Trigger Warning: Blood
. . .
The Sergeant was reduced to stone while you dissipated into mist. Crickets hopped away from your shadowing figure with great haste. The growing fog only grew denser from under your skirts and blotted out fireflies' blinkers. Not even a bat had the bravery to flap in the pale light as your dark, seeping aura poisoned everything it touched. Only humid winds dared to reach for your wrist and crept through your veins.
Although you couldn't see the treeline well from where you stood, with the fog smoking from the forest, the damp breeze whispered that it would rain any second now.
Your haze thickened as you stood in paired silence for so very long. It grew wet on your neck until little drops fell from the heavens in fat plops. You tilted slightly to catch diamonds falling from the sky's abyss. The rain quickly came down in a curtain, chilling the burning skin underneath your costume. The rain washed you clean of any feelings until your once fiery blood pooled in your shoes and seeped into the dirt.
So, whether it be water or blood, the world would drown tonight.
The monster's drunken eyes darted left to right in the moonlight, obviously looking to escape from under the crushing of your index finger. You took a mindless step forward, forcing him further into his outhouse until he stumbled and fell onto the seat. The Sergeant mumbled something to you after he fell. His tainted breath carried over the storm, but his words remained a mystery. All you heard was heavy rain beating every soul into submission.
Your body was not your own as you studied him; you acted on instinct rather than thought. To feel so disconnected during the most crucial moment in your short life–a moment life had built since the day you were torn from the womb–should have been worrying. You needed the utmost concentration, but Nature clouded your senses. And, if things were not disturbing enough, your reaction did not stem from fear. There was a sort of nothingness that kept your arm stiff and locked in on the Sergeant's chest. A sort of nothingness that kept you planted firmly in the growing puddles. A sort of nothingness that made your eyes sting with exhaustion.
The Sergeant attempted to speak to you again. His face shook with anger and fear this time, but you still couldn't hear him. Only the torrential downpour flooded your ears. You could read a word from his lips, and you were sure he called you a 'witch.' His anger turned to pleas when you failed to answer with your dead tongue and blank expression. Tears barely reflected in what little moonlight peaked from behind dark curtains to watch the show.
The way he cowered... the Sergeant reminded you of Floch. Perhaps all men turned to cravens when cornered by an empty woman. Now, you had to decide what to do with him. Should you pull him out and slit his throat in the ground? Was it better to jam the blade where he sat? You weren't sure where to start, but you wanted the option with the least bloodshed.
You'd grown so tired of blood.
"Show the world what it truly means to be a witch," Mother sang with the rain, and your body moved before you could ponder the words.
Keeping your gun pointed, you tossed the knife into the air with your opposite hand. Instead of reclaiming the hilt, you caught the serrated edge and squeezed. The pain was nothing compared to what you had felt at the hands of the shivering lump before you, and you only loosened your grip when rain and blood dripped into the grass. You whispered gibberish under your breath the more blood mingled into the puddles–turning dirt brown to deadly black–and the Sergeant watched in muffled terror.
He was rather pathetic, wasn't he? To die crying on the privy was no way for a man to go. It should be more painful for a man like him, a dark voice whispered. It should take longer than one night. It should last an eternity.
Did you want it to last an eternity? Would you sacrifice your soul if it meant you could stretch out his pain a lifetime longer with the few minutes you had?
"My blood will soak the walls of your home for what you have done," you raised your curses' volume so he could hear over the wind and rain. "It will curse everything you loved long after you are buried. You will know nothing but pain in death."
You had no idea what you were saying as the blood kept dripping down and down and down. Your fingers stung as the rain kissed your self-made wounds with its gentle healing. Your spirit would feed the grass under your feet, but you had no control.
You finally heard little prayers fall from the quivering coward, "Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."
His Holy Mother would not come to save him, but your unholy one had saved you from living like him.
Hadn't she?
And you would slit his throat just before he finished his useless penance.
Would you?
But, when it came time for you to step forward and free Father's knife from your own skin to plunge it into the Sergeant's, you couldn't move. The mud held onto your legs, and you swore you felt yourself sink lower in an invisible struggle.
