AN: Another one for my OF 100, #4: Dark. This explores the backstory of one of my characters. I had to dance around a lot of the details to make it acceptable for the short story format, so if anything's confusing, please let me know (besides their ages; I was purpousely vague on that front).

When I was very young, I lived in Paris with my sister and a man named Russel Faraday. Paris seemed to me to be endless- a city shaped like a snail, made of winding, narrow streets and old-fashioned buildings. I was born in a tiny city by the sea in Greece, so the drizzle, the cramped, dank smell of people smashed into every spare inch of space, and the endless rows of buildings at first only served to confuse me and make me cross. My sister Rhiannon was the same way, and both of us preferred to remain in the house than anywhere else. At first, Russel attempted to get us to go out and explore- "Paris is one of the oldest cities in the world… even boring kids like you can find some secrets in it!"- but then his ventures outside became ever more secretive, and he stopped bothering us.

Russel wasn't like other people I knew- everyone in Paris was loud and vibrant and, in general, rude. Russel was quiet and secretive, and unlike most adults, he made me think. I was smart, and he knew it. He was also tall, dark, and handsome- at least, that was how one of his friends described him. At my age, "handsome" meant very little. It becomes something to envy when you're older, but back then it was just something I couldn't pronounce (since the person who called him that purred it, made it into an'sum, and everyone else made it something much less interesting). Russel had a lot of friends, despite his tendency to lapse into silence and his sharp gaze.

Thing was, Russel also had a lot of enemies. He met me and my sister while on the run from them, and from Greece we hopped to Macedonia and Sweden preceding lingering in Paris. One night, Russel (half-asleep and looking out at the city) said, "I'm spending more time here than is safe," and, one hand absently stroking my sister's hair, he added, "but I can't help it."

"How long is too long?" my sister asked, batting him away. "We've been here two weeks."

"We only spent a week in the other cities," I said, frowning. I didn't add that even then, Russel had never stood still, never stopped for a moment, always pacing and muttering to himself like a nervous father-to-be. He had been like that for our first few days in Paris, but then he had calmed suddenly- a light came into his eyes, and he quit reminding us that he was not our parent- that he was just looking after us until he found someone better suited for the job.

It was nice, really. I trusted Russel, unlike most of the adults I'd met. I never knew my father, and our mother left us at an orphanage when I was two. Therefore, all people older than me were instantly under suspicion and to be avoided at all costs. Russel was different. He looked me in the eyes when he spoke to me, he never lied, and he never, ever witheld information from me (which other adults did to avoid actually lying, even though it's just as bad). If I had been older, I would have known it couldn't last.

If I had been older, I also would have known why we were staying: Russel had fallen in love. There was a man who worked in the market down the road. He had eyes that glittered like chips of mica when he laughed and a warm voice that made me wonder if my father sounded anything like him. I didn't know that it was him Russel was going to visit, though; I just knew that Russel stayed away from the house for longer and longer times, and with each visit he was less likely to bring back groceries.

Rhia and I didn't care. The two of us didn't care about much of anything at that time- we had too much thinking to do. Russel had pulled us away from the only home we had ever known- except that it hadn't been much of a home. We were the result of a one-night stand (although at the time we didn't know that was what it was called; we just knew our mother had known our father that one night and never saw him again), and our mother had gotten tired of us and left us at the mercy of a church that both of us hated for reasons we didn't quite understand.

So when Russel was gone, the two of us would discuss the state of affairs through shared glances and quiet gestures; we didn't need anything else to share our thoughts- and certainly nothing as useless as words. We wondered where we were going to go once Russel finally got bored of Paris, we wondered if we'd have to go to school, we wondered if our mother missed us (and while we did sometimes voice our opinions on the other two aloud, that one always stayed silent).

One day Russel came back without the light in his eyes. It had been there for less than a fortnight, but it was amazing how different he looked without it. The bitter edge had returned to his smile; his voice was quiet and hoarse, and his laughter sounded like the cries of a dying bird. He didn't speak to us at first; he called a few people and carried on whispered conversations that all seemed to be about the same subject since they all brought tears to his eyes, and all one had to do was look at the stubborn curve of his chin to realize that Russel never cried easily.

We knew he would tell us what was going in his own time; he always had. Russel didn't patronize us; he told us the truth, and occasionally he used words that we didn't know or told us something that we couldn't wrap our heads around, but he trusted that we were smart enough to get the point. So we sat on the kitchen counter and stared at him as he dialed number after number and wiped teardrop after teardrop from the Formica.

Finally, he hung up the phone and leaned his head against the wall, taking slow, deep, even breaths and tightening one fist in his shirt. Then he turned to face us. When he spoke to us, it was always a ceremony; we were already at his eye level, so he used the time he usually took to kneel to study us for a long moment. "You're so much older than you deserve to be," he murmured.

From anyone else, that would've been a compliment. All children want to grow up; most people will only see them as worthwhile when they've gained a few feet. But Russel made it a grave pronouncement, almost a damnation, and Rhia and I began to fidget; were we in trouble?

Russel sighed and spread his hands. "I've stayed here too long. I've put the two of you in danger- I've put quite a bit of Paris in danger, actually- and we have to leave. Tomorrow, if possible- and it will be. It has to be, or we'll be in very hot water."

"Why?" The word popped out before I could stop it, but I didn't regret asking. "We were fine yesterday, and the day before that. Why are we in any more danger now than we were before?"

Russel said nothing. Instead, he took a cloth out of his pocket and spread it out on the inch or so of counter that separated me and Rhiannon like it was a holy relic instead of a stained handkerchief. It reeked of blood and something else- some awful, wrong smell that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I wanted that cloth away from me. I used that as an excuse to scoot back and toward Rhia. "That's why," said Russel, stroking the cloth as if it were the hand of a dying lover. He turned his back on us then, crumpling the handkerchief in his fist. "It's so dark here now," he murmured. "Was it wrong to linger to find a little light?"

Rhia and I looked at each other, and Russel twirled his free hand in a "get on with you" gesture. "I didn't expect you to understand that. It's not important right now. Just… go pack your things." He opened his hand and traced the outline of one of the bloodstains on the cloth. I was glad I couldn't see his face.