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32

"And what are you up to, sonny-boy?" James asked, watching the strange tableau his son had created. Luke was sitting cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by all manner of clothes and preserved food items, trying to figure out the best way to stuff them all into an old satchel.

"Just getting all my stuff packed before I go to bed," he replied, punching an extra pair of pants into one of the side pockets.

"There's no rush, you know. You could leave this for tomorrow."

"Nuh-uh!" Luke shook his head vigorously. "There is too a rush! I want to get on the road as fast as possible, before dawn even. The faster I leave the faster I can get back."

"Because obviously your presence here is the only thing preventing our grisly murder, am I right?"

Luke grunted and rolled his eyes, and James laughed. "All right, then. I'll leave you to it. Goodnight, Luke."

"Goodnight, Dad."

James closed the door on his son's fruitless, yet amusing attempts at circumnavigating the special limitations of his chosen luggage ("Fit, damn you!").

Next up was the middle child. He went to Tim's door, but his hand hesitated over the knob. He didn't know why, exactly, but saying goodnight to his kids was always a difficult ritual for him. Maybe it's because it signalled the end of yet another day, and the start of a new night, a new night he'd spend tossing and turning in a bed that felt much too big and wide for him, even though it was only a single.

James opened the door and peeked inside before those thoughts could go any further. "Hey, champ. Everything all right?"

He was already in bed, the blankets covering him almost all the way up to his ears. He stuck his head out of the warm little cave he had made for himself and said: "Yeah, except for this one Fox who likes to barge into my room without knocking."

"Ooh, sorreeee." James rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. "Better?"

"Much."

"Seriously though, are you okay?"

Tim nodded quickly and squirmed his way back underneath the blankets like a tortoise withdrawing into its shell.

This kid.

"Hey." James strode over and pulled the blankets back, exposing the little tortoise to the harsh, outside world. Tim looked up at his dad with those big eyes of his, and James was once again struck by how much smaller he seemed than his brother. They were born less than a year apart. Put them side by side and they were practically the same height, and yet Tim just felt smaller somehow. More vulnerable. "You remember how I said you could come to me with anything, right?"

He nodded.

"No matter what or when, if there's something bothering you, you can tell me, and I'll do my very best to make it better."

"I know, Dad."

"Is there something bothering you? Something you want to talk about?"

He shook his head and his fur made soft swishing noises against the pillow.

"You sure?"

He nodded again. His son, the boy of a thousand nods and shakes.

"Well, all right then. But you come to me the moment you change your mind, okay?"

"But Dad, there really isn't -"

"Okay?"

He looked up at his dad with those big eyes and he clutched the blankets to his chest. A moment passed. "Okay."

"Okay." James ruffled the boy's hair. "Goodnight, Tim."

"Goodnight, Dad."

James went out and closed the door behind him. Only one left to go now.

He tapped his knuckles softly against her door and waited. Girls were different from rambunctious boys. It was his understanding that they valued their privacy more dearly, especially in a house full of manly men.

"Come in."

James opened the door and poked his head inside. Valery was sitting by her desk in her cute, baggy blue night clothes, pouring over a piece of paper, a sharpened chunk of charcoal in her hand.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"Hey, Daddy," she said, too absorbed in her drawing to bother turning around.

"Can I come in for a second?"

"Okay." She sat back and examined her creation, tilting her head this way and that. Apparently it wasn't quite right, because she bent down and got right back into it, her elbow working feverishly as she added the missing details, the sound of charcoal scratching against paper filling the room. It was a pretty little sound, the sound of something being made.

It was also a painful sound, filled with so many memories, each of them sharp as a blade.

James stood behind her and looked down, amazed by how good she was getting. It was a sketch of black fox hands holding a rose up to the sun, but there were so many fine details he wasn't sure 'sketch' was the right word, stuff like the twinkle of dew on the petals, and the curved shadows beneath the thorns. He could hardly believe his little girl was able to create something so beautiful with an ugly, dirty old piece of charcoal. It was almost a miracle.

