Chapter Text
"Please." Maria begged. "He's my son. I don't want him killed."
"What can we even do, Maria?" The Candleman asked in his quiet tone. Both of them were finally in private, only accompanied by the continuous dripping of water and the two candles still alight on the man's flesh, deforming and discoloring his skin. He kept his distance from the mother and the baby, fear striking his heart with the thought of burning one of them with the burden that had been set alight. "He was born two days ago. How are we going to hide a child? Who's going to take care of him?"
"Just... do anything." The woman in the wheelchair sobbed, holding the boy in one arm and keeping herself from leaning back in the other. It was a wonder that neither her or the boy were dead yet, with the daily torture the entire church received. Her punishment, delivered by the church of the Three Faced God, was for her rolling throne to become her own inescapable iron maiden. She knew it would've become worse if the child were to be revealed, and the fate of the boy would be sealed soon. Even worse, as it was he who discovered her pregnancy and the child first (and only), the child was born premature and barely healthy.
The baby, sleeping peacefully and swaddled in stained red fabric, was unrecognizable to the Candleman; he couldn't even begin to place who would serve as a father - he was born with a head full of wispy silver hair and pale skin, like the color of cold milk. He was, however, born with his mother's soft cheeks and sharp jawline.
"I'll... Think of something." He sighed. Maria's dark eyes lit up at the flicker of hope. "I promise you, your child will be getting out alive. I just need to grab Rebel."
"By the way..." He asked just before heading out of the worn abandoned hall. "Have you named him?"
"I didn't want to, at first." Maria admitted, looking down at the stirring newborn. "I had begun to fear I would've gotten to attached, however, I've been leaning to the name Aesop."
-
It was Rebel who had been chosen to take him down to the water.
The church, which took place in an abandoned and weathered temple belonging to an unknown god as it's former owner, stood in the middle of the woods with a large gushing creek pouring near it. The cool, bubbling water led from the highest mountain to the small village out far past the tree, and the trio was certain that he would get to the village alive. Nothing dangerous lived in the woods besides the cult itself, or so what was believed.
Finally, when she was free from the church she was loyal to for merely minutes, she brought the baby and the sword that was a stolen gift from Candleman.
The blade was small, only roughly three inches with a single ruby embedded on the silver guard and holy designs carved into the blade, protected by a thick black sheath. Rumor says it was blessed by the first face of the Three Faced God, Reticent.
Rebel was unable to see the child however, the entirety of her face being covered by a sealed cage of pure, rusted metal. All she could feel was the softness of his skin and the sound of his quiet laughs and cries. It brought unimaginable warmth to her heart that she hadn't felt in years, and the feeling itself was strange to her.
It caused her heart to twist, but with what? Envy? Envy that this child was escaping, had she not? Rage?Rage that Maria had not been outted for such a scandal? Or was it just the rare feeling of a genuine "happiness", lingering but soon fleeting like a wine's aftertaste.
It was all that clouded her mind as she brought the infant to the creek, the basket making contact with the cold mist and the clear water.
"Goodbye, Aesop." She said, muffled from under the facial cage. Aesop only giggled, unaware of what was happening as he, like Moses, began to drift off down the babbling creek.
-
"What do we have here?"
From the mist that spilled gently from the creek and flooded over the barren, ashy land emerged a woman. She was beautiful and young, dressed in flowing violet robes that seemed to move and shift like a sparkling galaxy. Her skin was well tanned, her hair white as snow, and the horns on her hood a shimmering gold.
Her name was Fiona Gilman, the messenger of dreams and lady of the underworld's eternal slumber.
With her fair hands, she took the woven basket from the babbling brook. The child seemed to pass out in her arms almost immediately at her touch, burrowing his head into the cloth beneath him as he playfully gripped the hilt of the sword. Alas he still remained breathing.
The underworld commonly crossed to the real world in areas condensed by commonly woods or mountains or swamps, areas that humans couldn't commonly get too but the dead and spirits had no problem arriving at, finally crossing over to places not disturbing by people reeking of mortality.
But if this child was human, how did he get here?
"I don't believe you should be here, little one." She cooed, her face close to the child's in awe as she lifted him from the basket. "Are you lost?"
Even as she knew the words wouldn't reach him in his small, defenseless state, she couldn't help but try to comfort it. She could sense that the reason he was allowed here was the feeling of death that surrounded him - this child wasn't fully alive nor dead either. One may even say a dead man walking.
"I see. I understand... Aesop." She whispered with a stolen glance to the basket, which the word "AES0P" was messily carved in with a blade and a sense of frustration. "You're ok. You're safe, child."
It is the death of the youngest that hurts the worst. It is the type of death that shakes you despite knowing they had no impact. Without action, the outcome brings the world to tears, the type of tears that leaves the mourner exhausted but never satisfied.
Nonetheless the underworld was a dangerous place. It was full of many, many different kinds of magic, most harmless and some dangerous. She was confident that the child would be able to thrive in such an environment as long as he was protected until he was able to hold that sword.
All she needed to do was keep him away from the crafty moonlit gentleman.
Turning and disappearing into the mist with the child in hand, the dream messager returned to her realm with a steady whisper of her voice; "Come along now, Aesop. The beholder of the holy sword has much to learn in his lifetime."
The basket was all that remained of Aesop's presence on the rocky shore as he disappeared from the common world forevermore.