Seeing Red

He was really very fond of the yellow ribbon; smooth saffron silk hemmed in by stiff edges, and long enough to be threaded through hair or wrapped loosely around a wrist. It was a pretty little thing, and for that alone it could not have been his. He would have liked to say it came from the very first, but in truth it came from the very third, which did not sound quite as neat and orderly. It was sad, but he did not remember if the first two had pretty ribbons tied in their hair, or pretty necklaces hanging from pretty pale necks. After he had finished, he did not think anyone else would have been able to know either.1

That was long ago now, and he was much better. Better at being slower, better at being careful so that you could still see faces and four limbs, even after. He was proud of what he had done here, in this new place with its fresh start; no mistakes yet, no spoiling. Pretty before and pretty after. That was much harder to do, but he was doing it, and so he was better.2

He weaved the thin ribbon through his fingers in a soothing pattern, tenderly mindful of the fraying ends. Of course he kept it as clean as he could, but for one who lived as he did it was too hard to keep it in perfect condition. One day soon it would unravel away altogether, and it would be sad. But then perhaps the next one would have a yellow ribbon? He smiled at that, dust-grey eyes curving in a reflection of happiness that was breath-taking in its sincerity.3

The sound he had become so good at hearing, so good he did not even have to listen for it, snapped his attention away from the silky scrap. He jerked the ribbon and the hand holding it back into the protective cover of the long grey coat, hiding away the brightness that might draw unwanted eyes. Footsteps on the path that grew louder to his sensitive ears long before the actual walker at last entered into his sight.4

He nearly growled, nearly let the frustration loose, because it was wrong as it had been for a long time now. The first place – one, two, three – and the second – four, five – had played the game the same way, used the same pattern. Take up arms, men, take up arms and flush him out. And he’d flushed like they wanted, bright eyes and bared teeth, wild delight at their failure. For he was still here, while their pretty little ladies weren’t and wouldn’t be again. He had taken from those who had taken from him, and he was still breathing. Still running. Still hunting.5

This place, though, this place did it wrong. And he knew wrong, and he forgave wrong because who was more wrong than he? He did not like it though, these people who cloaked their kin so that the hunt became stranger. It was not right to have to prowl around at a distance, uncertain whether the prey was truly prey. You picked the weak, you picked the stragglers, you picked the pretty and then you hunted. And then they hunted you. That was how it had always been since fresh air and firm ground, and for them to have changed the game was not so welcome. Change was his part, his speciality. They weren’t supposed to interfere like this. Guns and fire, not smothering fabric.6

It was nearly enough to make him want to turn away, let this red-cloaked maybe-prey pass. And he would have had it not been for a flash of familiar colour, a sliver of yellow lining the redness. Gently fingering the ribbon tucked safely within the folds of a sleeve, he eased himself forward and slipped alongside the path, parallel with the figure whose face he could not see.7

He was forced to scuttle backwards hastily when the figure suddenly turned off the path, and for a moment stiffened in the fear he had done wrongly, but it was towards flowers they headed, not him. And as he watched, as he crouched in the shadow of thicker trees and scrub, that hated hood slid backwards, revealing...8

Pretty, came the thought, and it was an admiring thought, a pleased thought, a hungry thought.9

This was normal, this was good, he knew how the game went from here. The ribbon was tied delicately around his left forearm, hidden in the coat. A brisk shake chased away some of the ever-present dust. He was not pretty but they never seemed to mind, the ragged, almost boyish charm making up for tatty edges. Dark hair rippled through with lighter streaks, wide genuine eyes. An amiable smile, a sideways flick that said 'you want to know what I know'.10

Everything he had learnt, and tested, and perfected; he gathered it all to himself like an actor sweeping his costume together, and circled around behind her, leaning forward over one shoulder as though curious. “Those aren’t the nicest flowers, you know.”