when she opens her eyes she is greeted by an ornate hand held mirror. she’s never seen it before, but it bears the Fraser rose insignia. it must be antique, and made of real gold. it’s weighted, yet her freckled wrist holds it at eye level as she scans the glass.

the reflection of the looking glass projects the finest of silk gowns upon peach toned skin. cheeks are warm and sun kissed by the setting beams in the sky. lips are brushed with a sweet pollen of pale pink oleander blooms, and her eyes are lined with almond-cocoa colored stibnite. she is in the wildwoods, she notes, she can smell the perfumes of the many flowers in the fields, but this nothing like the wildwoods. it’s calm and serene, and unmarked by any darkness. it’s a figment of her imagination tucked away with serene meadows, and wisteria hanging over the trees. behind lengthened mascara lashes there is not a tear in sight. and if she is quiet enough she can hear a family of meadowlark begin to grace her with a beautiful tune. sequined rays on gilded silk tulle netting give shape to long legs as the thin straps of her dress gather to accentuate a bust that is often puffed out to compensate for the shaky core she hides. 

there is twitch and snap in sprigs behind her and that’s when she feels it ––the coldness. 

something is not right in the stiff air. the plants don’t bring forth oxygen, and the sun is too bright in it’s setting. her lungs are too scared to inhale as if they know something’s wrong before she can fully comprehend. the illusion is beginning to shatter, and there is something in her tightened chest which tells her that it’s time to receive her tiara. a tiara– a title– a leadership she’s never truly asked for, but one she’s receiving without choice. anticipation crawls upon her skin like little puckering lips leaving kisses upon their grace. the handheld mirror is too heavy for her to hold any longer, and from clammy palms it falls to the ground– shattering against bare feet in signature gladiator sandals. but even glass in her feet, she stands tall. she hears another break in forest branches and a voice finally speaks to her in distorted vocal fry. 

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒎... 

she’s craved this sound since the day it left the earth. she looks around, following the feathered yet contorted tone. bloodied toes navigate towards the sound that leads her into the darker parts of the wildwoods. the sharp rocks and sticks on the ground keep her from running, but she’s insistent on meeting that ringing that pulls her in so deceptively. it’s beautiful, light, almost ethereal. she passes the singing meadowlark on her way to meet her mother’s voice. the shaded trees hide any true light, but she smiles as she makes her way deeper into the forrest. it reverberates against logs and tree bark. it almost sounds the same as she remembers it. it even carries the same disdain as the voice often called out to its daughter when it was alive. a warm tear falls upon her cheek as she closes her eyes to focus on the sound of her mother’s voice. the regal words of Lady Silk pull her into even more darkness. 

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒎, 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕... 

it coos, and soothes, and it swaddles and nurtures. the daughter squeezes her eyes shut but her actions don’t stop the tiny tears as they continue to break into more grieving sobs. the air wraps her in a delicate sway, as a mother should. in that moment she is tender. she is loved. she is no longer alone. the warmth of palms ghosts her face–– she can almost ignore how cold it is against her skin. there is a maternal sting to how hands glissade and curve the rounds of her cheeks. she’s foolish to lean into the touch. she’s foolish to let her tears fall onto such foreign palms. she should know better than to cry in her mother’s embrace. and yet she thinks she can stay there for years in that dream. that she could drill little holes into her eyelids to keep her from waking up. that slumbering and re-meeting her mother was better than any life she could ever fail to live up to.

but the nightmare is just beginning, and the voice garbles into a new sound as her mother’s words twist into a horrifying peal she’s never heard in all of her years––

𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒊𝒎, 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓 !  the voice mocked.

eyes fly open in horror to meet the absence of a face– the absence of a body– the absence of touch. its unnatural, made of shadows, and infectious. she can feel the darkness penetrate her skin, causing the hairs on her arms to sway in a death-like trance. she opens her mouth to cry for her mother, but not a sound escapes her shaking throat. even so, the most merciful being in the world couldn’t rid her of this nightmare. she tries to summon her own Kudzu bow, but all the mana in the world was lost against the figure before her. she is helpless. her palms are empty. her mother is not there. she is caught by something formless, infinite, and full of discord. her body continues to shake as it speaks.

