Run Darlin' Run

Rainy, Cold and American History

All of this was explained very quickly as she tied the ends of his hair into knots, something he would have to deal with later. At six years old, it seems the child was too smart for her own good. Something that caused him to smile in amusement and swallow back his growing apprehension. This could be a problem.

"But I promise not to tell because you are nice and daddy said you were not a bad person...," she paused, seeming to ponder something important, and then frowned, "are you a bad person," she asks, tilting her head at an angle in curiosity. She didn't seem afraid. Only curious. It seemed the child wasn't afraid of anything, really. Another thing that could also pose as a problem.

The stranger raised his eyebrows and laughed. "What do you think, little one" he asked, curious to see what the young child thought of him. This was the first time she'd spoken to him during one of his visits, normally just content on watching. Sometimes from the top of the stairs or from behind a partially closed doorway, other times from her father's arms or behind her mother's legs. It was endearing to see she'd mastered her fear but worrying as well.

"You made it," a voice observed and had he been human, it might have startled him.

The stranger looked up, a grief stricken woman, who in no way resembled the child in his arms, standing in front of him. She was adorned in black, a custom of the humans he didn't quite understand but respected, and clutching at a foundation stained tissue. Her skin was chalk white and her dirty blond hair pinned up in a way that looked almost painful. She screamed bitter anger and mindless grief, something he knew all too well. The stranger feared this, all of this, but he was too selfish to prevent it. And the woman knew that. But from the look on her placid face, that blame seemed to be cast elsewhere. In a place he knew could very well get her killed.

"Savannah," he greeted, empathy for her loss evident in his tone. She closed up then, the act so abrupt you could see it. Her face hardened and she straightened, arms crossing themselves over her chest.

"This is your fault," she claimed, her voice terse and harsh.

The stranger adjusted the child at his hip, nodding in agreement. "I am to blame, yes, but you do not. Do you, Savannah," he questioned in a way that was not a question at all but a statement.

Holding up the act one moment longer, the woman wilted. Her hard façade melting like the chocolate in her daughter's fingers. "No, I don't, but I should," her dead, ash brown eyes fell to the child, "I understand your reasons and had I known what it is I know now, I would have sought you out sooner," she admitted, finding his gaze once again.

It was that blatant empathy and unwavering loyalty the stranger found so surprising about the humans. By all accounts, he did not deserve this woman's grace or mercy but she gave it freely. And, in that way, he found humans to be tragically beautiful.

"And for that, I am grateful," he said, unable to meet her gaze and instead letting his eyes fall to the child. A sticky cough rattled in her chest. The stranger winced.

"You must leave here," he began, looking towards the portrait of his dear friend resting on top the mantel piece. He feared that picture would be joined by this woman he'd grown to care for if she did not heed his warning. "You must leave," he repeated, finding her gaze, "This place is not a safe place any longer and I fear we've grown too comfortable. Time is moving too quickly and she is getting older," he informed as the child let loose another croupy cough. Alarmed guilt was suddenly blooming on the woman's face, her eyes purposely avoiding his own. Anger pricked his chest.

"She's sick," the woman explained though the statement was needless. Anyone sane could see the child was unwell. "We were planning to move once she began fading, it's this cold you see, but after Johnathan...," she broke off, swallowing and turning away.