Chapter 2

My parents lived in a small village near the vast fields surrounding the west gate. People who lived there made their living mainly by trading in grain and oats and raising pigs. My mother - Estelle, at least that's how the villagers called her, but that was not her real name - she lived in complete poverty before she met my father Emmanuel. They were both orphans who were brought up alone in the street. No one knows exactly who their parents were, only that these orphans suddenly appeared on the streets of the village, begging for food and work. Months passed, winter approached and with her, as expected, the death of two orphans. Despite all beliefs, kids managed to survive the full winter, disappearing at the beginning of November and reappearing at the beginning of April. However, they have changed since their last stay in the village, it can be said that they went wild while acquiring noble trade and manners. Estelle slowly began to take on female curves and Emmanuel became serious and grew about half a meter in an extremely short period. The following months passed, both youngsters managed to find a job with a local blacksmith, whose wife and daughter died, which, in order not to fall into mourning, employed orphans to fill the void after losing his family. Estelle dealt with cooking, washing and weeding the garden, for which Emmanuel was forging horseshoes, farm tools and from time to time he would help to plough the fields, so that the country peasants, wouldn't be thrown into their graves from the excessive work.

Time passed slowly, the seasons passed at unequal intervals. Life in the countryside, even though it was devoid of any urban improvements, compensated for this gap by the freedom and beauty of spring flowers. Referring to that season of the year, one hot spring, something terrible happened. A local blacksmith and stepfather of two, almost adults - Estelle and Emmanuel, was crushed by a cast iron pot with boiling water that melted a large portion of the man's face. A priest and a Parisian doctor were called to the blacksmith's cottage. Unfortunately for the blacksmith, the grim reaper began to slowly spread black wings coated with red thread. A bloody tumour began to form under the skull of his.

'I'm sorry, he doesn't have much time left...', the doctor announced the sad news to Estelle and Emmanuel. Days passed, the blacksmith was getting ill more and more, so much as he couldn't even move anymore. Estelle cared for a change of linen on his bed and Emmanuel began to wander to the Paris city, hoping that he would manage to trade a few coins for selling mixtures of herbs and vegetables.

One day, Emmanuel disappeared without a trace in the big city, leaving Estelle alone with a barely breathing blacksmith. It wasn't long before the man finally gave up his will to live. Estelle, lonely in the world, celebrated a quick and quiet funeral, which only the priest and the herbalist knew. The blacksmith was buried under a weeping willow that whined in the wind, as one of the few remembering Estelle's sorrow and pain. The woman quickly moved out of the village into the city, starting to look for Emmanuel. Her suffering met with a bloody plague tearing at her body. She was taken to the Le Dernier Coin clinic, where she became completely ill due to severe pneumonia.

Her last night in this world had begun, the moon was shining brightly, scattering the rays of the moonlight into the light of her freedom. The blazing from the fireplace in the chamber combined beautifully with the cold shades of the night, creating the perfect contrast to Estelle's death. Someone began to knock lightly on the window located just at the length of her hand. 'Finally, I have awaited you. In my last hour.', she whispered calmly. A soothing call of an angel began to ring across the room "Let me into your room, I will give you the truth, my lovely Estelle."

Estelle reached out hastily and unscrewed the small knob holding the hinge of the window. A swish of fresh night air filled the woman's lungs, lunar light wandered into the room like northern lights. White robes enveloped the window's frame, cut with red stripes and precious stones hanging in the air, wandering behind the white robes, as if after a master. A bony man emerged from behind the garments. His face was pale and beautiful, like the first snow on fresh pansies. His skin was shiny and beautifully ruddy. His hair was as black as a starless summer solstice night. In his hand was a strange device - like a cylindrical shape, however, it narrowed quickly in the arm of the cast iron element, on which gold, long and thick pin was attached. At the base soldered a small widget, thanks to which the device could be fixed to the ground, obtaining stabilization.

The angelic messenger lifted the instrument and stuck it straight into his own heart, flecks of crystal blood flared like a starry sky from the wound. Then he sat on the dying woman's bed, right at her feet. He leaned forward, close to her ear and whispered in a soothing voice 'My seed will become pure beauty, dear Estelle. I will make sure your child develops steadily. Now you can go to sleep, I promise that your dreams will be joyful and eternal.', after saying those words, he directed a gold pin soaked in his own blood and pierced Estelle's womb with it. The woman plunged into the calm darkness of death.

