Sunlight. She could feel the sunlight dancing down over her with all the warmth of her mother's embrace. The smell of crushed green, as she lay among the heather of the fields, tickling her nose with it's pungent aroma. Closing her eyes, she lay in silence, to the sounds of the field around her. The faint chirping of a nearby cricket, as he rubs his hinds legs together, calling for a mate. The melodic song of the finches, regailing in their joy of newborn spring blooming before them. In the distance, her mother called out to her, pleading with her to come home and help with the wash. Trying to sink deeper into her bed of heather and lavender, she giggles softly to herself, their daily game begun anew. She listened in wonder, to the angelic voice of her mother, calling out for her hidden daughter. She'd never heard such a beautiful voice, even in the choir during Mass, they never sounded as sweet as her mother's voice. She sat in wonder, as the seraphim song came ever closer to her, making it's way through the fields to hunt her down.
"Aylyai, petite fille, vient au maison s'il te plait?" The voice ever closer, so close she could smell her mother's simple perfume of jasmine over the lavender.
Poking her head up, just enough to peer out through the strands of lavender, she glanced around for her mother's glorious visiage. Puzzled, not seeing her, she sat up abruptly. Curiously looking over the field for her beloved mere. Quirking her head, she frowned, even as her mother pounced on her little devil. Fingers finding their way to her sides, tickling her beyond hope of respite. She laughed until her sides hurt, and the two of them lay amid the broken stems of crushed lavender.
Rolling to her side, she let her eyes sift over her mother's perfect face. The cherry blossoms living in her cheeks, and the brilliant cerulean gaze looking back on her with only love and adoration. The plaits of liquid mercury, that she'd inherited, fell over her mother like rivers of molten silver, glistening with the sun's dazzling radiance. Rein de Melyr, was truly a vision of beauty to behold. She'd only prayed, that one day she'd grow into her mother's physique. At thirteen, all she'd ever dreamed of, was making her mother proud, of becoming just like her. Rein was the local herbalist, most likely the best word to describe her, though most of the bitter old ninnies in the countryside called her witch, it still didn't stop them from begging her poltices and wraps. Spending most of their day in the fields, she'd always been astounded by her mother's arcane knowledge of just what to pick, where it would grow, and how much to mix it with. She was never wrong. Never.
As she clung to her mother's hand, they struggled to stand, and not burst into fits of laughter when Aylyai tripped over a thatch of thistle. Sprawled ungracefully at her mother's feet, she peered up at the woman, wondering when she'd learn to move like her mother, every step echoing with power and subtle confidence. Laughing, they set off towards home, and pere. Even more than she'd worshipped her mother, her father was truly the shining star in her heaven. With his towering 6'5" stance, the barrell of a man always commanded a presence in the room. His laughter echoed through the hall and veil like the thunderous waterfalls that fell from the canyon. Eyes of icy blue, what she could only imagine the glacial fjords looked like from the bow of the great ships. But when he looked at her with those eyes, you only had to gasp at the magnitude of love for his daughter that was held within them. She didn't know what her father did, when he was gone, it was for weeks. But when he was home, he taught her the most wonderful games. He stalked her in the fields, teaching her to be as gentle as a deer in her passing. Hiding in the shadows, they'd play seek for hours until she tired of her hiding place, and he'd find her stretching in the open. When the ground was too damp, and mere would have skinned them for tracking mud into their home, they went to the barn, where he would teach her patience, and recognition. For hours on end, she would learn, sometimes painfully, the odd arts her father would teach her. First, something he'd called the soaring eagle, or as he later corrected her, 'Fei Jing'. The words foreign on her lips, and even harder to understand, but it was something she looked forward to each time the skies darkened. After she'd become stronger, he introduced her to Muay Thai. Soon, she'd become as bruised as the clouds had the night before, each morning when she'd awoke, screaming in happy misery over the eve's workouts. She reveled in this, devouring every punch, every kick, and every step in the intricate and brutal dance. It didn't matter really, what it was they were doing, only, that she spent time with her beloved father. His pride in her, meant everything to her. As the years went by, 3 more blessed years, she grew in poise, and strength, and deadliness. Until now, this had all been a game to her, something to do that made her father proud of her. Until this night.
