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.