Blackfeather Woods symphony no. 25 in g minor

in many different cultures, in many different places, time is often marked by an event. before and after the emergence of a god-king, for instance. or something tangible, like a natural disaster. a sensible way to organize the passing of days, the changing of seasons.

fiamma di rossi was no different. for her, the demarcation was clear—

one moment, her family was alive, happy, whole. the next, her father had slaughtered his wife and three sons, leaving his only daughter shattered in the wake of utter catastrophe.

before // after.

the world would never be the same.

the dark forest was a perfect companion to these memories, she thought grimly, picking her way through prickly brush. her pace was a spy's nimble step, quick and quiet. a blotch of red bloomed ahead, like blood welling from a fresh wound.

a few minutes later, she stood at the edge of a clearing full of roses; flowers inviting, thorns a warning. despite herself, she laughed aloud, a quiet, scornful sound amid the calls of corvids and wind through the trees.

the bright flowers were her family's sigil; it only made sense that she would find them here now. she could run and run, and yet. . .

why had he let her live? fiamma supposed her father's tight grip on patriarchal hierarchy had spared her. bastard sons were a threat, but a daughter. . . she would have never been expected to inherit anything, even as his trueborn child.

there had even been opportunity. stumbling free from the old rendezvous site, she'd run headlong into one of his deputies, who called for the prince. fear had seized her by the throat as she prepared for the death blow, seeing the rage in her father's red-gold eyes.

rage that did not, in fact, reach his words.

lasciala andare, firenze had said, his tone lazy as if discussing the evening meal. she is nothing to me. 

that was the last time she saw her father—perhaps ever, though not if she had anything to say about it.

fiamma drew a deep breath, the all-too familiar rage burning like an ulcer in her stomach. it would have been better if he'd killed her. better to die an honorable death, fighting alongside her mother, than watch her papa walk away while his deputy took advantage of the situation and—

raptio. an old word; a sin. and yet, so was murder.

but the greatest sin of all, apparently, was the circumstances of her birth. in death, her mother and siblings had a chance at absolution; the living still suffered. as long as fiamma lived, she was a blight on the earth and a blot upon her family's reputation.

she swallowed bile and carried on, continuing to circle the clearing, the roses bright in the periphery of those tearless grey eyes.

she had done her crying already. only blood would suffice now.

The hardworking little devil filled her time with trips to and from the homestead, there wasn't many faces to bother, even less so when the ever-elusive Fjall went to secure the borders, and Arktos and Nephele remained in each other's company. She wasn't confident enough in her own standing to be thrusting herself into their business quite yet, much as she'd like to. Bard? Well.... that was a solid no-go, the guy reeked of dirt and pungeant man-scent and she could only stomach so much of that... And he was dick too, so she wasn't exactly itching to get into another scrap.

Beyond the occasional crossing of paths she'd had with Dreven out in the territory, Envy wasn't all that socially fulfilled. Friends, she lacked in, beyond her own hopeful, hasty attachments; but those were only one way, even one blinded by self-absorbed endeavours could recognize it. She did not deserve attachment and yet she yearned for it so so desperately. Latched onto what scraps she could get her wretched, grubby hands around.

And so she stifled her loneliness with tasks, creating her own trail through the flatlands, into spaces outside of the plains in search for more reclusive herbs and plants. She skittered across rocky terrain and forested, unshackled, and unkept. Free to peruse, yet vulnerable to... really anything, she was no gold star fighter. It was on this most recent outing that she'd come upon the trail of another; a smoke plume of a girl, with a purposeful stride and a killer's look in her eyes.

EEK! She gawked and for that she was seen before she could reroute, and so began a silent, eerie staring contest. Envy's own gaze of harsh vermillion against the empty husk of gunmetal silver.

...Hello..? She filled the silence with a nervous, yet friendly jitter to her tone, stick-thin legs primed and ready to dash if the need arised.

I was definitely not watching you in complete silence like some freak.