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Carlo had been inconsolable, but also rightfully upset.
No, worse. So much worse.
He had been livid and resentful.
He had wanted to scream. To punch and to scratch at that face that called itself his father until it bled and all that was left was unrecognisable. Because, truth to be told, Carlo did not recognise who that man was anymore.
Clearly this was not the father he had known, when… when everyone was happy. When everything was fine, joyful and happy-merry.
Now, all that man did was throw Carlo into a stranger’s house and abandon him with just a suitcase and two empty, human-shaped holes at his sides.
Was he so unworthy of being a son that his own father had led him, by the hand, to the Monad Charity House and left him there?
Ha, The “Monad Charity House”... even the name seemed to cultivate pity.
Carlo did not need “charity”. He wanted his father, his mother, his family back.
Instead he was going to a fucking orphanage.
And to add insult to injury, Carlo had not even gotten a single glance back from that broad and tall, familiar, yet distant figure.
Oh yes, he did get a simple wave and a hand to the cheek as a goodbye, though that felt more like a stinging slap, which still stung and brought tears to his eyes. Then, his father-stranger gave a tilt of his hat to the lady who had first welcomed them at the Monad's doorstep - which seemed to convey more emotions than what Carlo had been given, he was not jealous, just observant - and then off his progenitor was, disappearing amongst snowflakes and back to his puppets, shoulders hunched over as if he was the victim of an unfair world.
And what about Carlo in all of this?
The pretty lady with blue hair had looked particularly soft, with eyes conveying a sadness to such “horrible events, oh my god you poor little boy, this should have never happened", which befell on him. But all Carlo could do was stand ramrod straight, his luggage slowly dripping water onto the carpet due to the melting snow, and look at the white expanses outside, trying in vain to see his father.
He had hoped for a second that this was all a very bad joke. His mother would hurriedly come back, huddled in her shawl but still cupping her hands over his, rubbing them together and admonishing him for spending time outside in such a freezing weather, carefully rearranging his curls out of his eyes and always accidentally getting her fingers stuck in between. They would laugh. Carlo would grumble and bat her hands away while painfully tugging at that damn hair which always was such a terror to groom whenever they had something planned. But in the end he would embrace his mother and she would hug him back, humming whatever song he wanted or seemed soothing enough, until he sprawled onto her lap and fell asleep under the glowing light of their fireplace at home.
Or, he also envisioned his father coming back and laughing. Eyes crinkling and monocle completely white and opaque from the frost outside. He would certainly try to clean it with a handkerchief but that would do nothing. And so he would enter the Monad Charity House, with Carlo’s hand in his own, never letting go, while walking inside a tea room to warm himself a bit around some cookies and soothing beverages. They would plan their next days. Maybe his father would allow him entrance to his workshop, or he would listen to Carlo’s horrendous piano lessons with a grimace, but he would power through and then they would play together, perhaps. Or Carlo would listen to Geppetto’s hands masterfully dancing over the keys and produce a music which would lull him to sleep.
Well, in the end, nothing of that happened.
Instead, he was guided onto the second floor of the manor with a kind Sophia, who introduced herself with a graceful bow, then led to a room with rows of beds lined up. And with a final reminder that dinner was to be served in a few hours, though he could always call her whenever he felt like he was lost or needed guidance, she disappeared in a flurry of blue fabric.
Then, he was left truly alone.
The room was completely empty. Sophia had said it was because most of the children were still in class since he had arrived late in the afternoon; but aside from the howling tempest outside, there was just the sound of his breathing and the tears crashing onto the ground. He imagined the gusts of wind to be his own screaming as he curled into a ball at the foot of his bed, his suitcase discarded with a kick to the side. Most of his clothes had spilled from the hit and now lay haphazardly everywhere on the floor. He knew he should take a hold on himself and clean everything like a good boy, perhaps his father would come back if he knew he had behaved well.
But the crash of emotions, of longing and sadness, of a mix he did not even know was possible or even had a name, this maelstrom which made him choke and silently sob into his arm, all of that came back even stronger than the first wave.
All he did was curl himself even tighter, hugging himself and trying to forget about the cold tiles under him,which were so different from the warm wooden floor of his house. He also tried to imagine that instead of the metallic bars which constituted the piece of furniture digging into his back were something else than his “bed” he had to lay on for the unforeseeable future.
All he saw now was the blackness of his eyelids and all he thought about was the void inside his throat which churned and dug deeper into his aching chest.
If he died choking on his own spit, snot and tears, then so be it.
Maybe then he would reunite with his family.