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖? 𝑹𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔. Misty hands made of shadows and nebulae slid down the curves of the Cursed Blood’s face. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, it cooed. 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉, 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆...

and the wildwoods grow even darker. the smell of blood is thick in the air, as winds whistle in their tiny vortexes. her mother’s ability to manipulate tornadoes live again, as harsh winds lash against her face. the clangs and clashes of screaming clans grow louder in her ears. the death tolls rises as bodies pile to be burned in campfire wood. she can hear the ghostlike cry of children as they scream for their mothers. she watches as flames engulf villages. there is a serious of slaps she feels against her cheek as she questions each life taken by the hands of her mother. her memories scatter within the trees of the wildwoods, but one stands out in particular...

she hears the sound of the sharpening of a blade, as she dances around in the new dress her mother requested to be made for her on the day of execution. the sun is high in the sky as the clouds part for near perfect weather. the breeze is strong, with a slight smell of roasted nuts ( refreshments were served before the act was to be completed ) still teeming in the air. her tiny young arms reach up for her father so that he may place her on his shoulders. she wants to watch. the sound of her own voice is grating as she begs him to do as she says. she uses mother as leverage to get what she wants, with an added tiny foot stomping her sandals in the ground. she is on the brink of a throwing a tantrum before she’s scooped up. a gleeful cry leaves her lungs as her father fills her requests. the back of her sandals kick at her father’s chest as she claps for the man as he’s escorted to his place. she asks again, “What’s an execution?” as the man is asked for any last words. she shushed with a tiny crowd– advisors of her mother, followers of House Fraser, and others watching the example be made. as the sword cuts the neck clean the little cherub keeps her eyes open. she knows she’s not supposed to look away. but it hits harder than anyone could have ever warned her. her smile fades, as her father claps for his wife’s achievements. her stomach sinks to the ground, and Seraphim hides her tear for the Vanitas boy. she doesn’t wish to be scolded later.

as a little girl she was obedient, but even now, her palms tense up as that familiar feeling of sympathy settles within a heart that is missing. a dense fog settles in the atmosphere, so thick it grows harder to breath. the vegetation of the wildwoods loses its color– wisteria vines turn white and fade, their petals fall from the sky and disintegrate into ash. black ichor seeps from the cracks and wrinkles of every surrounding tree. the smell of rot and decay replaces the perfumed bushes and sprouting blooms of the meadow. the pollution is heavy, but the voice carries on in a million tiny echos with every brush of the wind against leaves.

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒆? Like a thick blanket of fog, the entity darted through Seraphim. It stained her clothing with a noxious sludge.

she is paralyzed as the golden gown upon her skin grows rotten and rancid, attracting maggots as she trembles in fear. the thick sludge covers her skin in  bright scarlet hues and shades. it’s putrid and smells of mildew. it stings the bridge of her nose as she is reminded of the decomposing animal that she is. a howl in the distance cries out for her to hear, but once the song is finished, the meadowlark come to feast on the vermin upon her skin. sharp pecks of lark beaks nip and strike at her gown. they nuzzle in the crown of her head in search of all of her rotten parts. they pick and bite and lick her clean as they make her bleed golden blood. she fails to fight them off, hides her face, and releases an inhumane sound she’s never heard leave her lips. she screams in pain but they are hungry and relentless and their chirps sting against raw flesh. her own howls, are no match for their songs, but once the maggots are gone, so are the larks. the dress she wears is no longer gilded, but tattered, and torn. it’s no fit to match a gilded tiara... she quakes in her own rot.

𝑾𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 ! it giggled. 𝑶𝒓...𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑾𝒉𝒚, 𝒘𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 ! The Boundary approached her again.

and even in her afflictions there is a quick nod to the last suggestion– it was far more appealing than the town realizing her true nature. it was far better to be feared than loved, but even better than to rule with fear. the squeal against that first suggestion echoes as she nods again, quick little agreements as her flesh crawls. the figure speaks of a plan that was already thought of, already formed by her mother’s wishes, already in her destiny. it’s what Lady Silk would have wanted; House Fraser overthrowing every other house– every snippet of royalty– ruling with obliteration and without question. she’d be a legacy of legacies– she could look down on them all, and smile in her own destruction. Seraphim would be completely foolish to deny that. 

but then come words she’s never heard– 

𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕...𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖,  it whispered. 

a catch in her breath halts her cries. she trips upon her own breathing, as an enthralling gaze searches the darkness for understanding. she’s curious to know why. amber eyes wish to know, what could she offer? what was she worth if this darkness desired her? and was her mother always right about her? was she always destined for this greatness? 

she nods a final time. already having made her decision. when was the last time anyone– anything wanted her anyway? 

An outstretched hand reached for where Seraphim’s heart should be. 

her eyes follow the hand– and she stands very still. she is ready for a shadow of a palm to enclose around that organ, but even she questions if she was born with one–– she takes her steps forward, willing to seal this deal. she can already see what the two of them could do for this cursed world. she could already feel the glory, and she wanted it to. it buzzed within her toxic veins– all she ever wanted was to make her mother proud.

𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒚, 𝑰 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉.  As if stung, The Boundary recoiled back. It slowly disintegrated into darkness, leaving her alone in the nightmare where illusions and old memories lurked around every corner. 𝑾𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖...𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓?

but it recoils. it fades. it leaves her, and once again she is alone. a pained whisper verbally agrees as she shuts her eyes, hoping to summon the creature back. “Yes. I accept.”