Move, your mind ordered, but your body stood still. This man has stolen everything from you, so move, Goddammit.
The more blood that rushed from your fingers, the more you pictured the deer in the cedar grove. Her anguished cries deafened your ears so much worse than any rain or distant rumblings. Now, her blood gnawed at your knuckles, and you had to fight the hyperventilations from seizing your throat.
It should be easy to kill this man; he was a monster, not a gentle deer that had only entered your peaceful grove at the wrong time. So why did that sweet creature bury you with sudden sickness in your descent into rageful madness?
You earned justice. You earned this moment. You earned the right to watch him die, clawing at his neck–praying for a savior that smelled of moonshine, rain, and salt–only for that person never to come.
Did you earn it? Who gave you the right?
You were not a monster in the same way he was. Witches were not monsters. Your mother was a witch, but she did not murder all who spoke ill of her. She did not commune with the devil and had no vile magic backing her wicked streak. She healed men in military clinics and burned away her woes with branches. She may have been harsh, but she was no monster.
Witches were not monsters, and you were not a monster. You were not a deer in the woods or a little girl. You were not a God who decided who lived or died. You were a lost woman, circling the drain of her madness, burning away all her goodness like a cedar branch.
Move, you tried again, fighting an inward battle of the body and spirit.
Eren would tell you to keep going. If he were there, watching you falter, Eren would have stolen the knife from your hands and killed the monster himself. Then, he would have walked you home in silence, never to speak of that night again. But that thought did not move your muscles. Hitch would never put herself in this situation. She would send Marlowe to clean everything up while she and you chatted over tea and scones. You should have done that instead of trying to fix everything yourself. Marlowe had even offered assistance the day he visited, but you brushed off his service as an empty bit of kindness. But that thought did not move your muscles, either. Niccolo would have killed him by now. He'd make short work of his throat like a turkey at Christmastime. Even Connie, in his idiocy, would have handled himself better. He would have chucked the knife at the Sergeant's throat, grabbed you, and ran for the hills. And yet, you remained unmoved.
Because in the end, they would protect you from ending things yourself, just as they always had. It was their way–they knew nothing else. You didn't need to be shielded. You needed to be pushed forward.
And in your foolishness, you thought of Jean. You hoped his image would force your legs toward the hope of tomorrow. What would he say if he saw you fail to fight? He would tell you to continue, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? He was intense, passionate, and violent. He would finish the job. But when put face-to-face with the man that murdered his closest friend, your lover failed to take that last step to enact proper revenge.
Just like you were failing.
You chased your bravery as far as possible, but it only left you breathless and tired. You reached down into your soul one last time, desperate to find some celestial power left untapped within yourself but came up with only shadows. No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself you were prepared to lose yourself to Death, you were only another terrible actress in the end; when the stage was set, the costumes were on, and the lights were dimmed, you choked under pressure.
And your body and mind finally reached a silent consensus with your much quieter soul.
You stepped backward instead of forward but lowered your gun no more than an inch. You ghosted back into Nature's fog, barely moving your skirt as you faded further and the outhouse disappeared into the hazy abyss. How badly you wanted to run as soon as clouds covered your exit from the Sergeant. But you wouldn't run back to the Ripper, begging him to fix your failure like everyone else would have. Your legs and voice wouldn't let you. You ambled, your boots sucked closer to Hell with each puddle that pulled you in. When you did reach him, waiting at his usual spot in the woods, the old man gave you a funny look.
"You took care of it?" he asked. "I couldn't see what was happenin' out here. Fog rolled in too quick–like it was chasin' after ya. I ain't never seen nothin' like that my whole life. Pretty lucky if you ask me."
You lied silently with a simple nod. Your tongue went limp in your mouth as the rain pelted you even harder. Kenny patted your shoulder and kept talking, saying all sorts of things that your mind wouldn't process. Even when he led you from the woods and dropped you off on the road home with what you assumed was a quiet congratulations, you couldn't hear anything past the rain.