.
The next few days were spent in a haze. He was not given much time to adapt. As soon as the night fell on the first day of his… admission here, he had to conform to the “school”s schedule.
In truth, it did not change much from his own days back then. He had to go to class, listen to teachers and take notes before a small test at the end of the week to check if they studied well. The main difference was the amount of children, and the fact that he was asked to attend dinner where everyone gathered, all huddled together around a long table with the Monad family at one end of the table.
Then, they would have free time to do whatever they wanted. Usually, the children would go and play outside if the weather allowed it, although they were all wrapped with so many layers of thick winter clothes they could not even properly run without a slight waddle. Or they would gather in a few of the rooms inside where they could doodle or, for the older ones, train or play Stalkers with wooden weapons and a strict attendant at the ready if the hits became too harsh.
Carlo instead, during most days, would immediately go back to “his bedroom” or more accurately, back to his bed and lay there with one of the very few books he had taken with him from his home. This one told of legendary stories and famous figures. His favourite ones were all about Stalkers of course, and one day, he wished to become one. To be strong, independent and be able to fight and win over anyone. He wished to become one of those. He wanted to be strong enough to overcome this sadness which clogged his mind and always made him feel almost lethargic. He wanted to be strong enough to tackle his father to the floor and give him a good beating before demanding a hug after so long.
He wanted to be strong.
Unfortunately, he was still too young to participate in the Stalker course which the Rosa Estate provided. He had been kindly pushed away, stating he was too little yet, but soon enough he may enroll. ”In a few years.” Carlo had scowled so hard it made Sophia laugh in that soft voice of hers, which in turn, managed to pull a small smile out of him as well.
Their first meeting had been almost frigid, but Carlo would vehemently argue that it did not count as a proper meeting anyway. The second encounter had not gone very well either. She had come the next day after Carlo was brought here to wake the children up. She would gently shake the shoulders of those who struggled or refused to leave the comfort of their bed and Carlo was one of those. He had taken his blanket and thrown it over his head in a valiant effort to cut off the world from him.
Alas, Sophia had finally come over the side of his bed and with her soft voice, her careful hands, which did not even dare touch him in fears of spooking him (which in retrospect, had been the correct assumption) all of those overbearing gentleness had all made him fume with rage. And that anger finally exploded. All of his grief and muffled sobs had to get out somehow, and he conveyed it by throwing the blanket away then storming out of the room with a shrill “leave me alone!” harshly slapping Sophia’s hand away hard enough to hurt.
Truthfully, it had been pathetic even for him, he was aware of it.
Carlo had later been forced to go back to the dining room with his tail between his legs, almost hanging by the scruff of the neck by a butler who was lucky enough not to fall off the railing with how hard the boy had run into him. Then, with his head hanging low it touched his chest and his shoulders so high it looked painfully comical, he grumbled an apology to a stunned Sophia.
Yet, she had not even sneered or looked down on him, as would have probably been the fairest action to take. She had simply smiled that sweet and soft expression of hers again and just told him to “not do that again please, you almost scared the birds outside this early in the morning. Here, take this waffle, it is still warm and delicious”.
After that, Carlo spent most of his time seeking (aka bothering) Sophia whenever he had time and when she was around or free from her duties. Sometimes, her sister Lea would be with her, most of the time drinking tea together. Lea would get that scowl whenever he came knocking at the door of Sophia’s quarters but would always stay in the room out of pure stubbornness, while Carlo assaulted her with questions as soon as he saw she was part of the Stalker course. Rarely she would answer him with more than a curt nod and a small grunt, all of which under Sophia’s playful look, but the stern red-haired woman did nothing more than gently shove him aside when the small boy had tried to (sneakily) touch her training sword in obvious envy.
But as time went on, the weight on his chest increased and became uncomfortable, until it turned unbearable.
After two weeks, the Rosa Estate was yet again covered in snow and surrounded by violent winds, imprisoning the whole building and its residents inside under a snowstorm.
All lessons had been cancelled, most because some of the teachers could not come to the Estate without falling off the cliffs with such harsh winds, but also because the shutters kept banging against the walls in a menacing chorus while the glass of the windows were absolutely freezing. It was cold enough that even a meter away, the air around the windows was cold enough to bring a cloud of white out of everyone’s lips.
Thus everyone had regrouped to one of the many saloons equipped with a roaring chimney. Most children were silent, softly laughing and conversing between each other while others doodled or played with cords and toys. The older ones were reading or studying at a nearby table or were off to the cellars in one of their “secret bases”.
