This is set after the end of Son of a Witch, though you don't really need to have read that. It is a story of Candle and Liir's green daughter and her life. This is my second fanfic, so please read and review, tell me what you think of the story so far. Whenever I get reviews then I'll know to write the next chapter, to know what people are thinking of the story idea.
Disclaimer: None of the characters you recognize are mine. Lena is, sort of, if you don't count the fact that GM birthed her. I'm just developing her character. :)
He gazed quietly down at the soft face, at the tiny green fingers wrapped around the hem of the worn blanket in a fist. Absentmindedly, he curled his hand around the soft lip of the basket and began to sway it gently.
Inevitably, a memory washed over him, and he sidled into it, forgetting his sense of presence. In the way that one sometimes finds an important memory to have crystal-clear accuracy, he found himself in a circular tower room defined by clarity. Against the rays of the setting sun, he could make out the outline of a woman in a chair, gently rocking a basket at her feet. The ruby glare of the sunlight slowly lost its imposing glory when the sun dipped beneath the horizon. The swishing sound of a cloak could be heard as the green foot brushed lightly across the ground. From the basket, the characteristic cry of a baby sounded, but began to dwindle off when the woman in the chair began to hum lightly, her bell-like tone resonating about the room.
He shook his head softly, the room coming into focus once again. Timidly, he looked down at his daughter, a frown darkening his features slightly. I couldn't get away from her when she was alive and now she'll haunt me forever.
"Now that's not true," he said aloud to himself, to keep his thoughts from developing absurdly and overrunning him. The girl before him cracked open an eyelid uncertainly, revealing a strip of slate-gray lurking beneath.
His hand paused in the rocking of the basket as he felt himself plunge into the depth of her eyes, swirling helplessly in uncertainty. The child, as though sensing his turmoil, stiffened, her toes pressing against the wicker basket in her attempt to escape.
"Shh, it's alright." He coaxed a small hand from beneath the blanket and took it in his own, lightly brushing his thumb across the folded knuckles and sighing. "You need a name, don't you?"
She gazed up at him from behind the illustrious gray eyes that dominated her face, and cocked her head to the side, as though listening intently to his words.
Grazing a finger against her cheek, he rose to retrieve the cloth through which he had been draining milk to feed his daughter.
Returning to the fireside, he gazed down at the little girl squirming slightly in the confines of the basket. The firelight glistened off her skin, making it appear as though her body was in constant motion, flowing before his eyes. She looked up at him inquisitively, the orange glow from the fire reflected in her small gaze.
"Lena." She continued to peer up at him uncertainly. Recognition, or acceptance? Her lips curled into the slightest of smiles. Acceptance.
He raised the cloth to her mouth, and her soft sucking sounds soon dwindled away, and he realized she had fallen asleep again.
His hand brushed the soft dusting of charcoal-black hair away from her forehead, and he sighed. I can't keep this up forever.
He placed his forehead in his hands, attempting to formulate some semblance of a plan in his weary mind. He needed help, there was no doubt about it. The mauntery was the only place he could think of that might provide him with some of the help that he needed.
A thought was pressing urgently against his temple, giving him a throbbing headache. They won't help you. Look at your daughter—she's green. Everyone will know.
He gazed into the dancing embers of the fire. "They have to," he spoke aloud, altogether unsure of what he meant. With no other option, he gathered up the basket and stood, the straw scratching gently against the inside of his arms.
With a certain sureness to his step, Liir left Apple Press Farm forever. The place seemed to sense his departure, and attempted to leave him with a good impression. The sun hung midway through the sky, shining gently onto the soft grass below. The wind blew invitingly through his hair and across his cheeks, but he never looked back. The trees waved meekly in farewell.