Hey I'm back! Sorry it's been so long since updating. I wasn't sure if anyone was even interested or reading this story, but I decided there was no point sulking or worrying about it, I don't just write for other people, I write for myself, and at least I can enjoy it.

Anyway, sorry to everyone who had been following this story, I am back, and I will do my best to keep my updates regular. Thank you so much to Becca, Jellyfish3012, and my Guest reviewer! I really appreciate your reviews and I'm glad you understand and still like my story.

Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Be warned this chapter contains brief mentions of blood, as well as pretty heavily implied abuse. Again, this story will be dark, so heed my A/Ns for warnings!

Thank you and don't forget to review!

- Raven

Who else would there be?

The words haunted him and drove him on as he jogged through the market and up the hill towards Cyrus' house. Was he really the only person she could think of to help? Him, the childless baker, amidst the various other smiths and carpenters and tanners; all of whom had children of their own and would be much more suited to the task than he.

The house loomed before him, just as small and dismal as it had appeared the night of the wolf attack. No lamps were lit in the windows, and he could only hope that Cyrus was still off hunting. He stopped short of the door, hesitating only a moment before walking up the steps and raising a fist to knock on the door. Then he caught himself, thinking through what he was doing. He backed away and then off the steps, walking around the back and stepping over the small fence that contained the chickens, shooing them away as he waded through the grass the back door.

He didn't hesitate this time, and pushed open the unlocked door, which swung open noisily and ruined his hopes for a subtle entrance. He stepped carefully into the main room of the cottage, surprised by just how large it was. There was a table in the center, with enough room for four or five people, though only two chairs sat at it, on opposite sides of the table.

There was a small pump-like mechanism by the window, and an open fireplace set in the center of the wall, the dying embers providing warmth if not much light. He crept carefully around the table, and peered into a small room attached to the main. The place smelled musty and full of death. Looking up, he realized why. The walls were lined with trophies: deer antlers and teeth, hides and furs, every possible piece of animal imaginable littered the room, with one huge buck's head watching over everything from a peg on the opposite wall. He scrambled back, disgusted and horrified, and tried to tell himself that none of it was alive or able to hurt him, but he still couldn't help the shudder that went through him as he stepped back into the main room.

There were two other doors at the far side of the room, and he made his way to the closest one, pushing the door open and peering in nervously. A simple bedroom met his eyes, with a small chest of drawers against one wall, and a bed against the other. The sheets were half on the floor and half on the bed, as though its occupant had woken up suddenly and flung them to the ground in their haste to get up. He stepped into the room, and a flash of color caught in the corner of his eye.

A red cloak was draped over the drawers.

The baker stopped then, peering at the room more closely. He stepped over to the bed, placing his hand on the center of the mattress. It was cold; it hadn't been slept in for a while. He frowned, worry tugging at him in earnest. There was no sign that Red had even been in the room at all except for the cloak on top of the drawers.

He left the room, and crossed over the next one, not sure what he would find. The door didn't budge as easily as the first had, and he had to slam his shoulder into the wood to get it to give. It opened with a jolt and a bang, and he winced, then grimaced at the stale smell of the room. It was much plainer than the room he had come from, an un-painted wooden chest of drawers, plain walls, the wooden floor was worn and creaked at the slightest movement. The bed was made rather neatly, which surprised him; he wouldn't have expected Cyrus to be one to care about appearances.

He tread as softly as he could through the room, but there was nothing to see there, either. He frowned, about to turn back, but then he caught a glimpse of something pale beside the bed, illuminated softly by the moonlight coming through the window. His heart seemed to stutter in his chest, but he stepped closer, until he could finally identify the object. It was a foot, peeking out from under the edge of the bed. He was afraid to get closer, but he forced himself to continue, and he was certain he stopped breathing entirely for a moment.

