Chapter Text
47 days. It had been 47 days since his youngest brother had been cast into the underground alongside the monster that kept him captive.
The monster had been trying to capture human souls to break the barrier, to free his kind trapped underground. The very ones his father had died trying to seal away.
He’d planned to bring the townspeople to the castle and slay the beast, to free White from its clutches. To protect his family from the monster, just like their father had done all those years ago.
They’d marched upon the monster village, Pink carrying his father’s sword while Blue begged him to call it off.
“Spamton’s happy,” he’d claimed.
But it didn’t matter, once the torches were lit and the pitchforks were raised, there was no turning back.
Blue had run ahead once he realised there was no changing Pink’s mind. Whatever he’d said to the beast, the castle had been secured. The large wooden doors were barred shut, furniture had been haphazardly thrown against it in an attempt to slow them down.
Pink was about to send the twins. They were agile, able to move surprisingly quickly when they wanted to. Before he could make the call, torches were lowered into the mass of wood and fabric.
The blaze spread quickly, fuelled by old hardwood and dust from the dilapidated castle. That hadn’t been the plan. He wouldn’t be able to rescue White if the castle was burning!
The villagers hadn’t cared. Better one misfit die than the monster steal their souls. Many remembered the war vividly, those that hadn’t fought had lost family, friends, neighbours. So many had been made orphans by it. The slightest revenge on the monsters was all they wanted.
Pink and the twins ran around the side of the castle, searching for a window they could scale in and pull Spamton out of. They found one on the west side of the castle. It had been shattered. They managed to climb inside and the sight made Pink’s heart drop. He’d never been more sure of himself. He needed to get White out now.
When’d they arrived in the ballroom, a large shadow descended on them. A thump from behind shook the ground and shifted their footing. When they turned, a large monster loomed over him. He held a pair of great swords and donned golden armour adorned with a flower crest. It roared, flaring its mandibles and splitting its lower jaw open.
“Leave. Now.” It had snarled, drool dripping onto the tile floor.
Despite his trembling legs, Pink lunged. The monster met him in the middle. Pink was a competent fighter, but by no means a master. The monster had been much more skilled. His smooth movements, the firm stance. This monster had seen real combat. Maybe even fought in the war.
They’d traded blows, but he could sense the monster was hesitating. It avoided several fatal hits, instead aiming to disarm him. The twins finally jumped into the fray. Yellow aimed his bow at the monster, arrows plinking off the armour while Orange aimed for the bare sections of the monster’s legs. A swing connected, causing the monster to yelp and fall forward. Despite the open wound, no blood seeped out. Another gross quirk of monsters. Pink had placed the tip of the blade to the monster's neck and was slowly increasing the pressure, when a familiar voice called from across the room.
“PINK! DON’T!”
The youngest Addison. The one named to match him. The one who looked frighteningly like their mother. Beside him stood Blue, in all his cowardice. In his arms was a familiar feathered cloak. Spamton rushed towards, forcing Pink away from the monster.
Pink hadn’t understood. They were here to rescue him. They’d kill the monster and bring little White home. Why would he place himself at the end of their father’s sword for his captor?
He still didn’t understand. Not fully. But when a small, furry white arm rose from the feathered cloak his heart sank.
A baby. The monster had a baby.
Spamton screamed at Blue to run, to take the infant far away from the burning castle, but Blue had stood frozen. Pink had stood frozen too. Spamton was so protective of the child, in a way that reminded him of-
Of their mother.
That got tears to slip from his eyes. This beast had warped White back into the image of their mother. Even going as far as to force a child upon him. All that time he’d spent insisting he was Spamton now, and a monster convinced him to be Rhoswen again? This was deeply wrong. As much as he mourned his little sister, he didn’t want her back. Not like this.
It’d felt like hours had passed as he looked into those angry eyes. The eyes his mother had once possessed. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be the one to land the final hit. The sword clattered to the ground, the twins lowering their weapons in confusion. He stepped towards the bundle of feathers. Blue held it closer to his chest, backing away.