Lightning overtook the sky in flashes. You watched from the ground, wishing you could bury yourself under the mud and sleep off the night like a bad dream. The flower fields where you had started the summer would now bear witness to the end of it. The forests you had spent so much time picking branches and walking the horses would no longer welcome your entry. The house you had spent the last five years existing in wouldn't recognize your face in a month's time.
What were you thinking—conjuring this foolish plan when the dust of your near death had not yet settled? Were you thinking at all? Did your conflicted mind pull you in all the wrong directions as some final, cruel joke?
For a woman of your reputation to threaten a man at gunpoint... if Fate were a benevolent woman, she would see you hung or shot. She would send you to the asylum or burn you to death with all the other old American witches if she was malevolent. And if ambivalent, you would rot in a prison cell until you forgot what rose thorns felt like when they pierced your fingertips.
And, as foolish as it was, you planned to leave it up to Fate from here on out. You were tired of scheming and late nights. You were tired of blood and water. You only wanted to crawl into bed and sleep; maybe you would feel more like yourself. Perhaps that was all you ever needed–a goodnight's sleep.
Thoughts of empty dreams swirled in your cauldroned mind as you stepped onto your property. Stinging eyes surveyed your home for what may very well be the last time once the sun rose over the horizon. You saw your house, where Niccolo rested unknowingly to what you had thrown him into inside. You saw your stables, where your three peaceful steeds waited eagerly to be fed and ridden. You saw your cabins, where Mr. Arlert slept with his hundreds of pages and millions of ideas that you would never have the chance to read. And, in the other cabin, you saw a candle flickering expectantly in the window.
You knew you needed to go to the flame. You needed to speak to the man inside and explain that you had burnt any hopes of a promising future into ashes and blown them into bloody puddles. You started to walk there–to speak with Jean one last time–but as you passed his window and saw him waiting inside, the lake called you much more strongly than his pretty face. If he noticed you passing by, it was only after you fled into the glass. You followed the familiar path onto the dock, walked to its edge, and looked down. The water had always been a source of comfort for you, but no fish or turtles came up to greet your rippling, disfigured refraction as you crouched down.
You wanted to fall into the waves and let Fate carry you to the center. And when you lacked the energy to tread water, you would float down and rest with the fish and turtles. They would welcome your arrival and make homes in your bones. You would have a purpose, then. That wouldn't be so bad—to return the life you stole from Nature back to its other creatures.
You started to roll the balls of your feet forward, but someone yelled your name loud enough to stop you and yanked your arm back before you could dive off the wood.
"What the hell are you doing?!" You turned to find Jean holding you back, his pretty hair already slicked to his brow from the downpour. His strong fingers kept your delirious mind together. "I saw you walk past! What happened?!" he yelled over the rain.
"I couldn't do it," you whispered, but thunder roared over your voice.
"What?!"
"I couldn't do it."
Jean's eyes creased with a lack of understanding, so he tugged you from the dock's edge to the cover of his cabin. As soon as you were safe from the endless rain, Jean stole your hat and tossed it to the floor. He dipped his head to take a better look at you. Your face reflected in the perfect honey eyes you would miss dearly, and his change of expression told you everything. He already knew what you were going to say. He just knew, but his skin still hung in disbelief.
"What happened?" he asked, but he already knew.
"I couldn't do it. I failed. It's over. It's all over." Your lips into a closed-mouth smile as you nodded in confirmation of the worst. His heavy breaths grew shallow the longer you stood in dead air.
"Can you go back and–"
"It's too late, Jean. It's been too long. I'm sure the man went inside by now."
"But we can still–"
"We can't change it. What's done is done."
"But..." Jean searched between your eyes. He begged you to do something–to fix your wrongs–but you only offered him that closed-lip smile through tensed cheeks. "What happens now?"
"I don't know. I'm sure an officer will be knocking by dawn, if not sooner. After that... I'm leaving it up to Fate."
"Then... We make our own fate." His honey eyes burned bright. "Go to your room and pack a light bag. We can run to the city and take the first boat to London." He stole your hands and squeezed them with such passion as he spoke. "We can go to London, or France, or... wherever you want to stay. We will hide together until time stops. I can keep you safe until everything is truly over. I swear on my life; I will keep you safe."