As for Carlo, he could only look outside, mindless of the freezing cold which seeped under his clothes and chilled his skin. He watched the storm outside, the snowflakes, and he dreamt of a lonely figure slowly making its way to the Rosa Estate’s doorstep, asking with a deep voice for a lost boy mistakenly dropped off but was now ready to leave, once and for all.
Of course, this never happened.
Instead, Sophia silently walked to his side and, with her ever so gentle eyes, asked him if he was alright.
Carlo bit his trembling lips.
The tears had stopped flowing out of his eyes but that did not mean that he was ready to stop grieving. He still silently cried in his mind for a loss too grand for a child to bear. He cried for something he lost.
He cried, for he was all alone.
And he cried, yet again, he cried!
“I want to go home!” Then, louder, he began to scream, “I don’t want to be here!”
He looked again at the outside then, when he was met once again with that painful, ugly exterior devoid of any life, he stormed out of the room with anger and sadness in his steps.
He ran to his bed and curled once again inside the blanket he called home and heaved a sob. Silent as ever. Yet each sob wracked his body hard enough to make the metallic bed to squeak and add to his misery.
He was left alone for a long time.
Long enough that he finally fell asleep and only woke up when the bell rang to signal that dinner would be served in an hour.
As he got up and rubbed his eyes, eyelashes stuck on to each other because of grim and dry tears, he blurrily made out Sophia’s silhouette who walked up to his bed. Scowling in embarrassment and yet, so very tired despite the sleep he just had, he simply mumbled, defeated: “How many sleeps till Daddy’s back?” He looked at his hands and the blanket which lay on his lap. “Ten sleeps?” Then, in a whisper of denial and acceptance, he almost begged, “Twenty…?” Thirty… Forty… More…?
Sophia did not answer right away.
Instead, she knelt in front of him to be face to face with this lonely little boy, but did not smile.
Instead, she looked at him and cried for him, her eyes also shining with unshed tears.
Instead, she took one single strand of hair which dangled in front of Carlo’s eyes and tucked it behind his ear before gently rubbing a knuckle against his eyebrows in a soothing motion.
Finally, she said, “Soon enough.”
Her voice spoke of lies and thorned roses but the smell was so enticing Carlo could only listen to her words and desperately grasp at them with all his might despite his hands bleeding from his torn skin and bleeding heart. “You know he’s quite busy.”
His shoulders dropped and another tear rolled down.
Yet. He. Did. Not. Sob.
He simply looked at the floor and sighed, exhausted.
Sophia continued to caress his head, brushing his hair back with his fingers and wiping his tears, bringing a handkerchief so he could blow his nose as well.
“While you wait,” she continued in a soft voice akin to a lullaby, “why don’t you play with a new friend? His name is Romeo. He was worried when he saw you storming away. You might need to reassure him now, he looked ready to run after you had I not stopped him.”
Ah yes.
Romeo.
Carlo had seen him a few times during his stay here though he always slipped away from the others whenever he could. Either to go run and bother Sophia, or simply because the sight of so many children grouped together only brought back the painful memory of a man’s back walking away from him. However, the other boy had walked to him the second day he came here.
Carlo had been reading on his bed after class, running away from the others as soon as he was permitted to hide in the dormitory.
The first thing Carlo had heard was the door being opened and then the click of it being closed, and finally the sound of sharp footsteps. Carlo had scowled at having his peaceful reading interrupted, but refrained from glaring at whoever came in. He unfortunately did not own the place nor this room. This was not his bedroom anymore. The sting from this thought alone was enough to force him to concentrate again on his book rather than on the painful memories he had accidentally triggered.
But then, instead of looking for whatever the other had come in for, the steps came closer and closer and closer to Carlo’s bed until he could almost see the other’s shadow.
Then, a pale hand thrusted into his vision, startling him enough to drop his book on his lap and bite back a pained groan when it fell right on his knee. It was, after all, a thick book. One which had been gifted during his last birthday when he had proudly exclaimed he would become a Stalker. The book was about the basics and rules of being a Stalker, amongst other stories and tales about famous deeds each path had done. It was a well-loved book Carlo never parted himself from. As soon as he heard that the Rosa Estate did have a Stalker scholar course (yet still denied him entry), he had fervently began to peruse the book as though reading it in one night would make his teachers change their mind about their age restriction.
Clearly it had not worked and instead, it only got him a stern warning to not fall asleep again during classes.
But his resolutions never waned.
“Hi, are you training to be a Stalker too?” the hand pointed at the fallen book. “Let’s practice together!”
