Chapter Text
Shiro Proserpine is raising his little brother on fairy tales.
Fairy tales were the only thing my small mind could cling to through the chaos and tragedy of my childhood. The stories were permanent, which was more than I could say about any home I’d had before. It was just me and Shiro, running and running. It was just me, alone, sitting in our cheap one-bedroom apartment, waiting for Shiro to tell me we would have to leave. Again.
No matter where I went, the stories followed. The ones about princesses, fairies, knights, witches, dragons, lost kingdoms, elves, and mermaids.
I’d fall asleep with a book open on my chest, allowing the words to slip into my shallow breaths and vividly dance behind my eyelids. Then, I’d wake up to the sound of Shiro pulling a worn suitcase down from the closet. My eyes would blur, disappointment and anger seething within my tiny heart. Because I always dreamed that my stories could come true. The stories with happy endings, where I’d whisper to a shooting star and my wish to finally have a real home would be granted.
But alas, Shiro would turn to me with his stern yet understanding eyes, tell me we had to leave, and I’d clamp my jaw shut and follow. After all, the only thing I hated more than leaving was the thought of being left behind.
. . .
After two months of living in a crappy cramped apartment near the coast, Shiro stuffed an artfully decorated pamphlet in my face, obscuring my reading. My eyes tracked across the embellished font, glancing back up at Shiro with a furrowed brow.
“You want to go… to a fair?” I asked, pulling myself into a sitting position on my bed. Shiro kept his arm extended with the pamphlet in hand, a wide grin still pasted over his face.
“Come on, Keith! It’ll be fun. Besides, what else do you have to do?” Shiro was right, and the fact fermented in the pit of my stomach. I was nine years old with no friends other than my older half-brother.
“Fine,” I grumbled, just wanting Shiro to pull his gaze off of me. Shiro gave me a satisfied nod before heading back into the main room. He was still wearing his uniform from the restaurant he worked at. Ever since we moved into our most recent temporary apartment, Shiro had been working double shifts in an attempt to save up some money. I hoped the money would be spent on a real house where we could stay for more than 14 months.
For as long as I can remember, we’ve been running. It’s a hard feeling to place, the sleepless nights and constant paranoia. The unfortunate events that crumbled the easygoing life we had barely managed to scrap together. Anytime we got comfortable, it would shift and we’d be out of the door and on the road by sunrise.
Bad luck. Bad luck was what plagued me and Shiro. And at some point, I had gotten familiar with the sinking, impending, certainty that something was going to tear everything away from me. So I held on tight to my brother, the only person who appeared in every memory I had locked up in my mind.
The fair was loud, bright, fragrant, and packed with people. I shrunk further behind Shiro, allowing my unbrushed dark mop of hair to hide his face from the crowd of strangers.
I hated crowds.
“What sounds good?” Shiro had dragged me over to a collection of food stands. Each booth had a line of at least 4 people waiting to order. I found my eyes searching the people's faces, wondering why I had a sinking feeling of familiarity. Like there was someone I knew within the crowd of hungry people.
I startled back to Shiro’s concerned brotherly gaze boring into my skull as I realized I'd taken too long to answer.
“Corndogs?” It was the only fair food I could think of. I waited for Shiro’s face to be wiped clean of the worry and anxiety, resetting to his naturally easygoing expression. But his eyebrows remained furrowed and his lips remained in a tight line.
There must not be a corndog stand. My eyes flicked nervously back to the food stands, avoiding Shiro’s heavy stare.
No, there was a corndog stand, bright and flashing with an illuminated sign. It wasn’t about the odd food choice that I had made.
Shiro simply knew there was something wrong. Somehow, he always knew exactly what was wrong. I waited for the comforting words to leave his mouth. Shiro would ask what was wrong and then console my issue. He would calm me down, ruffling a hand through my hair, offering a supportive smile. And then we’d go home, picking up ice cream cones on the way back.
But Shiro said nothing. He simply nodded, turning towards the hotdog stand.
“We can get hotdogs, then go on the teacups and see who throws up first.” Shiro chuckled once they were in line.
Okay.
Maybe I could forget about the aching pit in my stomach. The bile that stung my throat. The nauseating idea of being followed and watched, studied and observed. All while I unknowingly sat still. Unaware of the bullet being trained on the chest. Maybe for once, I could act like me and Shiro were normal brothers who didn’t spend their entire lives running away from bad luck .
“ Shiro Proserpine ?” A tall man was gaping at us from the back of the line. His mouth hung open as his eyes turned from shock to excitement. I felt Shiro move his shoulder protectively in front of me, offering a cautious smile to the stranger.
“Hello,” Was all that left my brother's mouth. The stranger gestured with his hands, clearly trying to form a sentence.
“Hi, hey, I’m a big fan of Honerva Proserpine, The Hinterland is the best fairytale I’ve ever read – it’s more than just a fairy tale, it feels so real. It changed my life, it’s amazing to meet you. Your mother is a brilliant woman.” I tore my eyes from the rambling ‘fan’ to watch as Shiro’s expression turned to something sour. I’d only heard of his mother once or twice. Honerva Proserpine. I’d never met her. She was an elusive and private fairytale author, locked up in her mansion, spinning stories.
We left before we made it to the front of the line.
. . .
The Hinterland.
The most unobtainable fairytale.
The story that had been lurking in the back of my mind, pressing into my gut, egging me to read it.
The Hinterland.
The twisted unnerving collection of stories written by Honerva Proserpine.
The Hinterland.
The book I spent years trying to get a hold of. And when I finally did, Shiro lost it.