Had Fate been kinder, would he make these outrageous promises to you? If there were more options, would he choose to spend the rest of his life with you–a woman he had only known for a summer? Was it fair of you to force him into being trapped as easily as you had? Would you have offered him the same if the fates were reversed? And to think, you had sworn that you would never ask anything of him again, only to unknowingly ask him to give up his future to protect you. Jean had done nothing to deserve all the misery you had put him through. He deserved to be content, come and go as he liked, and live untethered until he found someone worth choosing freely without the guilty unknown clouding his judgment.
You studied his perfect, calloused hands that held you like a lifeline and laughed bitterly in his face. You shook your head, knowing what was coming next. The truth was sure to crush him, but he deserved to know. He earned a better life with a braver soul, and as much as it pained you to put those last nails in the coffin of your love, you would do it to save him.
"I'm spent, Jean," you said. "Everything I had is all used up. I'm tired of running and fighting and... surviving for the sake of just... surviving. I want to spend my last few hours sleeping. I haven't slept in weeks and am so very tired."
His voice turned desperate, "You can sleep on the ship. Or in Paris. Or–"
"But I want to sleep in my bed. And I want you to sleep, as well. You should go back to the Yeagers' and shut your eyes for once. You deserve some rest."
"Do you think I can sleep like this?" he whispered, and his eyes were so pitiful as tears threatened to turn his honey bitter.
"You can." You reached up and brushed his hair out from his brows. He had such lovely locks--soft like a puppy's fur. "I'm sure you'll find a way once you're tired enough."
"Y/n, please. We have time. We have our whole lives to sleep."
You dropped his other hand, and both sets of fingers moved to favor his strong jaw. Every one of the stiff hairs lining the bone pricked at your thumbs, and pleasure came with the itch. If you ever needed to remember how rose thorns stabbed, you would pretend it felt like Jean's jaw.
"You're right, but I'm choosing to sleep now. I have to go, Jean. It's getting late," you sighed.
Jean stared with trembling lips separated just enough to blow hot air on your nose. "You cannot do this to me, Y/n."
"I know," you told him as you rubbed his flesh, committing every poke to memory. "I know."
"Then why are you?"
"Because it's better for you this way."
"There is nothing better for me than you," he murmured, and two hearts broke in his cabin. "There has to be some fight left in you."
"There isn't. I wish there were, but there just isn't."
"Then I will fight for you. Please, mon amour."
Mon amour—a new name for you? For once, you missed being called an oyster. The lack of familiarity and knowledge left you feeling distant.
So, in one last attempt at closeness with your love, you pulled down on his face slightly. You placed one last kiss on the cheek. It was wrong to taint his lips with your cruelty, but even his cheek tasted like the final bite of your favorite treat; he was sweet and fresh with an inexplicable hint of strawberry. It was a pleasant last memory—one you planned to remember even in madness.
"I'm... I'm sorry I couldn't be more for you," you whispered on the tip of his nose. "Take care of yourself."
You released the spells that bonded him to you as you stepped back. He stared back with a hanging mouth and creased eyes. You offered him one last polite smile and walked away for what felt like the last time.
"Y/n!" he called after you once you were out of sight, and he regained his senses, but you kept walking through the rain.
You followed the same path you had used many times since moving into the lakehouse. Rain swallowed you in the cold darkness, only to stop when you slipped into the kitchen alone. Slipping off your boots, you hung them by the laces while your wet socks trailed footprints through the dining room, the hall, and the stairs until you reached your sewing room. You redressed into dry clothes, toweled your wet hair, and waddled your pruned skin to the mirror. You looked like your mother, even without the wet costume brewing mildew on the floor. And with the last of your energy, you slunk into your room, sealed the door, and buried yourself in heaps of blankets.
Where was this strength when you needed it? How was it possible that you could say goodbye to the only man you would ever possibly love but not run away with him when he offered it? You could have had a whole life with him, but you chose to die. Maybe you were done being shielded by everyone else, and you wanted to make your own choices at the end, no matter how stupid it was.
Or it wasn't for you to understand yet. At least you never became a monster. Even in sleep or death, you could claim that truth. You clasped your hands over your ribs with fingers interlocked and closed your tired eyes.