“I- I just want to see.”
Blue shook his head, scuttling across the room to hand the infant to Tenna. The monster’s antenna roved over the bundle, the brow above nonexistent eyes furrowing. As the feelers brushed the child’s face, it cooed. Pink stepped forward, sinking to his knees.
Even if forced upon him and half monster, the infant was still Spamton’s child. And when Pink looked to his brother, he saw the same look their mother had when looking at her children. Love. Adoration. Worry.
The door behind them burst open with a crack, splinters of wood flying across the room. Villagers filed in, weapons bared.
It all happened so quickly, too quickly. The images were blurry in his mind, foggy in the same way receiving his fathers sword from the soldiers and their mothers death were.
All he knew is that one moment, Spamton looked like the image of their mother, and the next, a large bug-like monster loomed over them. Scythe-like arms swung at the crowd, sending bodies flying as weapons were thrown. A beastly roar echoed against the walls.
The next set of memories started at the peak of Mt Ebbott. At the rumoured weak spot in the barrier. Spamton- or what remained of Spamton- was bound inside a prison wagon, his limbs tied to the sides of the cage. The infant ant, which was snow white in colour, the image of its monster father, was squeaking as it was kept inside a small wooden box. The monster. Where had the monster gone?
From there, only flashes. His brother’s guttural cries as the box was dangled over the hole to the underground. Leather and wood and steel breaking and bending as a black blur rushed towards the box as it fell. A limp white body being thrown in after them.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
He still heard Spamton’s cries. They rang through his head as he worked in silence. The startled peeps and chirps of the infant as she was ripped from her father’s arms haunted him.
When he looked to his hands he realised he’d been repeating the same stitch over and over, not progressing at all with his work. He should be working. He should be providing. But for what? Blue had proposed, he and his fiancée lived on the other side of the village. Blue didn't need him. The twins had pooled enough funds between them to buy a small cottage on the edge of the woods. They didn’t need him either. None of them had spoken to him since that day. They’d moved out as soon as they could. When they crossed paths in town, they wouldn’t even look in Pink’s direction.
Sighing heavily, he sat the dress aside. He’d failed in every aspect but one. The family business thrived, even if there was no longer the family to help run it. Villagers sung Pink’s praises. They lorded him as the town hero.
“Roseo brought down a monster!” they cried.
“Roseo defeated the beast and saved us all!”
For the first time in his life, Pink had more recognition, money, and power than he could’ve ever hoped for. And he could do nothing with it. He had no one to share the good cuts of beef with. No one to laugh with about how the local kids fell over themselves trying to impress him. White had always loved to laugh at the local kids. To scare them with ghost stories.
This house was so empty. He hated it. He hated the village. He hated that monster. He hated his brothers. He hated himself.
He stared out the window, at the shadow of Mt Ebbott, at the spot on the side where the burning castle had glowed for days after.
It was still early. He’d only managed to sleep through the witching hour, after all. He’d slept so little since his little brother had been thrown down the mountain. He’d already slept less when he disappeared, but now, he barely slept at all.
The sewing laid abandoned on the countertop, the shop sign set to closed. Heavy boots had been taken and slipped onto shaking feet. The small leather rucksack once belonging to the youngest member of the family was slung across a shoulder.
Maybe. Just maybe, more answers awaited him back in that castle. Maybe closure waited for him? He could only hope.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
It was midday when he arrived in the monster village. He could see the charred remains of the castle where Spamton and that beast had made their home. He continued on worn cobble paths, dodging the damage the mob had done. What could be used had been looted and dragged down to the village. What couldn’t be salvaged had been thrown into the burning husk of the castle.
Pink stood at the precipice of the castle grounds, large wrought iron gates adorned with that same flower crest he’d seen the monster wear loomed above him, a spectre of a once grand palace, home to a mighty monster lord.
He roamed the blackened halls. Hands tracing over deep gashes in the stone walls. What had once been a library was reduced to ashes, a large chandelier sitting shattered on the floor. What had once been an ornate ballroom was nothing more than an empty tile floor. The hearth in the heart of the castle seemed cleaner on the inside than it did on the outside.