We had a very simple unspoken set of rules, me and my brother.
1 ) Never leave each other
2) Never lie to each other
3) Never speak about Honerva Proserpine
I broke the third rule during a cruelly hot summer when I was eleven years old.
I had been wandering through the shops posted outside of our new apartment. We’d been living there for a solid 8 months but I still hadn’t allowed myself to learn the correct way to jiggle the key into the lock at just the right angle to open the front door. That would’ve made it officially my home, and then I’d have to leave again.
I’d been letting my hair grow long, it scratched at the back of my neck as I pulled it into a loose ponytail. The sun beamed down onto my pale skin as I drifted through the sidewalk, glancing into the shop windows. Shiro was still at work and I was bored of sitting around in our un-airconditioned apartment.
Buildings stretched over my head, looking like a shelf full of books as they lined the street. There was one store in particular that I visited at least three times a week.
The Bookmark. A small, cramped bookstore that was tucked neatly between a cafe and a second-hand treasures shop. It was the perfect place to spend an afternoon, the sun perfectly angled behind the tall trees that stood across the street.
The bell fastened to the corner of the door jingled as I stepped inside. The front room was empty, shelves filled with books made up the entire back wall while multiple tables covered in books were scattered throughout the room. The air conditioning hummed at an even volume, the cool breeze settled over my shoulders as I continued inside.
“Ey, Keith,” Coran, the store clerk, popped up from behind the counter, his thick orange mustache complementing the curve of his cheery smile. “Still no copy!”
I stupidly let my heart rise, just for it to plummet into my stomach.
I heard a clatter as Coran hurried out from behind the counter, clearly tripping over a cardboard box. My shoulders tensed as Coran appeared in front of me.
“Sorry kid, it’s – eh – a hard book to get a hold of.” Coran chuckled before walking off to tend to organize another shelf of books.
The Hinterland.
I had been searching for the book, hungry to tear through the pages. Every night, once Shiro had slumped down into his bed and fallen asleep, exhausted from his shift, I would pull out my laptop and eagerly scour the internet for any trace of The Hinterland.
For months, all I could find was blog posts and Reddit threads about the book. People discussing the different fairy tales and what they could mean. People theorizing about Honerva Proserpine. People recounting their feelings about the book.
I became obsessed with Honerva. I wanted to find out everything about her. I wanted to know why I’d never met her. Why Shiro never talked about her. Why we were forced to always be leaving any house we had behind as we ventured out onto the road again.
It felt like all of my questions were orbiting the same thing , all spinning and spinning until they would inevitably be swallowed into the haunting force of it.
The Hinterland.
I needed to read it, devour it, trace my eyes through every line, and commit every word to memory. Sound out each vowel and hope that an answer might appear in between the pages.
With the realization that Coran would probably never find a copy to sell me, I took to new methods. Diving even further into the internet, spending hours each day searching for retellings of the fairy tales. I’d piece together scraps of each story, compiling them until it felt complete. I’d sit in front of my computer, eyes glazed over from my lack of sleep, hair messy and swept over my face, and read each passage over and over again. Eventually, I had amassed quite an impressive array of fairy tales. I’d read nearly every passage from The Hinterland. But the hunger never left my stomach, I was still missing that final connection to the fairy tales.
I was still missing Honerva .
I jolted awake, eyes narrowing as they tried to cling to a figure in the dark. The figure was Shiro, looming over me as I lay over my covers.
I must have fallen asleep while I was researching.
The realization of what an awfully stupid mistake I made hit me like a semitruck. My throat caught and I felt my heart stop beating for a moment. My fists clenched around the scratchy comforter, trying to pull myself away from where Shiro stood. The computer.
His eyes were sharp in the dimly lit bedroom. Their typical gentle shine was replaced by a dull anger. Shiro wasn’t supposed to get mad, he was always calm and forgiving.
But I knew why he was mad. I could hardly blame him.
“ Keith ,” His voice came out like metal being shoved into a wood chipper. “We do not lie to each other.” The anger in his voice hurt, but the betrayal is what sliced through my flesh. Shiro was clutching my laptop, suspending it in the air. I must’ve fallen asleep before shoving it back under the mattress where it was safe and hidden.
I was like a cornered animal. Willing to do anything to escape the vicious eyes of a predator. My nails dug deeper into my clenched fists, all I could do was spit back. Fight through the shame and guilt with venom.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I spat, even though I knew it was a blatant lie.
That was the first time I saw true, authentic rage in Shiro’s eyes. Rage directed at me.
“You are old enough to know that you never lie to me, Keith. I don’t want you rummaging around with that Hinterland crap.” Shiro yelled, slamming the laptop on the bed and leaning closer.
“Why are you so scared of Honerva? Why do you hate The Hinterland? Why are we always running ?” Tears streamed down my face as I screamed the questions that had been burning in my throat like acid for years. I screamed them with all the animosity I could muster.
“It’s none of your damn business, Keith. Honerva doesn’t want anything to do with me and she sure as hell doesn’t want anything to do with you.” Shiro jabbed a finger into my chest.
At the ripe age of eleven years old, I had a revelation.
Shiro didn’t want to run either. It was clear in the empty air that hung from the unanswered question. Shiro didn’t want to abandon every apartment, every town, every city, every home we ever had. He was just as scared and frustrated as I was. Whether I liked it or not, all we had was each other. Because truthfully, despite my reluctance to admit it, Shiro was right. Nobody wanted anything to do with me, especially not Honerva.
That was the last time I lied to Shiro.