Defiance (BEING REVISED AND WRITTEN INTO ANOTHER GENRE)

Prologue // On The Steps Stained With Blood

August 2nd, 1866.

"You think she'll grow to be a young lady?" She asked gently, caressing the small turfs of fair hair on the small fragile head of the baby nestled in her arms. She took away her arm, using that hand to pick up the dress that was gathering dust onto the hem of her skirt. "At the least, would she look like a young lady?"

"I believe she'll grow up to be an extraordinary young lady, but she'll be an idealist." He replied, staring up ahead, guided by the oil lamps that hung above shops that was barely glowing at all. His voice was tinged with sadness. She looked up quickly.

"An idealist? A woman idealist? You know that would make her be looked down and-" She was cut off. She stopped right before him, before slamming into him. He had stopped abruptly, and now glancing at his wife with reassuring eyes.

"A woman idealist may not be common, but I believe she will be independent. My only regret is that I won't see her grow into that independent idealist." That small tinged of sadness now bloomed into regret and desperation. "I wish-I wish that we can."

She clasped her free hand onto his, gripping it with desperation. "We can't. I'm sorry James." He looked away quickly, averting his eyes. He turned away, and started going towards the oil lamps, quicker this time. She sighed inwardly. it was always like this, discussing this.

"We're here." She glanced up, squinting to get a clear view. They both stood in front of a tall manor, that was decorated with stained glass, waxed candle light was lit up through the glass. The manor itself was decorated like a cathedral. She looked over cautiously at James. He was gazing at the child in her arms affectionately. She gave a strained smile.

"Here. Hold her James." She lifted the sleeping baby out of her arms, and James took her cautiously. James cracked a grin down at the baby, his luminous blue eyes were filled with love and affection - the look a father gave to his children. He kissed the top of the child's head, before laying it down on the steps of the manor.

She looked down at the child, wrapped around with a white blanket, and sewn onto the hem of the blanket : Dalfroy. Their surname. Bending down, the skirt around her blossoming as she settled down to her knees, caressing the child for the the last time. "She's beautiful." She said quietly, standing up, her skirt rustling around her. James slid his hand into hers, gripping it.

"We must go, Celine. I'm sorry." James' voice cracked, tugging on her hand, ushering her to go. Celine nodded, stepping around the sleep child, knocking rapidly on the door, loud enough for whoever living in the manor to hear. The two of them stood up, Celine picking up her rustling skirt and the two rushed off into the streets.

"She'll be safe, right, James?" She asked softly, once they got as far away as they could. James' hand was still in her's.

"The farther away she is from the both of us, the safer she'll be." He replied gently, replying after a few minutes. That truth sent a needle through her heart, it was true. The silence between them was long as they continue to walk across the bridge. It wasn't an odd silence, it was comfortable, in truth.

But what cut the silence, was a silver knife that gleamed through the night air, plunging into the back of Celine. Where, it cut through her severely. Gasping, and clutching onto James, she fell to her knees, the crimson skirt rustling around her like a pool- along with an actual pool of blood, her owns.

"Celine!" James shouted through the night air, staring at his dying wife. She gasped again, bubbles of blood formed around the corners of her bloody lips. Her lungs were punctured.

"James, run, please, Cadrena found us." She pleaded weakly, pointing a frail, blood stained finger behind him. James looked up behind him frantically, laying his near dead wife onto the pavement gently. "James!" Celine mustered a protest, but it ended in a fit of bloody coughs.

"I love you, Celine." Those were the last words he said to her, before racing towards the blacken, cloaked figures- the ones that threw the knife. There were three of them. One stepped out slightly, like gliding towards a racing James. Celine, who was too weak to speak, slumped across the railing of the bridge, clutching onto the wound.

 James ripped out a Spherer from the pocket of his jacket. "Aqua benedicta." As the words left his lips, a shock of wavering golden color sparked at one of the three cloaked figures. A spray of golden, silvery substance fell like rain. The cloaked figure screeched a pained sound, collapsing onto the pavement. The cloaked figure that was on the ground fell limped. Motionless. 

 Gripping onto the Spherer, he raised the glassy, slim wand at the figures. He raised his head, and opened his lips to speak. But no words left his lips. He never got the chance. A wave of light, the color of lavender flew through the air, slicing through James' chest. It would have been pretty - the colors wavering in a striking shade, if it wasn't deadly. He doubled over, the Spherer that he was barely holding slipped, and the glass texture of the Spherer smashed into broken ruby red pieces.. 

He was dead.

"Find the child." The first cloaked figure said, motioning a pale finger at the other remaining figure. "They left the house with her. She's here somewhere. Find her." The second figure didn't nod, but glided past the first figure, blending into the shadows of the city.

The remaining figure bent down at James, who was dead at it's feet. "Oh James, I told you to not inflict yourself with my kind. But it's your own foolishness that failed you."

The woman with red hair bent down, her scarlet hair dropped over her cloak. "You deserve to die. Twenty years ago, I should have killed you then." She hissed.

The figure stood up. Ripping the hood that covered it's face back. The face was paled, her eyes, oh her eyes, was full black, ebony. Her cheeks were bony and thin, like a skeleton. The only color, is her bright fire-like red hair. She was like death. Unnatural. "Magic, is not for the Dalfroy's, James." And in a swirl of ash, she was gone.

Celine, who was silence by force, and slowly dying, she dragged herself to James, leaving a trail of glistening blood behind her and on her skirt. If she was to die here, she was to die by James. Small rocks dug into her palms as she dragged herself, her fair hair sprawled over her back and shoulders, coming undone from the ribbon tie. I will not cry, I will not cry. She told herself furiously, her eyes blurring.

Collapsing besides the motionless James, she slipped her bloody hand into his hand. Her thumb trailed down to her wrist gently. There, was no pulse. And soon, there would be no pulse in hers within moments.

My fault. She thought. My fault, James.

The two of them laid together, in a pool of Celine's blood, their hands entwined. Their hearts unbeaten and dead, but it was beating silently for each other in a better place.