A small girl was born the day that the leaves of Autumn had finally finished turning a luxurious hue, ranging from deep candy-apple reds, to the fresh golden honey only found in the wilds. Her eyes were a deep green, filled with life of a leaf in it's prime on the most pleasant spring day.
She was born with half a head of air, wisps of golden-brown locks waving over soft, pale skin. Her mother cradled her protectively, and let her suckle once she was clean; the child had not uttered a single cry of protest or fear, entering the world with a heart braver than most full-grown men brandishing biting steel and rounds of metal shields.
Though the leaves were beautiful, the sky kept overcast, the air heavy and cold. Without a doubt, it would be a rough fall and winter, testing the life that the gods had cast down from the pools of innocence.
And that was all she could see, in the child: innocence, and the longing for no evil to brush it's cunning hand over such a helpless form. A mother always wishes to keep their child from such, if they themselves repented from the wickedness brought by other men, but there was something that looking at such a gentle thing would do to one's heart. A physical pain, knowing she would grow up, knowing that she would speak, that she would hear, that she would learn and grow and thrive and fall, flourish and rise, crash and die—it wasn't fair.
Like an angel, the girl would fall into sleep, once her small stomach would protest in fullness. Not uttering a word, a cry, or noise, a perfectly happy and healthy baby girl. Her mother whispered, gentle and low, having a feeling that the world could burn and explode, and she would wake as she went to sleep, in solace.
“Let no evil touch your beating heart, dear child...Let you only find the good in life. In the worst of times, let you be good yourself. From the locks on your head, to the soles of your feet...”
The same voice that hoped to bless her child with innocence was last heard in wracking coughs, blood and spittle sent upon the dreary ground that was home—sickness came with winter, and Lock lost her mother at four months of age, never to know of her, or hear of her.
SEEN, NOT HEARD
“Have ya' ever seen a child tha' don't...Make noise when it cries?'
“Weirdest crap I've ever seen. It ain't right.”
She had always cried silently, as a small child. Adults became alarmed when they'd see the child's face streaked with tears, eyes and face red as if she had had a screaming fit, but silent as the moon on an overcast night.
MORALS
“Stealin' is bad...Uh, robbin' is bad...Takin' things tha' ain't yers is bad...”
“Dammit, Fraiser. There's more bad things than just thievin'.” The man grunted, shoving his hand at the other man, who gave a helpless shrug.
Below them sat a gaggle of six children, all staring up with wide, expecting eyes...Or some, bored and disinterested. Amoung those children, bright green eyes waited eagerly, always keen to learn more—be it words or names of objects, a lesson of good and bad was a treat!
“Okay, kids, okay...So, yeah—takin' something that ya' didn't buy is bad...You get tha'. Uh..Rude words are bad. Respect people older than ya'..Respect someone with a bigger weapon than ya'...Be nice, I dunno. Justa' shi--”
Fraiser slapped his hand over the man's mouth before he could finish the word, gaining a few loud giggles from the children as they swatted hands in annoyance.
Lock was the only child to take the words strongly to heart.