While traversing the many hallways, he encountered a small room, close to the master chambers. Inside was relatively unscathed. Painted stars dotted the room, speckled over deep navy, almost black, walls. They were dull, however, soot turning them from a brilliant white to a muted grey.
The sight reminded him of the small wildflowers their mother had dotted on the walls of the nursery when she was pregnant with White. The ones she’d painted into white roses after her daughter was born. The same white roses they’d named her after.
His father had practically vibrated with excitement as he flitted back and forth from the nursery as it was being prepared. He’d finally moved Orange and Yellow to Blue and Pink’s room. The baby needed its space, after all. He’d spend evenings dyeing fabric before cutting it into swaddling strips. In the end, the room was painted a light green with pink, blue, orange and yellow flowers dotted on the walls. Swaddling clothes of every colour were packed tightly into the wooden wardrobe, spilling out whenever it was opened.
Their mother had gone into labour early. Much too early. Her screams as doctors helped her through the delivery would not leave his mind. He clutched his brothers close as the walls shook, assuring them it’d be okay. When it was finally over, and the baby had been stabilised with magic enough that it was no longer in immediate danger, the brothers were brought up to the room. In their mother’s arms was an impossibly small baby, a white streak through the faint fuzz of hair atop its head.
The twins sat upon their father’s knees and Blue climbed onto the bed next to their mother. Pink stood paralysed at the door. Babies weren’t supposed to be that small. Still, his mother motioned him over, patting the empty space next to her on the bed.
“Roseo, River, Robin, Wren. Meet your baby sister. Little Rhoswen.”
She’d been named partially for him. After her eldest brother. He’d sworn to protect that little rose. To be the thorns she needed to stop the beasts of the world from consuming her. He’d collected white roses from the woods and placed them on their mother’s bedside as she recovered from the birth. He’d done the same as she laid sick in her bed, slowly fading from the world.
A wooden bassinet sat in the centre of the room, adorned with silver etchings. A mobile hung above, dried spring flowers swaying in the faint breeze. When he peered into the cot, a small, fuzzy doll stared back. A button eye was missing, and an arm and antenna had been singed. It reminded him of the little ant Spamton had fought so hard to protect, the one he’d broken his bounds for. The one he reached for as he plummeted into the earth.
He didn’t stop to think. He tucked the doll into his satchel. It weighed heavy as he trudged back down the mountain, reminding him of the fresh loss of his brother.
It was dusk when he returned to the workshop. He lit the lamp beside his bed, and retrieved the doll from the satchel. He ran his hands over the material. Squirrel fur with a linen lining. Clearly, several squirrel pelts had been used, as the doll was entirely white in colour. How Spamton had gotten his hands on so many good quality pelts, he didn’t know. Inside, small grains provided some weight to the body, arms and legs. When he brought his hand to his face, he could smell lavender and other herbs. Faintly, he remembered how their mother had always smelled somewhat of lavender. When he teased the button eyes, the thread came loose. Typical Spamton. He’d always struggled with the buttons.
He sighed as he retrieved a spool of black thread and a small needle. He snipped a section of thread, twisting it in his fingers to knot the end. He teased the needle through a seam, letting the knot slip between the fabric and settle against the back of the fur, hidden from view. The needle emerged from the fluff, aimed at the button hole. He looped it through, before dipping it back into the fabric.
He looped over and over before tightening the thread and circling the thread beneath the button. He tied it off and hid the tail in the body. Suddenly, the singed fur of the antenna and the arm felt much more attention grabbing. He took the plush to the scrap fabric pile. He sifted through for a few minutes before finding some patches of fur that were close enough in colour. He took the sewing scissors and cut away the burnt fabric, avoiding the linen lining holding the dried lavender. This time he retrieved the waxed linen thread, placing the black back on the shelf. He patched the fur in, taking care to balance the stitching between sturdy and hidden. He’d spent so many hours practicing the technique for his brothers. Yellow and Orange had an impressive ability to destroy any soft toy and White would pick at seams until they frayed.