"This is absolutely gorgeous, Val," he said, and he sincerely meant every word.

That's why he was so puzzled when she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "It's okay, I guess."

"Whaaat? It's beautiful! A real work of art."

"It's not as good as Mom's, though."

It always struck him the exact same way, every time. It started in his stomach: a sharp, tearing sensation, like someone was pulling his insides out with a rusty hook. From there it spread to everything else; the memory of his darling Emily. For those brief, yet eternal moments every last ounce of happiness would drain away and all he could think about was his final moments with her, the way she looked at him, so confused, and the way there was so little blood. So little...

And then the moment was gone and he was back in his little girl's bedroom, standing behind her chair with his hands on her shoulders. She had created something with her own two hands, but she wasn't able to see it the same way he did because she didn't see it as a beautiful piece of art, but rather as a way for her to get closer to her mother, and as long as she viewed it like that, she would never be satisfied. Because no art, no matter how good, could ever succeed at something like that. To her, it would always be a failure, because Emily wasn't around to tell her it's not.

"Hey, girl." James got down on one knee so he could look her in the eye. She turned her head away at first, but James gently guided it back. "Valery, if your mother was here right now, she would be so proud of you."

"I know, Daddy."

"No, I don't think you do." James paused, wondering what he could say to make her understand. There were so many feelings sloshing around on the inside, but that's just the thing. Words aren't real feelings, they're just symbols, pale representations. There is a huge difference between the word 'love' (which is just a bunch of lines on paper, if you think about it), and the real deal. Real love is a wondrous thing. It can make every second full of sunshine and warmth and happiness, it can make every bad thing in your life seem small and unimportant, as long as the person you love is there by your side.

But love can also be a terrible thing. It can make every second last a day on its own, a bleak, never-ending hell inside your own head. It can take every good memory and turn it into a weapon, and it forces you to stab yourself with it over and over and over again, no matter how hard you try not to.

If the person you love isn't there anymore.

But dammit, Valery was still here! She was feeling down and it was his holy duty as her father to make her feel better, whether he was good with words or not! That's another side of real love. When the ones you love are in pain, you're in pain too, and when that happens, you must make them happy again, not out of some selfish desire to stop your own pain, but because their happiness is the only important thing.

"Valery, I love you so much. More than I can say. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do, Daddy. I love you too."

"Okay, if you know that, then you also know that your mother loved you just as much as I do. Still loves you, I believe. And if she could, she'd shove me out of the way and tell you all these things much better than I ever could. She'd tell you how beautiful your picture is, and how beautiful _you_are, and how proud she is to be your mother, and..." He had to be careful, otherwise he might start crying, and that would only make his little girl feel even worse. Love was a creature that could bite both ways.

He turned his head away to cough and quickly wiped his eyes. When he turned back, Valery was smiling from ear to ear.

"Thank you, Daddy. I feel much better now."

"Really? You sure?"

"Yup!"

She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, and as James hugged her back, he wondered if maybe this turnaround was a bit too abrupt.

"Are you absolutely sure?" he asked again, just to be on the safe side.

She giggled, and the sound was like weights tumbling off his shoulders, so genuine and pure. It was the only confirmation he needed.

"Okay, kiddo," he said and clapped her on the back. "What say we get you to bed? It's getting really late, and if I know Luke, you'll have to get up early if you want to say goodbye."

"Okay."

"'Ere ya go!" He twisted around, plopped her down on the bed, and she quickly wriggled underneath the blankets, still smiling broadly. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. "Goodnight, hon."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

He started for the door, a silent battle raging inside his head as he tried not to think of Emily. This battle was constant, but it was always particularly bad in Val's room. She was so much like Emily both in looks and in manner it was almost scary, and the way she was imitating her mother's drawings only made it worse. They were so beautiful, but every time he looked at them that rusty hook would tear out another piece of his heart, and oh how he hated himself for seeing her in such a light, not as a product of life, but as another reminder in a sea of reminders, a reminder that his wife was dead, taken from him by that -

"Daddy?"