Looking up, Carlo was met with a sunny smile surrounded by golden long hair falling onto a girl’s shoulders. With rosy lips and a happy expression, she seemed to almost glow even brighter when Carlo’s attention was turned to her words.
“Call me Lampwick!” she said while extending her arms, as if proudly embracing the name.
Carlo could only gape.
Both at the girl who clearly should not be allowed in this dormitory, but also at the ridiculous name.
“That’s such a ridiculous name,” he told her as much.
The girl grimaced and scratched her cheek with one of finger before brushing her hair out of her face.
“Yeah ok, alright, I do suck with names. But we do need nicknames if we are to become Stalkers. Anyway, my name’s Romeo, what about you? I tried to talk to you yesterday but you were fast asleep, I didn’t want to bother you…”
No. That face did not look like a “Romeo”, not that Carlo knew anyone with that name, but still.
And more importantly, what did he mean when he said he wanted to be a Stalker?
That would not do, no way he would give up his place to someone else’s. If he were to stay in the Rosa Estate, then he would be the only young child getting into the Stalker course thanks to his book. Not with someone else! Was the other boy trying to steal his place? His idea? The only thing of interest and silver lining in this cursed place?
With those thoughts, he glared at the other boy and, with a final humph!, he grabbed his book and walked to the door, harshly smacking the other with his shoulder and making him stumble back.
That had not been their first encounter.
In fact, Romeo had tried many times to talk to him.
Sometimes by trying to sit close to Carlo at the dining table, or even worse, in front of the other to try and subtly throw food to the other’s plate in order to gain his attention. Other times he would try to tail and follow Carlo which ended up in both of them running up and down the floors and stairs of the mansion under everyone’s amused glances and Carlo’s angry yells.
Though most of the time, Romeo would give up, either getting too tired to pursue the other or because he got called over by some other children. But at least every two or three days, the blonde boy would be waiting for Carlo somewhere, asking his name and to “train together”.
Carlo would zealously keep his book close, paranoia strong enough that he was later found carrying it inside his school bag and in his arms at all times.
Being a Stalker was his one and only dream that had not been shattered yet. His goal was just right here. A few doors away each time he walked past the second floor and could hear the sound of people fighting or the sound of a teacher’s voice.
It was just a few years away and he would not allow anyone to steal his dreams again.
Now, sitting on his bed and with tear streaks drying on his cheeks, he looked at where Sophia was pointing and sure enough, a head was poking out of the half-opened door. Though as soon as Carlo looked over, the head abruptly retracted and a cacophony of noises came out from behind the door, making Sophia chuckle.
“You should give him a chance,” she said. “He might be a good friend for you.”
And Carlo. Poor, exhausted, little Carlo was too tired to flee anywhere anymore. He simply sighed and got up onto trembling legs. Sophia did not follow him and instead, stood up before going to tidy up some blankets which had been chaotically thrown away on a few other beds. With this semblance of privacy, Carlo made his way to the door and unceremoniously yanked it with enough force that if he had been older, it would probably have fallen off its hinges.
Suddenly, Carlo was greeted with a yelp and a weight smacking him on the chest and chin, making him lose his balance and tumble to the floor in a heap of limbs. Trying to reorient himself, he was rudely greeted with a familiar face and familiar hair which fell around them in a sunny curtain, while Romeo looked at him somewhat awkwardly a few centimetres away from his own stunned, cross-eyed expression.
“H- Hey. Fancy seeing you there…” the blonde boy stuttered, lips stuck between a smile and a grimace.
At the absurdity of the situation, his side hurting from a hit (probably a knee), winded down and a bruise to the back of the head and his chin (Romeo’s forehead was beginning to swell as well), Carlo could only do one thing.
He laughed.
First it started as a snicker, a giggle. A small, tentative, fragile little thing.
But then, it expanded. It filled the void inside him before asking to be let out. It made him shake until, breathlessly, he exploded in laughter.
It was a beautiful thing, liberating and Carlo had never felt freer in such a long time it felt painful as well.
He laughed until he could not breath under Romeo’s confused and worried eyes, but Carlo could not stop himself.
And then, when it finally stopped, he looked up at Romeo and with a huge smile which hurt his cheeks, he said: “Hey, I’m Carlo.” He swallowed and this time, it did not feel as though he tasted muddy water and ash. He cleared his throat and asked, “Wanna be Stalkers together?”
The answering smile was as happy as he currently felt.
Beautiful with the grateful, sweet, golden taste of an apple just plucked out of a branch.
.
.
.