And of all the things to dream, your mind chose the worst memory you had ever known.
There were two of you in this nightmare. The you from the present watched from the wall, and the younger you actively participated in your dream. The you that participated was a broken child, waiting for the inevitably in pained disillusion. Your old, broken house was no longer old or damaged. The walls were relined with fully-intact, dainty yellow wallpaper, and the wood was free of cobwebs and dust. The sun shone brightly through unsullied, untattered curtains. The younger you sat on Father's chair like the diligent child you were so good at being back then. Sasha was beside you, her hand resting on your shoulder.
And there was so much blood.
It poured from Father's mouth like a river at midnight. It was so thick and dark. Blood was supposed to be red, but this blood was black like tar. Your much smaller hands reached into your pouch, pulled out your handkerchief, and hastily wiped away the blood. The more you cleaned, the more drained from the sides of his mouth. Your younger fingertips were stained black and red, but your older ones felt the stickiness all the same.
Why did your hands always have to get so dirty?
"It's alright, Papa. I'll take care of it. I know you hate being messy," you laughed through frazzled tears.
"Oh, God. Dr. Yeager! Come quickly!" Sasha yelled.
The doctor had stepped out for you and Sasha to speak to your father alone. When he returned and saw the sight before him, you heard the pain stiffen his voice, "Take her out, Sasha."
"Come on, Y/n." She pulled roughly on your shoulders, but you sat firmly.
"I can't. I can't leave him. He's scared." Your younger hands grabbed your father's cold ones as hard as possible while Sasha tried to pull you away. "You can help him, can't you, Dr. Yeager? You have to help Papa. You have to. Please. You can't let him die. You have to save him!"
Tears pooled in the doctor's eyes, thanks to your sobbing. Dr. Yeager placed his two fingers on your father's bloody neck. When he shook his head at Sasha, you knew your father was gone.
Why this nightmare, of all the nightmares Fate could pull from her deck? Was it a warning? Were you to follow a similar fate?
"Come on. You shouldn't have to see this." Sasha pulled you again, but your little body followed this time. "Dr. Yeager will clean him up, and you can say goodbye properly."
You didn't want to repeat goodbyes again. You already said goodbye to Jean; why did Fate want you to say goodbye to Father, too? When would life be fair?
She pulled your childish self downstairs, and your ghost followed them. Everything was as it used to be when you reached the bottom—clean floors and polished knickknacks galore—but your eyes refixed themselves on bloodied hands. Your nail beds were caked with that black ooze. You pulled your eyes from the blood and glanced around your father's sewing studio.
A much younger Niccolo rose to his feet as soon as your existence was made known. Eren, no longer nineteen but fourteen, leaned against the door, his glassy eyes lowered to the floorboards. Mrs. Yeager, looking the same as she always did, pressed her hand to her mouth beside her son, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. Zeke's turned away—his back facing the room--and stared at the window with his glasses reflecting pretty sunlight in several directions.
"He's gone," Sasha whispered to the room. "He's gone."
Sasha wrapped her arms around you and held you close to her chest, rubbing your back as tears poured. You recalled the feeling you had that day, as it was a sensation you could never shake: your lungs filled with dynamite, and every stick detonated at once. You sobbed into her damp dress. Sasha's tears pooled on your scalp while Niccolo wrapped you both in his embrace.
"It's all my fault. I killed him. I'm the reason he got sick. I'm cursed," your little voice whined into her vest.
"Don't say that. Don't ever blame yourself. You did nothing wrong."
"I don't want to be alone."
"You'll never be alone. I'll always take care of you. I always will, and I always have."
"I'm scared, Sasha."
"I know, little one."
"Why is this happening?" You watched yourself sob, and even as an adult, you asked the same questions you had as a child. Everything, yet nothing, changed.
"I don't know. I'm so sorry, Y/n, but it'll be alright. One day, you'll wake up, and it won't hurt so much."
And you stopped living in the nightmare. Your real body walked up to Sasha's memory and shoved at her shoulder.