Red lay face down on the floor beside the bed, pale and still against the wood. He rushed over to the other side of the bed, unable to figure out how she had gotten there in the first place. Kneeling down beside her, he was able to see a faint mark on her cheek, no doubt the one he had seen before. He started to reach for her shoulder, thinking he could wake her and help her back to her own bed, but then he stopped, something more catching his attention. Her nightgown had slipped down and hung off her shoulder, and he could just make out the outline of another mark across her shoulders.

His jaw clenched, and he had to bite back a curse. Gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder, but she didn't stir. Silently cursing Cyrus a thousand times over, he shifted his weight closer to the girl and rolled her until she rested in his arms. Cradling her to his chest, he picked her up and carried her out of the room, his eyes locked on her face for even the smallest sign of waking. She felt cold in his arms, and he assumed, hoped rather, that it was because she had been lying close to the open window.

Walking back into Red's room, he laid her down on her bed, then grabbed her cloak, draping it carefully around her before bending down and looking under the bed for shoes. He found her boots, and slipped them onto her feet before picking her up again and making his way out of the room, and out of the house. He didn't stop to question what he was doing, and he only gave a passing thought to what Lissa would say. His only thought was getting Red back to the bakery, somewhere safe.

He was halfway up the path through the Village when she gasped sharply, and he stopped, looking down to see her shift in his arms. He felt a sigh of relief go through him. She would be alright. He would get her to the bakery and she would be fine. He kept walking, careful to keep his steps even so as not to jar her any further.

It seemed like a lifetime had come and gone before the familiar lights of his own home flickered into existence before him. He climbed up the path, balancing the girl carefully in one arm as he reached for the door, then stopped as he felt eyes on him. He turned, and saw a flash of blue, but it was gone before he could think on it. He wrenched the door open, closing it quickly and with a little more force than necessary.

Lissa came out of the kitchen and he watched her words freeze on her lips. "Paul, what…?"

"Water," he gasped out, pushing past her and laying Red down on the spare table. "And cloths, quickly!"

She looked like she wanted to say more, but she caught the look in his eyes and turned to go out the back door. She returned as he was stripping Red of her cloak and shoes, and poured the water from the pail into the kettle. "It should be hot," she said, at his questioning look, then she went to retrieve cloths and bandages.

"I suppose you didn't manage to get any flour," she said briskly when she came back again. He didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing, stroking Red's hair gently.

"Dare I ask?" she said, and he pursed his lips, unsure how to begin.

"I ran into the school teacher in the Village, and she was concerned about one of her students who'd been absent for a while."

"I see," she murmured, but he had to wonder if she really did. "And you took it upon yourself to investigate?"

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, unable to think of a response to that, either. She moved over to the kettle, carefully pouring some water into a bowl and bringing it over, then she retrieved another bowl, and rummaged in one of the back cabinets for something else. He turned Red carefully onto her side, and she curled up into a ball. He could tell by the ease with which it was done that it was instinct that drove her, and his heart clenched.

She returned with both bowls, and he couldn't help but cough at the strong stench of alcohol. He opened his mouth to comment, but Red suddenly stiffened, and a soft noise that might have been a whimper escaped her mouth. Something in Lissa's face changed then, and he watched her take in the bruise coloring her cheek, and follow his hands where they gripped her shoulder. She stepped closer, slowly, as though dreaming, and he let her take his place. He watched as she pulled gently at the thin material of her night gown, untying a few loops and slipping it down off her shoulders. Her eyes flickered, and he watched the emotions play out on her face: anger, pain, sadness, fear, and then a grim determination settling on her features.

She moved quickly, shifting the girl onto her stomach and pulling the nightgown down across her back. Paul cursed, and she didn't reprimand him for it. Bruises and red welts littered her entire back, from her shoulder down to her lower back, angry red slashes crisscrossing over each other and forming a grotesque pattern. Blood, some fresh and some dried, accompanied each mark, and he felt his stomach turn, and had to resist the urge to retch.

