Objective: Little Brother

WARNING: This story contains distress of and from children, crying, and implications of Stockholm Syndrome.

This entry is a short excerpt of a larger project titled 'The Winterset Conspiracy' where two children are victims of a doting captor.

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Abel had a digital clock in his room.

Which is how he could always count out the days Emile left his room locked for an abnormal number of hours or the average amount.

Not that he did that so much nowadays.

And he never did lock his room just before bed.

He likely did that sometime when he would actually drift off.

At eight thirty every night he had an extra hour to get caught up with some extra reading.

"And like that the city of Alexandria--"

Abel flinched at the noise. Emile knocking on his door.

Which had punctured into the steady quiet and the tenor of his voice that had filled it.

"Knock, knock," Emile chirped as he rapped another two times.

"You are already in," he said closing the Atlas book.

"Don't ruin the joke. Anyway," he continued emphatically, "I've promised you that you'll be getting some more responsibilities. I have a perfect opportunity just right outside."

"Well you haven't lied to me yet," Abel reasoned. Which smarted as he could dimly acknowledge that was true.

Emile really hadn't lied or misdirected him. Not even by omission.

It was... frustrating.

Surely Emile wasn't making some ultimately fruitless work, especially at this hour.

Emile is aware Abel could see right through it.

"Come on, but I'll walk beside you," Abel said peeking from Emile's side. Striding in front as a result.

Coming to Rodney's new room, he could guess what was going to be his request.

And it was a clever, devastatingly effective tack to use.

"You get to be in charge of-- drumroll--" he happily opened the door to reveal Rodney already dressed, likely washed, and tucked into his bed.

"Rodney," he guessed.

Rodney was a trembling, huddled into himself mess.

"Exactly!"

With a hand to Abel's shoulder he assured, "I'm trusting you with him. I may be asking a lot but I hope you'll be a good brother to him."

Emile didn't know the half of it. Or perhaps, he very well did. Then he may well know the risk-- and was still taking it.

"Is he having a nightmare?" he assessed, careful to keep his voice steady and to a low tone that Rodney wouldn't possibly flinch to.

Getting a bit closer it was frankly redundant to have asked.

"He's likely stressed," surprising to no one, "let's... give you some soft light and comforting pats."

And he did just that, clicking on a small nightlight that projected a proud array of large circling stars on the ceiling and patting the small of his back.

Soft lights and comforting pats.

Which looked to work as the five year old loosened.

"And tell you, you'll be okay."

Much more softly, with substance and love Abel repeated the words.

"You'll be okay."

And he'd assure it wasn't an empty, mechanical phrase.

"I'll leave you two to get acquainted," Emile whispered closing the door with a soft click.

It was better this way.

Considering Abel found himself-- quite uneasy-- at the possibility of the child waking up.

Leading to him silently taking up the rug to sleep on.

It was almost inevitable really when Rodney did wake up and a few soothing words weren't going to put him back under to peaceably dreaming of stars. Or ice cream.

And when he did, Rodney began to cry. Abel could make out the word mommy, leading him to stir from his sleep.

Back arched he groggily greeted a fearful Rodney.

"Miss her then? Your Mother," he asked, "that's--

"Who are you? Why am I here?" he demanded in a shrill, shooting pitch that made his ears hurt.

"NO! No, no, no!"

He'd begun to writhe around in his sheets until he came to the wall at his back.

Abel approached him quickly, afraid that all that thrashing would both hurt Rodney and attract Emile's attention.

Rodney kicked out in response to Abel as he sat at his bed.

"Shh, or he'll decide he needs to check up on us," he whispered urgently. Catching Rodney's wrists in a not too tight grip for good measure.

Which kept him marginally still. Even if his eyes were still bloodshot and brimming with terrified tears.

And worse yet, even without mentioning Emile by name, Rodney came to a definition of loathing a child could comprehend, a deep frown forming on his face.

To which he let his body go limp, no longer on his knees but on his bottom.

"Your Papa?" the four year old guessed. In quite the sharp, accusatory way. Down to the wariness in his wandering eyes.

Seeming to assess something of the room and certainly of Abel-- as a stranger and otherwise unphased interloper on... a point of mental breakdown.

"No, not my Father," Abel affirmed crossly, "never Father. Anyway you are going to listen to me; you are going to take what I say seriously, because I am going to help you."

He dipped his voice to a secretive whisper, "you are going to behave and you will do so happily, because only then can we have a prayer of each seeing our families."

Mistrust still laid heavy in the small boy.

Likely due to Abel's own silence earlier that day. He had been utterly and completely complicit.

Perhaps if Abel had said something, done ANYTHING, then these problems between them could be half solved.

Only then-- then--

NO. Absolutely not.

Don't think on how Emile would have felt. Would have looked at him.

Because that didn't matter.

How this little kid looked at him is what matters.

And the first opportunity is gone. Abel still had one night while the "iron" was still hot to mend things and hopefully, claw out the best result for everyone.