Your hand phased right through, but it didn't stop you from commanding, "Wake me up, Sasha. Wake me up. I know you can." But nothing changed. The memory only froze in place at your request for a reprieve. "I don't want to do this anymore!" Your orders turned to screams. "I want to sleep! That's all I want, so keep the bad dreams away. I know you can, Sasha! Make it stop!"
Again, everything stayed the same. You closed your eyes as tight as possible, trying to force everything from your mind. And when you opened them again, you were in the blank space. Instead of being surrounded by a room of your loved ones all mourning your greatest loss, your mother appeared cross-legged in the black void, stoking a fire. Her eyes flicked upward at your appearance, only to return to the flames.
"Look at you–taking control of your dream walking for once. Good work," Mother said from behind the smoke.
Something about her face ignited even more wrath in your throat. "Did you do this?!" you questioned. "Did you force me into that nightmare?! Was it some lesson to punish me for my weakness?!"
Mother took her eyes off the flame to send you a disappointed frown. "Do you think that little of me? I'm aware that I'm not the warmest woman in the world, but I'm not that evil. Now, sit, child. You're in need of a shoulder."
"I don't want to sit. I want to sleep."
Mother laughed at your disobedience. "Oh? Well, aren't you independent? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you are already sleeping, little fool. Don't you at least want someone to talk to? You seem to have a lot running through your head—pulled in all those directions all the time—I'm surprised you haven't gone completely mad yet."
"I can talk to you as long as I want when I'm dead."
"You're always so full of despair, child, and you haven't even seen how it ends yet."
That comment stoked another fire. "Have you seen it? How it ends?"
"Well, of course. My powers are stronger here. I can see everything there is to be seen."
"Then... Then how do I die? Is it–"
"Well, I can't just tell you," Mother cut you off. "What's the point of living if you know how you die? Just come sit with me."
But you ignored her refusal. "Dreams have meaning. Was that nightmare a warning, then? Of what's to come? I'm dying soon, aren't I?"
"Some dreams are prophetic; this is true. Some will warn you of Death's arrival–others bring hopes of a future or crucial memories of the past–but some dreams are just dreams, child. You mustn't worry yourself with what you can and cannot change. We leave those matters up to cedar, sage, and spirits. Now, sit. I'm not a patient person by nature, and I will not ask a fourth time."
So you would get no true answers from your mother tonight. At least you could enjoy your last few moments staring at the fire, stretching them out as long as their worth. You sat across from her, your eyes following the flames. Shadows danced and whistled inside like performers singing on stage. Despite all the smoke that brought stinging to your eyes, it was a hopeful fire.
"So... how do you feel?" Mother asked.
"Like a failure," you answered.
"We can't all be good at everything, now, can we? It's a good lesson to learn."
"I suppose."
"At least you were able to break yourself from that nightmare. Your gift is growing stronger... And I must say," Mother's voice warmed with a smile. "It was... exciting to watch you from here. Seeing you and Mr. Ackerman had me rolling on the floor most nights. He's still such a clown, even at his ancient age. And the way you had that man praying to the Virgin Mary! Must've scared the daylights out of him... Almost like he saw my ghost."
"And look at where it brought me."
"Yes, look at where it brought you." Mother mocked. "Back to me. That's a bit of a blessing, don't you think?"
It certainly didn't feel like a blessing. "I should've run. Shouldn't I?"
"Ran? With that beastly 'friend' of yours? And with what strength? Knowing you, you would change your mind on four different occasions, only to have an episode trying to decide what shoes to bring!"
"Did you insult Father this much?" you complained.
"I did. If not more. It was how I showed my adoration for him—by being truthful. If I teach you anything, let me tell you this: honesty is the purest form of love. But maybe you've already learned that lesson from someone else," Mother said. Talking to her made you even more tired. Even that hopeful fire couldn't bring any more energy out of you. "So what will you do next?"
"I'm leaving it up to Fate."
"Fate..." Mother stood up and retook a seat beside you. She wrapped her cold arm over your shoulder, and her embrace felt genuinely motherly. "That's a safe bet. Fate has always been kind to you, hasn't it?"
"Kind?!" you spat. "In what world has Fate been kind to me?!"