When he tied the last knot, it was well into the night. The cottage was the sole source of light in the village, every other family had long since snuffed their candles and gone to sleep. When he looked out, he saw only the faint outlines of buildings illuminated in the moonlight. He sat the doll on his nightstand, button eyes staring back at him. When he blew out the lantern, the light of the moon reflected off the smooth wooden buttons, giving the plush ant an almost leering look to it. An effigy to the monster that took his little brother away. A gift to a child Spamton had never expressed wanting. He let those button eyes shine at him as he fell into fitful sleep, cries echoing in his mind.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Between fits of sleep and waking, fragments of a dream lodged themselves in Pink’s mind.
Small hands, his hands, cut white fur from grey, careful to cut the thin skin and not the short hairs. Squirrel fur, cut with the same technique their father had shown them. The grey fur was set aside, next to a basket of white fluffy fur, a sheet of folded linen and dried lavender.
A series of pieces were cut out. Twelve elongated teardrop shapes, two circles, two ovals and two long thin rectangles. The cuts weren’t perfect, he hesitated as he rounded the corners, taking longer than he usually would. He’d worked with fur plenty of times. He could cut it in his sleep, yet he still hesitated.
He then took the linen, cutting the same shapes out but smaller, enough to fit into the fur once it was sewn together. He sewed the linen up the majority of the way, before pouring the lavender into the bags and sealing them. He then sewed the teardrop pieces together, two at a time with the fur facing inwards and the thin skin facing out. In comparison to the stitches he’d usually do, they were uneven, a simple whipstitch. Usually he liked to start with a double whipstitch, before going over it with a backstitch for clean edges. A lesser tailor might forgo the second set of stitches, but his father had taught him that a straight seam was worth it. But this time, he didn’t even do a double whip stitch. They weren’t evenly spaced, and some dipped lower into the fur than others. Practiced sewing, but not confident. Not like his usual work.
The linen pouches were tucked in and the rest of the space filled with white fluff from the basket before the ends of the shapes were sewn shut. With small metal pins, he pinned the shapes to the ovals. Turning it over to check the placement, the shape seemed familiar.
Suddenly the connection fired in his brain. This was that ant plush he’d taken from the castle. He was dreaming of Spamton sewing it. He hadn’t been forced? No, he seemed so relaxed. The warmth from the hearth licked his skin, his eyes were heavy. A familiar feathered cloak laid on the ground next to him. Inside was an egg, just large enough to cup in a hand.
The dream slipped from him. As he became more aware of the separation of himself from the dream, it fuzzed around the edges, vanishing into the darkness. He- no, Spamton was humming. A lullaby sung to them by their mother long ago. He tried to hold on, to hear the end of the song, but it continued to grow fainter. He felt the bed beneath him, heard his heartbeat.
No. No! He needed to hear the end of the song. He hadn’t heard it in so long. But it had faded. Words broke through the haze. His but not his. Spamton’s but not Spamton’s.
“You’ll love this, my little star.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
He awoke to knocking at the bedroom door. As he opened his eyes, the black buttons greeted him, now reflecting an orange glow from the light of dawn.
A voice, muffled but recognisable came from behind the door.
“I’m coming in. You’d better be fully clothed or I’ll tell everyone that you use silk cotton blend instead of pure silk!”
Blue. Blue, who hadn’t spoken to him in two weeks. Blue, who had moved across town with his fiancée the first chance he got. If he had just rescued White when he’d first run into him-
No, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Nothing Blue did could’ve changed anything. If he’d just taken a moment to think, to embody more of their mother’s patience and less of their father’s anger... Only he could’ve changed anything. If he’d just been less critical. If he hadn’t asked if Spamton would rather freeze than be with them. If he’d followed him into the snow. One of the many things he’d change if he could reverse time.
“Opening the door now.”
