BAINE

another orphan?

“I don’t know about that one.”

“I don’t like the way it looks at me.”

“Strange eyes, yeah?”

“Out of season, that’s for sure.”

“Do you think she really—”

“With him? Oh, probably—”

“Get rid of it.”

She is still slick with fluid, tripping over her own legs when a spot of sunlight pokes a hole in the dark clouds and comes pouring through the dying leaves; shadows dance, cheered for and egged on by a cold breeze that has slipped through the fingers of Trick-o’-Treaters and snuffed out the flames of Jack o’ Lanterns. It startles her at first, so much so that she pauses and looks to her mother to see if it’s okay; it’s her first time coming into contact with it, after all. It’s weird and new and bright enough that it makes her head hurt. It makes her long for the stars and the moon and the darkness that kept her hidden, kept her safe. Her mother doesn’t falter, however; she doesn’t so much as look back to see if the newborn is following her and the brindle child makes a distressed noise deep in her throat to let her mother know she has fallen behind.

“Don’t dawdle,” grunts the black mare.

She doesn’t, not for the remainder of their journey—though she is careful to avoid the brightest patches of light and to stick close to the trees. As skinny and ugly as they are, they provide some minimal form of ‘shelter’ from the cold, cold wind and she’s grateful enough for that. Her mother never tells her where they’re going. No, she only leads her to what looks like a giant mouth opening up out of the ground and then stands there expectantly, waiting for her daughter to go in.

“Well?” She says, eyeing her sternly. “Go on.”

The brindle foal freezes, one hoof hovering precariously above the muddy ground; she flicks her ears back, her silver eyes narrow in apprehension and then she takes a step back—a step that earns her a rough shove forwards.

“It’s where you belong, Baine.”

It’s where you belong.

Ignorance is bliss.

Baine doesn’t know that her mother’s band believes this is the Mouth of the Underworld, that every unwanted child that steps foot inside is sacrificed to some dark god and never heard from again; her mother doesn’t know that this is Beqanna’s Adoption Den, a place for children to find new parents—a place where they’re often more likely to get picked up by some callous recruiter that pretends to care but really only wants to take the kid home to further theirs and their kingdom’s agenda. As far as her mother knows, Baine is dead; Baine has been gobbled up by some unimaginable beast and she is waiting to be processed along in its belly, waiting to be turned into the very piece of shit that her mother’s band had branded her as from the very beginning some odd hours ago.

And they’re all okay with this.

Happy, even.

Baine is okay, too.

The Adoption Den isn’t so bad, the faeries eagerly fill her belly with milk and she suckles greedily from their weird little contraptions; it’s the first thing she’s had to eat since coming into the world, the very first thing, and it comes with a taste of magic that she’ll end up craving for the rest of her life. But for now, she’s okay, and the faeries are happy to accommodate her—it’s been so long since they have had a baby to take care of and they intend to spoil her rotten until a potential parent comes along. It’s the least they can do, they fuss, combing the knots out of her fuzzy mane and tail with their fingers and gushing over ‘cute’ she is; such a pretty girl, they say, running their tiny strange hands across her peculiar striped coat.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved;
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

BAINE

another orphan?

She’s groomed until she looks prim and proper; each child under their care is special now after all. Each of them gets a little more attention than the children from generations’ past and Baine is no exception. Perhaps they should count their lucky stars that the Adoption Den is so empty these days—and they might have, had they not known the truth of the matter. Kidnapping, abuse, murder, fewer foals born each season—the list goes on and on, making their hearts heavier than they were when their nerves were shot and their den was overflowing with hungry little orphans.

Alas.

Baine perks up when she notices the mare approaching. She wiggles excitedly, because maybe it’s mother—maybe mother changed her mind and has come back for her! The faeries dutifully scatter, preferring to watch the exchange from a distance; this isn’t their first rodeo, they know what is about to happen, but the way the foal’s ears splay out to the sides dejectedly when she realizes this isn’t who she thought it was worries them. She almost looks as if she’s going to cry, but then she seems to swallow the lump in her throat and squares her shoulders. She lifts her head, looking the mare right in the eye and they all breathe sighs of relief.

She’s going to be okay.

“Baine,” she replies, much softer than she intended, so she says it again—this time with vigor. “I am Baine.”

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved;
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.