"In this one. You should have died the day you were born, or all the times you got sick as a child, or the day you were strangled, yet you are still here."
"That was Luck, not Fate."
"Then Luck has smiled upon you an unbelievable amount of times. Take that for the blessing it is, and stop complaining so much about everything else. It's hardly endearing." You glared over your shoulder, and Mother stuck her tongue at you and laughed. "You have such an ugly pout, you know. It makes you look too much like me at your age. Smile more; you have your father's smile. It's the only feature that looks good on you."
You must hate your own face, you wanted to say, but you kept that comment under the smoke.
To be fair, you hated your reflection, too.
"Should we speak about your dream walking?" Mother asked. "Do you have any questions about it?"
"Not really."
"None at all? I remember having so many questions for my father as a girl. I asked how far I could go, how much control I had, and if I could find my soulmate through dreams. None of that interests you?"
"No, it doesn't. I would rather have been born normal."
"Your gift is normal in our family. Would it kill you to have some pride in your blood?"
"I think your blood will be the very thing that kills me."
Mother winced at your point and followed it up with a nod. "Well... You may be right. You may be wrong, too, but I think it's better to accept what you are than deny it any longer. It won't do you any good to pretend you aren't a fearsome force when you can make men piss themselves and beg for their lives at the sight of your terrible blood."
A smile found your lips. "I really did make Floch piss himself, didn't I?"
"You did. Sasha and your little freckled friend were cackling when it happened."
"Marco? Sasha? Did they see it? Are they here now? Can I meet with them?"
"They're around. Next time you prepare to sleep, channel their energy into your mind. You will find them in your dreams if you are strong in your intentions. It'll give you something to look forward to in the upcoming few days... But for now, you have to go."
"Go? But I've only just begun to enjoy your company?"
Mother scoffed. "And I'm the mean one between the two of us! Well, I'll let you in on a little secret: time flies when you spend it with the people you love." She smoothed your hair from your face, tracing the soft line left behind by your scar. "Take care, Y/n. Oh, and I should probably tell you one more thing." She touched her forehead to yours. "You've made me the proudest mother in the universe, my little witch. I want you to remember the next time you doubt yourself."
And she headbutts you in the opposite direction.
You sat up straight in your bed, and you struggled for breath. It took several tries to slow your gasps, but you could control them after a few panicked seconds.
The sun poured in from every direction, and the air was sweet with eggs and berries. Dust glittered around your room like diamonds. It was a beautiful summer's day—a hopeful day even—but you only wondered why you were still in bed and not being dragged off.
"Good morning to you, too. Someone must have been dreaming pretty hard... sleeping until noon," Niccolo said with a laugh as he set your breakfast on the nightstand. You nodded and looked down at your hands. You found no blood–only a few little cuts on your fingertips and between your knuckles. "Nothing a good breakfast can't fix." Niccolo ruffled your hair and made a funny face. "Did you go outside in the rain last night? Your hair's all damp. You know, if you have... relieve yourself, I'd prefer that you wake me up. I know you're almost healed, but I'm hardly fond of you going out at night all alone. You could slip or get hurt. Oh, and think about washing up later. You smell strongly of mildew."
Niccolo sailed out the door, whistling without care. He whistled a piercing tune the whole way down and back into the kitchen, even as you forced some food into your stomach. His sweet song filled the house, and you remembered the melody from Sasha's old humming.
How much of last night was a dream? How much was real? And why were you still in bed with no one banging down your door to take you away? Were you even real anymore?
You were too tired to think. You finished half of your breakfast and slipped back under the covers as the sun kissed your scar and rubbed the apples of your cheeks. With Niccolo's whistling at the forefront of your mind, you pictured Sasha as you drifted off.
French Translation:
Mon amour = My Love
Author's Note: Guess who's horribly sick yet again? Me. This time it's just a cold, but my symptoms are so yucky that I got tested for Covid, the flu, and strep 🙃 I've been shooting green slugs out my nose, coughing up yellow slime into my sink, and on the cusp of a migraine for five days. Anyway, how do we feel about sad endings? What about happy ones? Neither? Both? Thoughts? Opinions?