James came out of his thoughts with a start and realized he was still in Val's room, squeezing her doorknob so tight it was digging into his palm.

He turned back with a smile on his face. "Yes, darling?"

She looked so tiny under all those blankets, but her shadow, thrown against the wall by the candle on her bedside table, was absolutely huge, almost tall enough to touch the ceiling.

"Can I ask you something? I mean, if I do, you'll tell me the truth, right?" Her eyes did not quite meet his.

"Of course, dear. What is it?"

"Daddy...? I... Will you tell me what..."

"Yes?"

"I want to know..." She fidgeted beneath the blankets, tenting them with her knees, making a mountain range of shadows along the walls. "I want to know if you'll maybe give some money to Luke to buy some paint for me? I know it can be a bit expensive, but -"

"Oh, is that all? No problem, sweetheart. I'll make sure he has enough. And I'll write up a list for him too, so he won't forget anything."

"Thanks, Daddy."

"Anything else?"

"No, I'm good."

"Okay then. Goodnight, angel."

"Goodnight, Daddy."

James stepped out onto the landing, and as he turned around to shut the door, he saw Valery blow out her candle and flood the whole room with the total darkness that can only exist in a place like this, where the only light came from the stars and the moon. In this light (or lack thereof) she didn't seem to be smiling as broadly as she was before.

One day, she would ask her question, and gods help him, what would he tell her?

He slowly eased her door shut, and the tiny click of the latch was the signal. Tonight, just like every other night, he would be all alone until he could fall asleep.

He started to walk towards his bedroom, but then stopped. He knew exactly what was waiting for him in there. An empty bed and an hour of staring at the ceiling, his eyes burning with fatigue, waiting for sleep that was always so slow to come.

Maybe he could delay it for just a little while longer. There was someone else in this house, after all, someone he hadn't checked on in quite a while.

He turned around and went down the stairs, his hand trailing along the bannister, taking his time, but inevitably he reached the bottom, and yet another sea of memories.

He tried not to look at them as he walked down the hallway, at the flowers and butterflies and mountains and rivers, such beautiful images distorted into screaming faces by the darkness. He came so close to burning them all when he first decided to move, but in the end he just couldn't. It would be like burning a piece of Emily, and he would sooner throw his entire body to the flame than let that happen.

But still, walking down this hallway was a quiet torture. Especially...

He glanced up and saw the picture that always pained him more than any other. The one with them together, the whole family, so happy and full of life. She simply handed it to him over the breakfast table one morning, as if it was no big deal. She simply drew it the night before without any reference, didn't ask any of them to pose or anything. She just...

James ripped his gaze away, but not before the memory could slice into his heart, the one of her holding the picture out to him while the kids laughed and argued in the background. She was so beautiful first thing in the morning, with half her hair sticking up in untidy pillow spikes and one bare shoulder peeking out the top of her nightgown.

Hey honey, look what I made...

James exhaled his pent up air in a broken wheeze, as if maybe he could physically expel these terrible, wonderful thoughts.

It wasn't the fantasies that were killing him, though, not the memories, not even the many ghosts of his dear wife. It was leaving them that was killing him, it was the shock of snapping back into reality that was killing him.

It was the real world that was killing him.

If it wasn't for the kids, he'd probably have given up by now. He'd have found a way to live with Emily, inside the fantasy, forever. Gods knew he's thought about it...

But enough of that. He took all those thoughts and feelings and shoved them way down deep, where they belonged. He opened the door to their spare bedroom and peeked inside.

