Work Text:
In a small village on the outskirts of Vengerburg, a crooked girl is thrown to the ground outside the pig-shed that is her home. The hands that push her are not careful of the agony of strained tendons or the ache of already misaligned joints being forced into further contortions. She has long practice at this, knows how to turn and brace herself to lessen the impact on her twisted spine, but her hand slips in a heap of fresh shit and she goes down fast, head first. Muffled behind the screaming agony radiating from her jaw, there is cruel laughter, and, finally, the quickly quieting footsteps of her tormentors. When the last echos fade away, she crawls the short distance into the safety of her little shed and curls up in a pile of relatively clean straw, finally letting the gasping sobs burning up her throat escape.
“Miss? Are, are you alright?” A stifled shriek; she cringes back against the wall. She thought she was alone. How many times has she been slapped, told that crying makes her face so horrifying that even a man as patient and tolerant as her stepfather can no longer stand it? Will this be the time he rethinks his generosity in letting her sleep here, taking up space and scraps that should be given to actually-profitable livestock?
Her eyes open, and it’s not her father, or her brother, or anyone else she knows. There’s a small boy the size of her youngest sister staring at her with wide eyes from behind a stack of empty feed-boxes. His eyes are brown, like her skin; his cheek (and shoulder, and wrists, and- ) are purple, like her eyes. When he sees her face, he jumps, shocked, and comes hurrying over with his hands stretched out, and he’s smaller than her, but her back aches in a way that says she won’t be able to outrun him, will barely be able to walk for a few hours, she doesn’t-
He’s not hitting her. He’s patting her face, gently, the gentlest she can remember ever being touched, feeling along her jaw where it’s twisted with a scowl of fierce concentration on his face that cannot be comfortable for his left eye, which is halfway through swelling shut. When he starts pushing gently at the side of her chin, a faint echo of a memory of her father trying to help her by forcing her face to move normally has her flinching away, one hand up to shield herself.
“Shh, ‘sokay, it hurts but you gotta, Mama says tha’ when your bones look funny after he hits ya, s’when you gotta put ‘em back, they’ve gotta go back in place, an’ it hurts worse but if you don’t, if you - you gotta be quick, ‘else it won’t get better.” When he pauses his rambling to take a breath, still trying to reach her face despite her longer arms holding him away, she frowns back at him in confusion.
“You mean like when Peitzer’s horse kicked Da’s leg an’ he had t’ have the pig-healer come pull it straight while he screamed at him?”
The boys’ eyes widen in horror. “You mean horsies can do that too?”
“Yeah, ‘course they can, ev’ryone knows that.” She can’t help but roll her eyes like she’s seen the older girls do sometimes. “Doesn’t matter, ‘s not broken.”
“But it’s all the way out here!” He taps his own chin, then gestures as the air in front of his ear. “It’s not supposed to - it looks like my mama’s did, after we went to visit Auntie Emmy at night to s-, uh, surprise her, an’ he came an’ found us. Is it ‘cause you’re scared? ‘Sokay, I know how to fix it! I had to help Mama after he left, an’ she said I did a really good job, even though it was really scary ‘cause it’s harder than a leg ‘cause it’s smaller, so I know I can do it good now, I can make it look like it’s ‘sposed to!”
“This is what it’s supposed to look like,” she mutters, glaring at the floor. He’s not gonna believe that, she thinks, of course he’s not, who would? Humans aren’t supposed to look like this, he’s only trying to help, you didn’t need to be so mean about it. “It’s… I know it looks weird to you, but ‘s always like this. There’s no other place to put it back to.”
“Oh!” Why isn’t he going away, now that he knows her face doesn’t get any better? He’d wanted to help because he thought she was normal, and she only looked like this because she was hurt, but now he knew that it was just her, she was just like this, always, and even if he was nice to normal girls she didn’t count, and now he knows that, but he’s still just standing there blinking up at her, his mouth hanging open a little in shock. “But - doesn’it hurt?”
