakfast, stay at the riverbank until dark, then come home with her ribbons and skirts in tatters. Many an argument had been fought over her love for that place. It bewildered them. Your mother was a good child, obedient and honest, but not when it came to her spot down at the river.
"Her 14th birthday was the last day she ever saw them. On the following morning, she left before dawn to visit her playground, trading her breakfast for a chance at listening to the clear running water. She went along as she always did, bounding off down the pathways she knew so well, and arrived just as the sun had begun to touch the sky.
"She hadn’t so much as dipped her toes in the water when she saw it: at the other side of the bank sat a crooked child. Or she assumed it was a child, anyway; she estimated that its head would reach her waist at the very highest. It was a pathetic, withered thing, armless and with the face of a dog." Tron swayed back and forth as he told his tale, letting his head loll as he went. The movement of him, eerie in its unbothered flow, teased apart what feeble defenses IV could manage around his father, laying into his chest a bitter pain that left him wondering just who the fuck decided the Arclight family would be dealt such a shitty lot in life.
"IV," Tron grinned. "When she saw the crooked child, whatever it was— she knew she couldn’t go back home. She doubted she even had a home to return to. Don’t you get it? Your mother had to leave, somehow."
IV gathered his sheets in his fists, wanting so badly to scream, or at least to understand. “How did she do it?”
"Isn’t it obvious?" Tron grew still. "She spread her wings, IV. She flew away."
Silence. IV didn’t breathe, didn’t blink or sigh or speak a damn word, only tried in vain to make sense of the crooked child and the sound of flight in his ears. Rivers brought his thoughts to water, and water, that was Ryouga’s—
His thoughts went up in flames just as Tron erupted in delight. He threw himself back on the bed, arms splayed out above him in a gesture of sweet glee, his laughter bubbling forth in mirthful shrieks.
He must have laughed for hours. “You should’ve seen your face just then.”