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Many centuries ago, on particularly humid days, made worse by Red Son's ire, Princess Iron Fan would tie up her son's hair.
Little wisps of snickering flames would dance along his hairline when she knelt to pull back those thick and wild locks to be tied. Her sleeves brushing against his cheeks as she worked, fingers gently ploughing through those lingering knots and catching any straying hairs in a pinched grip, her boy pouting all the way. She did his hair, because he couldn't.
His little hands weren't as precise as hers, nor were they as strong. Any attempt at tackling the task himself only ever led to snapped bands and screaming fits. All that wailing, all that fire, all leading to the same, fruitless end; untied, wild hair and Tieshan's staff frustratingly short a few maids.
So, it was she who took to the endeavour of sorting out that plume of red attached so viciously to her son's head, as no other could handle that fire, nor were quite as patient as she was. After all, her husband wasn't exactly the type one would call... calm, by any definition of the word or meaning. Besides, by the time Red Son was big enough to start saying coherent words, Mówáng was gone.
The task was hers, and hers alone.
She'd scoff, grumble to the few friends she kept that she didn't enjoy the process at all, all while they teased her for becoming soft and motherly. But secretly, behind the closed palace doors and hidden deep within the rushing storm that was her stony heart, there wasn't anything she loved more than those quiet moments with Red Son.
Her son, her boy, sat stiffly on her bed and blabbering about all the silly thoughts he had swimming about in his precious little head, as her hands carded through his untameable locks. His head bobbing and bouncing this way and that, tugging her close as she moved to keep up. Her beautiful Red Boy, so childish and simple in his youth, so weak and wild without her steadying hand.
She'd cherished those moments, held on to the memories of his fat little face with both hands and an iron grip. "Sweet child, keep still. I cannot work on such a squirmy little firebug." She'd whisper in his ears like clockwork, fond and precious, the dear sound of giggles eliciting a few chuckles of her own.
That laugh, it was the closest thing to Heaven she'd ever achieve again. She was quite certain she'd adored that sound more than anything else in this world or the next. It was her pure joy in the face of overwhelming hardship, her guiding light in the wake of loss and grief. There wasn't anything more important, more treasured, she was absolutely certain of it! So, then... why is it that she does not recall the moment it had all stopped?
Why does she not recall the day she hadn't heard her little boy's laughter?
Why does she not recall noticing the absence of round, chubby hands or messy, sticky clothes?
...When had Red Son no longer needed her to tie his hair?
The days blurred, his face distorting, warping his visage from then to now.
Soft cheeks to marred, harsh flesh.
When was it that they'd grown distant? How had it slipped her notice?
Bright grins to tight, chapped lips.
Was it the loss of her husband? Had she truly been so enraptured within her grief that shd had forgotten her baby?
Large eyes to shifting, frightful glances.
She'd been with him for over five hundred years, alone, without her Bull King. Just Red Boy, and herself. So, why can she scarlessly recall a quiet moment between them?
Sticky fists to tough, scarred hands.
Where were they? The fond memories, the shared experiences, the blaze of her son's fire? Where were their tender moments between mother and child?
Silly boy to desperate, lonely man.
When had she ruined everything?