The Lost Legacy || hp

|6.15| An untold prophecy

fighting till death was the motto,

and so till death they fought,

and that's how the tragic story was told.

Death bowed to them,

only to them, the only two to ever be.

Sisters they were,

by blood, and by purpose,

by fate, and by destiny.

Their story was intertwined and yet parallel

Hands they held together above the scarlet rose

yet never knew each other.

Their song will be sung

in this endless universe old.

Unmarked by tragedy of time,

their saga shall outlive this forward force.

Two lives marked by death and tainted with blood,

Two warriors with tragic fate,

And two martyrs who turned to legends.

Their fate was overlapped

two bodies, but soul was one.

One turned to ashes, to folklore, to myth,

and her fairytale was always sung.

The other's story was yet to be written

her kismet the same as the first one

foretold by the fire, the water, the sky, the earth.

She was the protector

with a destiny weaved by death.

So do tell,

What would be the end of Freya Abildgaard

When she was the one to save the world?"

A story, it seemed. A prophecy, it was. An answer it demanded. What would be the end of Freya Abildgaard? It asked. An answer she knew. The answer cling to the tip of her tongue, clawing at her lips to break free, to be knows to this ancient temple, the sea, and the sky. The answer that she must not say, for saying it could only mean it was real. An answer she could not accept, ever, because it would mean that her fate wasn't in her hands, but woven into the fabric, a thin strand among the many brave enough to do great things, bad things, valiant things. A cloth, woven by the hands that seemed to be always clamped around her neck, an unrelenting noose tied tightly around her neck, with destroyer behind her, a foot lifting to kick the chair out from under her. . . .

"Death."

She awoke up with a gasp, her breathing heavy and uneven as if she really had been hung. Sweat clung to her body, cold and icy under the dampened covers. Snow was covering her window, obstructing the view outside as she lay in her bed at the Burrow.

Her eyes went on the clock, and she realised with a start that it was eight in the night. She had gone to bed at three in the afternoon because of her excessive headache and had only meant to take a nap of one hour. 

"Oh, good, you're awake." said Ginny as she entered the room. "Mum had told me to wake you up."

"Why didn't you wake me up earlier?" Grace asked as she slowly sat up on her bed. 

"I told mum not to." said Ginny. "You weren't getting any good sleep at Hogwarts. Anyway, come down, it's almost dinner time."

After Ginny had left the room, Grace pushed open the bathroom door and splashed some water on her face. Looking up she saw her reflection staring at herself in the the mirror. Her dream flashed through her mind, and it unsettled her; more than her other dreams. She could remember every thing her clone told her, and it only unnerved her.