ICARUS ▻ the vampire diaries.

𝔦𝔦. chapter two

She survived that night. So did her sister.

But now there was a parents-sized void nestled somewhere in her heart. Alaska told herself that she put it behind her, buried it six feet under, but it always knew how to return and mourn the loss.

The brunette swallowed thickly, feeling hot tears burning the back of her eyes. Shaking her head to brush off the forlorn thoughts she took a deep breath, burrowing deep into the bed and hid under the blanket, one eye poking out and peering at the inky sky through the grid of her window. She stared for a few seconds, feeling a haunting emptiness crawling in her stomach, watching as a milky white light slowly poured into the room, spilling across the floor in a large puddle.

She had a pretty bedroom, with ruffled sheets in different shades of green and a paper-lamp displaying an enchanted forest. The cut-out silhouettes of coiled flowers, an unearthly bird in flight, and human-like figures playing pan flutes were spotlighted against the four walls of her room, revolving like a carousel: familiar and safe.

Alaska blinked, suddenly feeling a shuttering of her synapses, the quite lure into sleepiness. As each limb became heavy and her heart slowed to a more peaceful beat, she could faintly hear a mysterious strum of a fiddle. It encircled her. Comforted her. And there was more.

A regal, mystical, floral scent-something like a blue flower.

A confetti-like burst of someone giggling. Delicate and alluring. Yet there was no one around, for it was the middle of the night.

A small voice at the back of her head told her to get up and inquire the source of the enticing sound, but her eyelids felt too heavy to cooperate.

The girl wondered if her magical dreams were following her.

How very odd.

Alaska thought of Desdemona, grape wine, and mortality and this time when she closed her eyes, she fell into a quiet and dreamless sleep.

Alaska sighed, absentmindedly doodling on a white page of her leather bound diary. The girl was truly at the end of her wits. She hadn't written a word there yet, and she distinctly felt like it was going to stay that way. Her mother- Miranda Gilbert had gifted identical journals to both of her daughters. She told them to write down everything significant and important to them, to jot down the instants that gave them happiness or sorrow, in the hopes of receiving mental and emotional clarity and maybe to get a better and deeper understanding for themselves.