"Rodney please, please work with me here. I have been here for sixteen months."

Abel could hear the anguish in his own voice.

Burdening this boy with the matter.

"Where-- where are my shoes?"

Of all questions... that was the one he chose. Immediacy he supposed.

Rodney in an objectively adorable 'Goodnight Moon' pajama set, swept his sheets aside.

Wriggling his bare toes while crawling to sit beside his new ally.

Abel would sorely like to believe Rodney was coming around to thinking of him as one.

With a gentle smile, Abel sought to welcome the child into his embrace. Only for him to be better content to stare at his toes.

Abel could only sigh. He had slippers on his own feet.

"That is a very good question, one I wish I could answer."

"You have shoes," Rodney protested with a pout.

"He isn't playing favorites," he defended.

"Huh?"

"Just that-- it isn't a matter of liking me better or any more. Emile doesn't do that sort of thing, just like me he'll want you to earn that privilege back," Abel explained, "he'll buy you a new pair once you do."

"I want mine!" Rodney whined, forcing Abel to shush him again.

"Then behave. That's it. Just behave, whatever he may say or whatever he may want out of you."

It was more irritating than harmful, Rodney would be the furthest thing from hurt.

And it was the truth!

But Abel couldn't be sure he could explain that correctly and clearly when Rodney hadn't even learned to read yet.

"So then-- then we could escape?" he asked, and looked near petrified to even utter the words. "Since stupid Emily wouldn't expect it later?"

Rodney stayed with his hands over his mouth this time once a "traitorous" thought left his lips.

It was-- amusing. And made Abel feel a little warm.

But to that question he nodded, presenting a pinkie.

Rodney was slow in taking it, but eventually he did.

"There, you have to help me now," he declared looking proud and even smug, "breaking a pinkie promise is a crime y'know. You. Don't. Do it." And Rodney jabbed his finger across Abel's face in a rapid fire poking match to emphasize his point. "I put curses on whoever breaks mine."

"Ohhh, I see then I'll really have to deliver now," Abel decided, "My mother didn't raise me to break promises so lightly. Much less such sacred ones."

"Your Mom taught you stuff?" Rodney asked, looking a little awestruck at him now, "that is so cool! So then-- she had like a job right? She made money? And bought you toys? Can you tell me!"

Well, if that wasn't a concerning bushel of information...

And given all too freely too.

"Actually, I want to hear about your Mother," he said, "would you like to lie back down or sit some more? Either way though, talking could help you get to sleep."

"But--"

"There's nothing to be scared of," he assured, "well, you're not-- Emile did lock the door but you-- are safe."

He choked out the last bit. Except Rodney was safe-- physically anyway. If Emile had never hurt Abel all the times he'd tried to escape, and even laughed it off as stimulation, then he wouldn't hurt Rodney. And that was that.

"Liar," he lashed back, quietly but no less deadly.

"I'll protect you I promise."

And maybe a promise like that would be better sealed with a hug or-- something-- if they were attacked Abel could wrap Rodney in his chest and protect him with his own body.

The way his parents had always scooped him up the few times he wandered into their bed.

His Mother still carrying a lingering scent of her... a sweet...?

He didn't remember.

If his Mom favored a citrus smell or flowers, or why she occasionally wore a cinnamon smell.

"Umm, guy. Guy?" Rodney said, slowly bringing Abel to his senses from that tangent. "Sorry, but you never said your name."

"But Emile did," he tried, "just today."

"Why do I wanna hear what he says. He's a lying liar."

Abel bit his lip hard at that point.

There was a five year old who should be with his mother and his father. And possibly whoever else was in his life... Oh. Rodney could have a sibling.

Rodney may have a sibling who missed him like death itself.

And Abel couldn't remember what perfume his Mother wore.

And suddenly his voice, that stupid, unfettered child Emile had raised, chose to act up now.

"Yeah, yeah he is," he agreed. And he knew something too close to a keen or a cry came out of his mouth.

Rodney chose then to snap at attention and smack his palms to his cheeks.

And said quite suddenly, "you need a scream. It's okay, the ice cream man says real men get scared and real men need to tell people they're scared sometimes! Or something."

Abel let his head fall and found he could just fit in the small bed, his head snug enough on a smaller pillow.

"I guess we'd both benefit from talking," Abel said instead, "I'm okay now. I'll be fine."

Though he couldn't quite look Rodney in the eyes as he said it.

"Just-- tell me some about your Mother. I'm curious."

Abel wouldn't realize until the morning when he woke up to his arm under Rodney's head-- that he had stroked his hair all night.

When he fell asleep, his last thought had trickled away like well water or June bugs in early morning.

Rodney had been on his side, eyes completely focused on Abel's face just like he'd been about a year before when he asked Emile about himself and about why he went so far, as to abduct a child for himself.

The only difference is that Rodney looked at Abel much more innocently than he could honestly remember being.

Objective: Successful