A Queen and Her Kings

If Walls could Talk within this House of Cards

She knew her experiences weren't universal, and that most children weren't lucky enough to have such grandiose festivities, but she knew that this was not what a birthday was supposed to be, that was certainly not a cake, and this birthday was anything but happy. What kind of sociopath calls this a birthday party?

Then, in a voice so quiet and timid she barely heard it, the boy spoke.

"T-thank you Mother, but... ", the boy whispered, and Cassandra gasped as she realized something. Didn't the woman call the boy Riddle earlier? So did that mean...?

The boy looked up just a bit, and Cassandra finally got a good look at his eyes. They were the same expressive gray as Riddle's, like the smooth rocks you could find in creeks. This was Riddle. But why did he look so young?

"I must be in Riddle's memories...", Cassandra murmured, as if to keep the two people from hearing what they clearly couldn't. The golden eyed girl blinked as she had another realization.

"He called that woman 'Mother'...", she growled to herself, before marching over to the bitch in question.

"So you're the reason this mess happened in the first place!", she yelled, but her rage went unnoticed and the woman's insincere smile remained unchanged. In her frustration with going unnoticed, the girl used her free hand to give her fellow redhead a powerful left hook to the face. When it didn't connect, instead going through the woman, Cassandra was reminded that she wasn't really there, she was an outsider looking in on events long passed. Huffing, the furious tribrid backed away a bit.

"You're damn lucky you're not actually here... ", she grumbled, before going back to watching the scene before her play out, no matter how hard it was to merely observe. Riddle continued to speak, having taken a pause to gather his courage.

"I-I'd like to try one of those tarts with the shiny red strawberries, just this once... ", he asked, and when his Mother's smile immediately dropped, gaze turning cold, the boy went right back to looking at his lap.

"Absolutely not! Why, with all the sugar they put in those things, I might as well feed you poison!", the woman screeched, and Riddle seemed ashamed of himself for even asking that as his mother's expression became neutral, not even bothering to pretend to be happy, and she began to cut the 'cake'.

"Tonight's dinner is tuna saute. Now that you're eight, your caloric intake should be six-hundred kilocalories per meal, so don't eat more than one-hundred grams of it, alright? And don't eat more than one slice of cake; you're lucky I'm even letting you eat this.", the woman said as she placed a 'cake' slice on Riddle's plate, and Cassandra was shocked by the callousness this woman displayed to her own son. She was treating him like he was an employee or just some kid she was forced to take care of as a job, not her own flesh and blood. It utterly baffled and enraged her that people would choose to have children, only to treat them like this. No child deserved to be treated like this. Riddle didn't look up even as he responded.

"Yes Mother, thank you.", he responded despondently, no doubt disappointed by his mother's refusal of his request. Suddenly, the depressing scene was interrupted by a familiar disembodied voice.

"I had always wanted to try one of those tarts with the bright-red strawberries. The local bakery always had one in the window, and it shined at me, taunting me like some forbidden treasure. My mother would never let me have one, of course, but that didn't stop me from dreaming.", the voice said, sounding whimsical and nostalgic. Cassandra knew immediately who it was.

"Riddle?", she questioned, though she already knew the answer. She was watching his memories, so the words she was hearing must have been his current thoughts. The scene changed, and now she was standing in a town square. The square seemed like that of a historic English town, but the tall metal buildings surrounding it in the distance told a different story. Roses seemed to be everywhere; wrapped on walls, on bushes, painted onto buildings. It seemed like a rather pleasant place. Young Riddle stood in front of the bakery his older self had just mentioned, still clad in the same stuffy outfit as earlier and an awed look on his face as he stared at the tart beyond the glass of the front window. He was soon interrupted, however, by a hand that went to roughly grasp his.