The place was spotless, of course. He and Valery had cleaned it from top to bottom after Banno had had his little 'accident'. Scrubbed the floors, changed the sheets, even had to poke the mop at the ceiling a few times. There had been blood literally everywhere. Scared the Living Soul out of him, it did, the way Banno attacked himself like that, almost like a wild animal. Valery had suggested they tie Banno's hands so he wouldn't scratch himself in his sleep, and James had pointed out that Banno had massive teeth and claws, biceps bigger than her whole head, and an itch so unbearable he was willing to destroy a piece of himself to make it go away, and unless she had a pair of manacles hidden away somewhere, a dinky piece of rope wouldn't be worth a bag of beans. The best they could do was care for him, make him as comfortable as possible, and pray for his swift recovery. She had nodded and carefully placed her gift on his bedside table, a little sad that she didn't get a chance to give it to him properly, but happy that it would be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. Following suit, James had placed his Wolf-sized crutch in the corner, where it could act as a motivational tool on Banno's road to recovery, a shining beacon to spur him on so that, one day, he'll be able to walk again. Although, after what the big guy did to his leg, that mythical road must have gotten extended by a few miles.

But what of Banno now? He was a shifting mountain under the covers, sleeping soundly. It was amazing, really. Over the past few days he must have bled enough to fill up three Foxes, and yet he was still going. Amazing.

And more than a bit frightening.

Banno breathed in... breathed out... barely making a sound. It was a little eery, the way such a large creature could be so quiet. But that was to be expected, of course. The poor fellow's been stepping in and out of Death's door ever since he washed up.

And yet... it was more than that. He'd hate to think Luke's paranoia was starting to rub off on him, but even before the boy... acted out, James has been getting odd feelings from their giant houseguest, feelings he didn't quite understand. The deathly quiet was part of it, and the strange smiles too, but...

James remembered a cane he once made for an old blind Fox back in Grovenglen. He was a friendly Fox, quick as a whip, but being around him always made James feel slightly uncomfortable. It was the eyes, the way they looked past you, sometimes right through you, not seeing anything. Well, they didn't work anymore, so of course they wouldn't actually see what they were looking at (or what they were pointed at, rather), but it was still unsettling. That feeling the old Fox gave him with his unseeing eyes was close to the way James sometimes felt when he was speaking with Banno, but it wasn't the eyes that were blind, staring at nothing, it was...

What, exactly? What was it about this Wolf? He didn't look 'blind' as he was now, sleeping with his mouth slightly open and a clear line of drool dampening the pillow. But then again, 'blind' was the wrong word entirely. Banno may only have one eye left, but it was in perfect working condition. No, it was something else, something that gave the same feeling as blind eyes, but weren't. It was in the way he smiled when talking to you, not really a smile at all, but rather a showing of teeth. It was in the way he talked to you, pausing every now and then, as if to weigh his words and predict the outcome, constantly thinking ahead about what he _should_be saying rather than just saying what came to mind. It was in the way he never complained about the immense pain he must be going through. James has changed those bandages at the end of his stump several times now, but Banno never cried out, not even once. Not even when James gave the raw flesh an 'accidental' pinch. Not even when the big guy scratched through his bandages and clawed open his stump and rivulets of blood came streaming out.

He never cried out. He never screamed. He never even winced.

The reason blind eyes make you feel uneasy is because you're seeing something that looks perfectly fine on the outside, but isn't working properly on the inside. But what was Banno's 'blindness', if you could call it that? What was it that seemed to be working fine at a passing glance, but was horribly, terribly wrong once you looked closer, and noticed that the eyes weren't really looking back at you, but _through_you?

Is that why Banno sometimes made him feel uneasy? Could Luke be right? Was there something wrong with this thing he had taken into his home? So fundamentally, profoundly wrong he couldn't even see it?

Are blind eyes that could stare back at you really blind at all?

James stepped back, shaken by the twisted path his thoughts had led him down.

What was he doing down here anyway, comparing Banno's smile to a blind man's eyes? How did that make any sense? No, he was only here to make sure Mr. Wolf hadn't bitten off the rest of his leg, and he hadn't. His job here was done. Time to... go to bed. Right. The place where he went to to try and not dream of Emily, so he wouldn't be devastated when he woke up and saw that there was no one lying next to him, snoring softly with her hair hanging over her eyes, or smiling at him sideways with her hands stuffed underneath her pillow. Just... empty space.