The clouds massed overhead like an angry swarm of hornets whose nest had been disturbed. As she made her way home through the field, her steps quickening, in hopes of reaching the cottage before the storm unleashed it's fury. But something other than the coming storm urged her footsteps on, something more threatening than the downpour of icy rain. As she crested the rise, she peered down to the tiny cottage below, almost afraid of what she might have seen. Yet nothing was amiss, no charred ruins greated her, no animals strayed from their pens, no stranger's lurked round the yard. Yet something inside of her screamed it's warning to run as quickly as her 15 year old body could carry her. But the tendrils of smoke curling into the sky from the chimney only promised dinner and the scolding from her father for being late. Without a second thought, she crossed down into her homestead. As she pushed the door open, a pot sat bubbling merrily on the stove, even as the rain added to the simple symphony of nightly music. The table set, awaiting only the flowers clutched in her hands to complete the dinner arrangements. Her father stood absent to berate her for her tardiness, her mother oddly abandoned the completion of the dinner as it went merrily on it's way to burning. Turning off the fire on the stove, she frowned for a moment, chiding herself, though glancing at her watch knowing she hadn't been that late. Calling out to her family, only her voice echoed through their tiny home, with only the storm to reply to her cry. Panic seeping into her young mind, she strode into the next room, finding nothing amiss, and into the next. Still nothing to be found.
Circling through the small cottage, still finding nothing, her heart beats like a frantic bird within her chest. Bursting from the house, out into the stinging rain, she flee's to the barn. The heavy door rolling open on it's rusted wheels, protesting her entry as if protecting her from the scene within. The swinging of the lantern on it's hook lending a garish light to the picture before her. A nightmare come true, she could only stand in silence, as the truth pushed it's way into her mind with every swing of the light. Her father hung over the rafter, spinning slowly by the corded bridle looped round his neck. His eyes bulging from their sockets, the swollen flesh of his face cradling their orbs. The proud and stern face that she'd inherited stared blankly back at her from it's halloween mask. Turning round and round like some ballon on it's string. At his feet, lay her mother, crumpled where the scythe cut her down like a simple sheath of wheat. Her neck gaping in some macabre clown's smile from the blade's cutting arc. A pool of blood soaking into the hay strewn floor that she'd collapsed upon. As her voice fought to release itself, she shook her head violently, trying to shake away the vision before her. Finally clawing itself from her chest, a scream of sheer dispair leaps from her, startling the pigeons from their roost above the massacre below. Simply screaming, no words forming on those lips, no utterance of denial, no curses to god, only a terrible, wrenching scream. The horses in their stalls joined in with her cry, lending to the cacophony of pain and loss.
Even as the shadow slipped up behind her, she did nothing but scream. Even as her head was turned back in a forecful twist, she did nothing but scream. Even as her glacial gaze fell on the woman behind her, she did nothing but scream. Only when the smile crossed the woman's berried lips, did the sound die on her lips. And as the sound died, her anger grew. Twisting and tearing it's way through her very being, turning the innocent child she'd been born and raised, seeding the beginings of the blackened soul that would burst from this cursed ground. Simply shaking her head, the woman took a step away from her, backing up to appraise the forgotten child that stood before her. Cocking her head slightly, very much as a robin would as it listened for the worm crawling below the loamy ground before it speared the tiny beast. A mass of firey curls tied with a simple ebon thong, the few stray tendrils framing the woman's cruel face. Her eyes nearly black, darkened by the ebony suit of soft cotton that clothed the woman. The fabric tight enough to cling to her, yet not restricting any of her flowing movements. As she paced for a moment, her steps so like a snake that Aylyai was hypnotized in silence. Finally, she laughed, a cruel, mocking laugh, meant to shame and anger the child that stood before her, launching the game into play. As Aylyai hissed in rage, and lept at the woman, she found herself clutching nothing but air, when she'd meant to find the woman's throat in her hands. Unbalanced, she tumbled onto the straw floor, sputtering with dust and strands of hay. Without even another chance, she felt the dull crushing blow of the woman's heel to the base of her skull, even as she turned to face her yet again. The curtain of black that tunneled her vision, dimming to nothing the the woman framed within it's center, and the odd sigil that seemed to be writhing on the woman's cheek. As she sank down into nothingness, the sigil finally stilled itself, and the orchid pronounced it's presence and claim to her life.