Blue’s voice cut through his thoughts. The door creaked open. The hinge had squeaked since their father had left, and none of them had ever been taught how to fix it. Another reminder of all the things they had missed. Another reminder of what the monsters had taken from them.
Blue walked through the door, a large hemp bag in hand.
“You’re still asleep?” He questioned, folding his arms. Pink sat up, the phantom melody of the lullaby ringing in his ears.
“The bell hasn’t rung yet.” The town bell served as the official start to the day for everyone in the village. It rung at the 8th hour every day, a reminder that time marched on, with or without you.
“You’re usually up and critiquing someone before dawn break,” Blue scoffed. He looked his brother up and down, noting matted hair and eye bags so dark they looked like bruises.
“You look like shit.” He stated. How unlike Blue to not force him back into bed, to insist he would open shop instead. Then again, it wasn’t like Blue to abandon the family to run off with a girl. Who knew what was normal anymore. He sure didn’t.
“Thanks.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, letting the daylight assault him. Blue sighed, heavy.
“Don’t go killing yourself over this. Yeah we’re pissed at you, but this wallowing helps no one. We already lost White, we don’t need to lose you too.” Blue huffed, moving about the room and stuffing clothes and other keepsakes into his bag. He stopped when he reached Pink’s bed.
Curious, Pink met his brother's gaze, which had fallen squarely on the white ant.
“Did you make that?” He breathed. Pink prickled. Of course he hadn’t! Why would he-
“Why would you make this? After what you did?” Blue’s voice shook. A hand ghosted over the doll, not quite touching the fur.
“Is- is this some kind of fucked up effigy? You couldn’t kill Tenna so you made a doll of him to torture instead?”
No, he hadn’t! Spamton had made it. Couldn’t Blue feel the faint hum of magic sewed into the doll, the lingering essence of their brother? The love in every stitch?
“Or is it some kind of twisted trophy? To celebrate that you got our niece put in a box and thrown underground like- like a wild animal!” Blue’s eyes, though wet with tears, burned with a fury. The words caught in Pink’s throat. He hadn’t seen anger this strong since their dad died. Every ounce of confidence, the spine he’d tried so hard to grow, it all left him as he looked into his father’s eyes. Better he stay silent than anger him further.
Blue sighed, leaning away.
“You won’t even try to defend yourself. You’re a coward, Pink. Keep your trophy. Just remember that if this was a fairer world, you’d be in the underground, not Spamton.”
The door squealed shut, heavy steps echoed through the empty house.
Blue was right, of course. Spamton didn’t deserve to be thrown into the underground. The ant girl, had she deserved it? Too small to do anything other than cry for her parents. Her only sin was her birth.
He ran a hand across the doll, feeling the soft fur beneath his fingers. Did she fall asleep with the doll? Did it comfort her when the monster couldn’t be with her?
Yet again, another memory. One of long ago, before White was out of her swaddling. Playing with a rag doll with a stripe of purple in the hair, colourful hearts sewn into the clothing. That doll had been made by their mother, imbued with her magic. That magic had faded with her, until only emptiness made its home in it. It had been buried with her, its presence too painful a reminder of what they’d lost.
The button eyes glinted in the sunlight. Knowing. Waiting.
‘Fix it’ the doll seemed to whisper. White can’t sleep without her doll. White needs me. White needs you.
The leather satchel made its way to his shoulder. He needed to fix it. He was always the one who fixed things. His body moved of its own accord, stuffing items into the bag. A dagger, some salted meat, a canteen, a needle and thread. The doll.
His tired legs made the trip again, up into the mountain. They screamed at him to stop, his mind screamed louder to continue.
One step closer.
Nearly there.
Keep going.
White needs you.
Before he knew it, he stood before the peak of Mt Ebbott, staring down the hole his brother had been thrown down.
The beastly cries still echoed. His sister’s sobs echoed. She was down there. White needed her doll. White couldn’t sleep without her doll.
Another step.
Avoid the loose rocks.
Never ending blackness only a step away, welcoming him into its embrace.
Do it.
One last step.
White needed him.