The next day, two Parisian workers found the body of a woman in a department store, in one of the boxes filled with gold and precious diamonds, imported from distant lands. Estelle's body was bare, her stomach was torn, her blood drained and her guts cut precisely. The governor quickly sent a corpse to one of the funeral homes so that the corps could be cremated. He had made extra steps to stop spreading the news about the gory incident. Naturally, all employees who became witnesses that day were bribed bountifully.

'That's how my mother's story ended.', said Rosabeth, playing with a porcelain spoon from Mori's tableware, watching a greyish wall on which a small picture of a random family was hanged.

Mori stood up with a deep sigh from his chair, headed to a brass tripod holding a medium-sized globe with a small latch on the left. He opened the top cover of the globe and pulled out a scotch, spilling alcohol into two shiny glasses. He quickly emptied the remaining contents of the bottle and headed back to the desk where Rosabeth was sitting. Mori handed the woman a glass and leaned against the desk, looking at the same picture of a deserted family framed in a messy frame, hanging like a hangman on the wall.

'How do you know about your mother's fate?', Mori asked, taking a deep sip of Scotch. He directed his questioned gaze straight at the woman whose glance did not leave the picture of the unhappy family.

'I learned everything from my creator...', Rosabeth replied in a whisper. Mory was able to hear what she said exactly, then he gave her a bizarre look. What might she be referring to?

I grew up in a small orphanage by a concourse of two side streets that led to the main shopping square. My guardian, Mrs Dolnevier, was a person who remarkably poorly chose her own career. This brutally massive woman possessed exceptional skills and natural boxing talent, which she often shared with her pupils, me in particular. Mrs Dolnevier hated me more than any other orphanage kid. She often smoked cigarettes during trips to the park or the commercial square, but she loved to extinguish those on my forehead. I was often beaten by not doing enough household chores, every Sunday, my body became weaker and, as a result, my babysitter's blows grew stronger. Other children began to avoid me, fearing Mrs Dolnevier's anger. I could not play in the sandbox like others, I could not eat dinner with a group, I could not experience the happiness that would absolutely bring death to me at the hands of this lousy aggressor. In my free time, when Miss Dolnevier was too busy with duties in the kitchen, I was escaping to the roof of the orphanage and watched the panorama of the city - a grey prison full of vermin and plague, corpses dressed in royal robes - the view of winding paths, nooks, people moving like in a dream, caused that I felt free, even liberated and alienated from the problems of a common Parisian. Even when it was harsh winter in Paris, I went out on the roof and dreamed, happy, thinking of icicles hanging from the white roofs of the steaming smoke of buildings. What a natural beauty it was, such a sight.

Years passed, I gained experience in dealing with Miss Dolnevier and avoiding severe punishments, I became a shadow. My skills of sneaking and hiding in the dark meant that children and most of the employees of the facility slowly forgot about my presence. My hair has not been cut since the beginning of my birth - it has grown long, red and shaggy. My nails were bitten and full of dirt. Due to the lack of any shoes, I walked barefoot, sometimes I managed to steal a pair of too large socks from the cabinet of one of the patroness. Most of my wounds never fully healed, Mrs. Dolnevier left thick scars on my body. My forehead became terribly furrowed from the constant burns of cigarettes. I lacked food, heat and medicine. Quite often, I had the opportunity to steal medicine, but I was afraid of the anger of this terrible woman, I was thinking at such moments what could my death be? Did I deserve freedom at all? My thoughts on death developed a kind of passion. Right next to the orphanage was the small funeral business "Post Mortem", which I often visited, one can say that I became a distinguished regular. The owner of the building did not mind my passion, he believed that every child (especially left alone by their parents-) should approach death in some way or another, in the end, it is not easy for orphans to live on the streets of Paris. The owner was called Pierro, he was already an elderly man, experienced and intelligent. I loved listening to stories from his past, if I could, I would live in his basement, but I realized that my childish plans would never come true. Ultimately, I was doomed to suffering until I was sixteen, then I could leave the orphanage. However, the chance that I would live even at least eleven years was quite miserable.

"From the very beginning of my life, death accompanied me like a stubborn stalker, that bites and lingers until the final act begins."

Chapter Two of "Scarlet Moon's Hymn"