James closed the door and leaned his head against the wood, too afraid to turn around. He knew she was standing right behind him, above him, beside him, everywhere really, waiting to pop out and gouge another piece of his heart out.

I miss you so much...

He couldn't stay still forever, so he turned around and the first thing he saw was the picture, hanging from the wall, a cruel reminder of how his life used to be. Maybe this time he could just walk by. Maybe this time he wouldn't feel the need to...

Too late. He was doing it already. He had taken the picture down and was standing in the dark hallway, all by himself, staring at a picture his dead wife had made for him four years ago. He knew this wasn't a healthy thing to do, but he couldn't stop. Sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine the sketch coming alive, moving slightly in the dark. It was subtle. Sometimes it was just the tilt of her head, or a wrinkle in her clothes, or the smile on her face. He knew the movements were fake, just his own desperate desires given life by his imagination and a healthy dose of shadow, but it was in these moments he felt closest to her.

It was also these moments that caused the most pain when they ended, slamming him back into reality like a plaything.

He ran his hand across the frame, slowly, his fingers knowing each little bump and scratch by heart.

Okay, you had a nice long look, now put it back before you drive yourself insane.

He told himself these words almost every night, but he never listened. It had simply become another part of the ritual, like saying goodnight to the kids.

He climbed the stairs with Emily's picture in his hands, his legs carrying him forward of their own volition. He passed Timothy's door, then Luke's, then Valery's, and suddenly he was standing in front of his own, a portal to nightmares so terrible he would do anything to postpone it for even a minute.

"Maybe they won't be so bad this time," he whispered, reaching for the doorknob. He grabbed it, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

His room wasn't any bigger than his children's, but it seemed that way because it was so empty. There was no desk and no table, just a wardrobe, a bed in the corner, and one little nightstand for his candle. There were no decorations adorning the walls, no rugs, no nothing. This was just a place to sleep.

Or try to.

He kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed, still staring at the picture in his hands, hoping to see her move.

She didn't.

James sighed and put her on the nightstand so she could catch the moonlight streaming in from the window.

He lay down on his side, so tired, but unable to get to sleep, and he stared at Emily's picture, at the way it glowed. He wondered if he had done the right thing by moving all the way out here, tearing his kids away from their home and their friends. But poor Valery, if she ever found out what really happened, it would destroy her.

I had to do it, Emily. For Valery. I had to keep her safe. But I had to do it for myself, too. Please forgive me, but I couldn't bear living in that house anymore. There was too much of you in there, too much of your laugh, too much of your smile, too much of your art, too much of your stories, just too much! There's too much of you even here! I love you so much, my darling Emily, but you're killing me.

She didn't say anything, but James could see her clutching his doppelganger inside their sketched world, where everything was black and white and beautiful, where they were always stuck in perpetual happiness and the day never ended.

He would gladly live in that world, even if it meant he would never move again, as long as he could feel her hands on his arm just one last time...

The rusty hooks pierced his heart and ripped out chunk after chunk, until it felt like his ribcage would cave in on itself. During the day he had to go all out for the kids. They were the most important thing in his life now, but here, in the darkest hours of the night, he didn't have to put on a brave face for anyone.

"I miss you, Emily," he whispered in the night, a hot line of tears flowing down his cheek to dampen the pillow. "I miss you so much. Why did that monster have to take you from me? Why did he have to take you away from the kids? Every day I wonder how much more of this I can take, and every day just passes whether I want it to or not, and at the end of every such day I find myself right back here, lying in this bed, asking you why it had to happen that way, why you had to be..."

James clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his sobs. Valery was sleeping in the next room, and he didn't want her to hear.

Why did you have to die? Why did you have to be murdered? Why did you have to suffer so much at the hands of that bastard Markus!?

James's chest hitched and a noise almost escaped his throat, but he kept it all locked inside, where it could do no harm to anyone but himself.

He closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep, but he was so afraid of the dreams. They came to him almost every night, and he was powerless to stop them. They tore his heart apart and shattered any hope he had left, and they always started the same way; with a gentle voice, softly calling his name...

---

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