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I was no more than a few days old when I’d been found abandoned before that cursed arch in a wicker basket, a single black rose upon my chest. No one knew who’d left me there, but every villager speculated that, whoever they were, they must have hoped the woods would eat me, as well.
Emotions I was forced to keep hidden for fear of looking possessed by evil, as girls were often perceived when they felt too much.
I’d learned at too early an age that the sound of a girl’s scream drew nothing more than apathy.
What a terrible burden to watch something die.
The men of our parish believed the birds to be an omen of death. They believed the same of me, too, so maybe I shared a kinship with the foreboding creatures.
How tragic that a woman’s worth equated to the depth of a man’s pockets.
“Go, my Darling, unto that place Where magic still exists Beyond the confines of this cruel world As you will not be missed Instead, I’ll find you in a dream Or a wistful plea on stars Hours of suffering no more redeemed For eternity is ours.”
“I also know that the delicate black rose doesn’t grow well in these parts. Our winters are far too cold for its fragile roots.”
This girl is the anathema,
“My grandfather told me bedtime stories of a wrathavor. A beast half-man, half-stag. One that eats flesh voraciously.
“I wouldn’t consider reading books in solitary the worst scenario.”
I knew all along
It’s why you couldn’t kill her, and why the black flame refuses to take her life.”
“She isn’t safe with you? Or you aren’t safe with her?”
“Some women are fire in your veins and hell between your teeth, Brother.
As if I had been tricked.
No shit idiot
