Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
────── 〔❦〕──────
IN THE WORDS of the only man of the 'home,' his daughter was nothing but — and one could quote — "a pathetic excuse of a child."
That same terrible sentence would meet the ears of the eleven year old girl, most times without needing to see the face of the person. Axel, the man who'd speak the words with a sneer, would later on spit words to his wife. Ones on how his daughter "couldn't even handle the Cruciatus Curse."
Each and every single time they were uttered, the girl would find herself coming back to her senses. Glancing through glass of dappled vision, ever so slow eyes fluttering open. The silhouette of a small, trembling body rested on the cold floor of a dungeon. Hair of deep black waves splayed, strands sticking to sweat-filled cheeks and forehead.
Fatigued and holding no effort to fight against her eye muscles, blue irises — with specks of grey — would shut. Her body felt like it'd been on fire, punched and kicked at for hours. (Knowing Axel, it was open to assume that hadn't been far from truth).
There were moments in time in which none of it felt real; more of a night terror. Her worst nightmare was her reality; something she'd wish to wake from. But when her eyes would flutter back open, she wasn't met with something pleasant. With every other blink taken, the expectation of awaiting something better was never shown. The portrait of darkness, and all the pain it brought, failed to disappear.
Others would wish to have her life, the one of being a Princess. As from the outside it seemed great — though only for the reason that no one ever saw the truth within. The good part was she never experienced the fear of wondering when her last meal would be. Not even after the numerous diets her father would put her on — as an eleven year old!
The other seemingly good part was being the heiress of Ambrose and de Fitzroy fortunes. It was uncertain to tell if any of it would be handed down to her. Upon being despised by one's own father — who claimed to love her — it was hard to fathom the idea.
At that time, the Princess had not once experienced words of praise or adoration. Not from Axel Ambrose. But somehow, in the least deserved way, she'd been convinced to believe this was fatherly love. She was taught punishments — no matter how badly they drained her — were to 'make her stronger.'
For years, Elara would know it as nothing but behaviour all of the 'best' pureblood children endured. She enjoyed being at the very top, surpassing everyone. Axel had known that far too well and used it to his advantage. The next spoken sentence of "It's disgusting to say she's our daughter" was nowhere close to the King's extremities of the degradation.
Years from now, Elara would understand his actions. The reasoning for all she endured since childhood, why she was treated as unwanted vermin.
Through it all, the slightly younger one of the married couple, the mother Lilith, would be at her daughter's side. The one to defend her flesh and blood against the man she married. The brunette with hazel eyes would reason with her husband, claim "she's only eleven years old."
As if that was a proper excuse for using a torture curse on a literal child.
The semi-better parent, Lilith, did her best. Yet, if life worked differently, there'd be a likeliness of freely handed help. If it worked differently, the punishment of her daughter would not grow worse or frequent. (Both always occurred whenever Lilith forced herself into halting the abuse).
In some time, Elara would come to understand why her mother stayed all those years, married to a man whom only brought strife and misery to their lives.
There'd come a time in which the full truth would divulge. A time where Nicky (the personal house elf) would not need to tend to wounds on the tiny Princess' skin.
With his tennis ball sized, heterochromia eyes scanning blood and sweat, the house elf would assist in caring for the girl.
Tucked under thick covers to aid a shivering body, Elara rested on her side, left hand held onto the one of her maman. Eyes the colour of the ocean would scan Lilith's facial expressions; the ends of lips that'd briefly tug down to display sadness. Movements too quick to notice for most, but her daughter was observant — sometimes a little too much.
Years were spent analyzing her mother's expressions, growing to understand what each meant. Some were random guesses as there were only so many emotions Elara had ever felt. Some lies came the hardest to Lilith, especially when meant to be spoken to her daughter.
Utterances of "everything's going to be alright" paired with a lying tell were becoming a hateful pattern. With a small shake of the head, Elara wordlessly motioned she did not want to hear it. And so, a sweet kiss was pressed onto her forehead.
It did not make up for the lack of staring at the night sky before bed. Nor would it make up for the sudden stop in recounts of bedtime stories about Reggie &' Pads.
Though it was better than no longer having to experience the Cruciatus Curse.
A few years from now, when the girl would be well into adolescence, her novaturient and destined future would come to life. The one she painted in her mind every day. The one written along her favourite star; the brightest of few, Regulus.
Time was her friend for now, but there'd come moments in which it would become her greatest enemy.