Lissa dipped a cloth in the water and started cleaning the blood from her back. Red reacted almost immediately, squirming away from the contact and whimpering, and Paul feared she would wake. He stepped to her other side and tried to keep his voice calm and soothing as he stroked her hair and murmured comforting words.

"It's alright, Anna," he whispered, using the name Rose had mentioned. "It will be alright."

She stilled, but only for a moment. Lissa had been rinsing the cloth and cleaning the rest of the wounds, and the water was now more than just tinged with red. She grabbed a fresh cloth and folded it in half, dipping the edge wrapped around her hand in the alcohol. Paul tensed, knowing what would come next, and Lissa looked pained as she met his eyes.

"You'll have to hold her still," she said, and he adjusted his grip, holding her as tightly as he dared without hurting her.

Lissa drew a deep breath, then carefully began cleaning her wounds with the alcohol soaked cloth. Red gasped, her body jerking under Paul's hands, her own hands coming up to grip the edge of the table. He could see her eyes flicker open, light blue irises so wide it was almost all he could see. Lissa continued, wincing when Red cried out, and Paul spoke quickly, once more trying to reassure her, but she seemed not to hear him, whimpering and writhing under him despite his efforts.

When Lissa finally finished, all three were shaking, though Lissa managed to keep her emotions out of her face. Her face, but not her eyes. Paul watched her as she cleaned up the mess she had made, and he couldn't tell if her anger was directed at him or someone else entirely. Red shivered in his arms, and he had run out of words, so he just held her and hoped she could relax enough for Lissa to bandage her.

"Mr. Baker?" he finally heard, and he blinked, realizing he had been staring at the bedroom door and waiting for Lissa to come out. He looked down to see Red peering up at him through dark lashes dampened with tears.

"Yes?" he said, just as softly, and she shifted nervously.

"How did I get here?"

"I…I brought you."

She frowned, her brow furrowing as she took that in. "Why?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it when he heard the bedroom door swing open. Lissa stepped back into the room, a roll of bandages in tow. She gave Paul a meaningful look when she caught him staring, a look that promised they would talk about this and soon. Red shied away at the sight of the bandages, picking at the edges of her nightgown and tugging it over her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she said quickly, stammering just a little in her haste to get the words out. "I don't need….I mean, you don't have to…." She huffed a little, frustrated at her inability to speak.

"We're only trying to help, Anna," he said, and she flinched, grimacing and shaking her head.

"Don't," she said, taking a shaky breath before continuing, head shaking the whole while. "Please don't call me that."

He and Lissa exchanged another look, and she frowned, giving a small shake of her head and lightly shrugging one shoulder.

"Alright," he said. "Red."

She nodded once, but still didn't seem pleased, and he wished he could know what she was thinking-feeling in that moment.

"Why don't you want the bandages?" Lissa asked gently, and Red's eyes shifted to her before looking away again, down towards the table.

"I never…It will show and I don't want…. and I've never…." She broke off, her face twisting again, and Lissa made a shushing noise.

"It's all right. I understand."

Do you, really? Paul thought. Could you tell me, then, because I don't understand any of this.

Lissa came close to the table and placed a white sheet down on the table. At second glance, it was revealed to be a nightgown, one of Lissa's from when she was younger. Paul understood and went into the kitchen, washing his face and hands with cold water. He could hear Lissa's voice, questioning softly, and Red's quiet replies, but he didn't dare risk a return into the room.

He didn't know what he was doing, or what he had been thinking, bringing Red here, and he had no idea what he was going to do with her after. And Cyrus would be back from his hunting trip; if not tonight, then the next, or the day after and what then? He couldn't just let Red go back to that, could he? There was no real proof it was Cyrus who had done this to her, but really, what other explanation was there? He couldn't in good conscience let her return, but who was he to interfere? He'd done enough already. And yet, he felt like he hadn't done anywhere near enough.