“Sometimes, ‘specially if I hit it on something, but I’m used to it, an’ it still works, mostly.”
“Oh. Good!” He grins at her, then all of a sudden turns around and plops down on the ground beside her. He lifts up the edge of his shirt, revealing more red and purple bruises on his stomach, pulls out a piece of bread that looks almost old enough to be sent out to the pigs (and her), then drops it again without a word.
“Why are you still here?” It comes out mean, meaner than she intended, and he flinches. “I mean. My face isn’t gonna get any prettier, an’ you’re not gonna get anything from making yourself put up with it. You’re not a freak, you can go inside for dinner like normal people, no one’s gonna make you go outside so you don’t ruin their appep- ah, appetite, with your ugly.” She tries not to stare in too much envy at the shitty little piece of bread he’s picking at. It looks nicer than anything she’s eaten in months.
“I, uh, I’m…” He glances up at her nervously. “My pa, he didn’ finish his dinner, he left some on his plate when he went to get more adult-drink, an’ I was real hungry, so I stole some bread from it and ran. If he doesn’t see me with it ‘fore he wakes up tomorrow, he prolly won’t notice, an sometimes when he’s hungrier he gets tired real quick from his adult-drink and Mama smiles more t’ next day ‘cause he didn’t have time to hurt us.” The words all tumble out in a rush. He turns to her with wide eyes before she can react. “Please don’t tell?”
“No one ever listens to me, even if I wanted to tell,” she tries to reassure him. He’s not a freak like her; dads aren’t supposed to be mean to normal kids, so he needs help, and he’s not scared of her like her baby brother was when she caught him when he rolled off the table he’d been napping on. She’d just been trying to help, but when he woke up and saw her he started screaming and kicking at her, and that was the last time she’d been allowed inside to help with cooking. “Which I don’t. No one’ll come in here but the pigs, an’ Da’ only ever comes in if I’m not out helping with the chickens on time. You can stay, if you wanna.”
He grins at her again, looking her right in the eyes, no fear to be seen. “Great! What’s your name? I’m Lambert, an’ I’m four-and-a-half years old. D’you want some bread?” He rips what’s left in his hands in half and holds one part out to her like it’s nothing. She can’t nod fast enough, and he giggles at the way she savors it like she’s heard her siblings do when their Da plays Tickle Monster with them.
Soon the bread is gone, and she shifts nervously, unsure what to do with another person who’s not giving her jobs or screaming or trying to scare her. Is this how other people make friends? What does she do now? Luckily, she remembers the little flower she’d found earlier before the silence stretches out too long. Maybe if he has something pretty to look at, he won’t mind having to see her face too much. “My ma calls me Yennefer, sometimes, if Da’s not around. I’m seven. Are you my friend? You can have my flower, it’ll make having to look at me better, see?”
“Yay! That means you’ll be my friend too, right? My only other friend was Mr. Kitty, but he can’t talk, so I dunno how friends work.” He takes the flower and gives a little hop of excitement before frowning up at her in confusion. “Wha’d’you mean? Why wouldn’t I wanna look at you? Your eyes are so pretty! Even prettier than Mama’s, and she’s the prettiest! ”
Her words all abandon her in her shock. No one ever thinks any part of her is pretty; her stepfather hates her eyes especially because of how clearly they mark her a freak, even moreso than her twisted spine and crooked jaw - no human has purple eyes, he says.
“I… thank you. You really think…?”
“Yeah, Yenna, you’re super pretty, an’ you’re super nice! Just like Mama!”
She nearly cries, at that, which is weird, because she doesn’t feel sad or scared or hurt like she normally does when she cries. Why would she be crying because she feels good? Suddenly, there are little arms wrapped tight around her, and it’s - oh. It’s a hug. This is what a hug feels like. She squeezes him back, careful not to press on any of the spots she saw bruises on, and feel like the need to cry is being pushed out of her through her arms. Mine, she decides. Even if he changes his mind tomorrow, he’s mine now, my friend, and I’ll protect him if I can, forever and ever and ever.