#dapper inserts: circus

Albert never knew his parents, they’d given him up as a baby. The town he was raised in was small and rather poor. By all accounts, he was an average child, except for one thing. No matter what, whenever he smiles, he looks creepy. It’s something in his eyes, in the curve of his lips, the weird tone of his voice, no one can really explain it. No matter how genuinely happy he is, and he truly does love to smile, it always comes out strange. When Albert was a child, he was bullied and beat up and pushed around a lot because of this. He wanted friends and tried to be nice and never fight back, but they still disliked him for his look. Everyday kids would whisper behind his back at school, he’d try and join in on their games but they’d always laugh and tell him to go away, they’d trip him as he walked home and sometimes even threw rocks at him. They mocked him constantly, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to hate any of them; he thought that maybe if he kept trying and kept smiling, one day they’d be able to see his true intentions. So, he never fought back, except for once, and that was when he instinctively put both his hands on either side of the kid’s head who was sitting on his chest and pulling at his hair while the other children laughed, and used his ability for the first time. The kid paused, blinked, looking dazed, and had no idea where he was, what he was doing, or who he even was. The effect wore off after a bit and the kid suffered no real harm, but still everyone was extra freaked out by him after that. That should have been nice, no one beat him up during that time, they left him entirely alone and gave him a wide berth, but he began to almost miss getting bullied, because at least then they were smiling. They may have been smiling cruelly at his expense, but that’s better than the scared looks he was getting. Because he wants to make people smile so bad. He never fought back against them once they became less afraid, because he figured that with a face like his, letting them hurt him would be the only way he’d ever cause joy. Pain and suffering was his purpose. The world had no other use for him, so he was fine with it. The x mark on his neck comes from a group of kids pinning him down and using a sharp stone to carve an x shape into his neck, telling him that someone as creepy as he is should learn to shut up and go away. It wasn’t deep enough to cause serious damage, they weren’t looking to murder him, but it did scar. It was a little less than a year later that the circus came to town. It was a small production, set up outside of town, and the orphanage decided they’d let the kids have a little treat and attended the show, and it was the best night of Albert’s life. The acts were certainly wonderful, but he really loved the way the way the charismatic ringmaster charmed the crowd, pulling laughter and smiles out of them like it was the easiest thing in the world. After the show, as the crowd dispersed and went back to their homes, Albert stuck around, watching as the performers packed up. One of them noticed him watching, and they nudged the ringmaster in the arm and pointed him out. The master smiled and walked over to Albert, greeting him and introducing himself, and he asked if he enjoyed the show. Albert said he did, very much so, that it was so wonderful, and he smiled. He was already prepared for the ringmaster to show some sign of being creeped out by his smile, but instead his own smile only grew wider and he said he was so very happy his little show could bring such an enthusiastic smile to his face. Albert could hardly believe it, he’d heard many words to describe his smile, but enthusiastic had never been one of them. He asked Voltaire how he did it, how was he able to cause smiles like he did that night? He looked into Voltaire’s eyes imploringly, he needed to know, he wanted so badly to learn, maybe he could do what Voltaire did and cause smiles too. Voltaire’s face softened for some reason as all these thoughts ran through Albert’s head, and he put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gestured back to their camp, saying that he’d be glad to talk with him further and that he might like to meet the rest of his troupe too. And all that night, not once did anybody shy away from him, not once did they mock him. When he made attempts to joke, they laughed, and he realized it was the first time he’d heard anyone laugh with him instead of at him. When it became late and it was time for him to head home, he was sad, the thought of going back to that place and to the mockery after he got a taste of real smiles was depressing. Then Voltaire asked him the question that would change his life, if he was really so unhappy as he was, why not stay with them? Their current cast was lacking a clown, and a clown’s whole job was to make the audience laugh, it was perfect for Albert. He doubted that though, with a face like his, he’d only scare the audience and ruin their show. But Voltaire insisted, saying Albert’s smile was one of the purest he’d ever seen, and that he could tell it was coming from a place of honest desire for happiness. Albert cried, big tears rolling down his face, but still he smiled, because those were the kindest words anyone had ever spoken to him. There was still worry about if the orphanage would let him leave, the circus was still young and barely had the funds to get by, so they couldn’t afford to pay much to them. But, no one I’m the town ever really cared about Albert, they hadn’t even noticed when he stayed behind at the circus that night; so when they offered to take him off their hands, they agreed pretty readily. A little while after joining the circus, Albert got an x shaped tattoo right over the scar on hair neck, it served both purposes of covering it up and making it look more cartoonist and less scary, and it also serves as a reminder of the pain he went through and his resolve to keep smiling despite the cruel faces of the world that sneer at him; he resolved to do his best to bring a smile to everyone’s face, no matter who they are, for even though the world is unkind, everyone deserves to feel joy in the face of harsh reality.

Renée was born low on the social ladder, her family had not much to their name; but one thing they did have was a strong sense of religion. This was perfectly fine, until Renée’s ability manifested. Her parents were, to say the least, not thrilled when now their daughter had a small swarm of tiny demons following her around, and it was certainly no help that she was born albino and they’d already considered that a curse upon them. They screamed at her, cursed her for being born and bringing devils and misfortune into their home, and cast her out. Now she went from being low on the ladder to lower than low, not even on the ladder anymore. She took to the alleyways of her city, living in poverty and struggling everyday to survive. She comes from a large city, where the rich are exuberantly wealthy and the poor have dirt, and from the wealthy a very popular club district was born. Every night, after an exhausting day of scrambling for food and trying not to be crushed under heel, she’d go to the club districts and stare up at the dazzling lights with wonder, she’d watch the wealthy walk by and laugh while draped in beautiful, warm clothes and brilliant jewelry, and she’d wonder why the world was so unfair that that couldn’t be her, why they had so much and she owned not even the dust that clung to her skin in layers. She’d dream every night and day of walking with them, strutting into those clubs and being waited on, of not having to struggle and starve. Her longing sparked by these clubs is why her little devils now manifest wearing tiny suits like they’re waiters at a club. She found it difficult to find work, her nicest clothes were rags and most places wouldn’t even let her step more than a foot into her shops. She was also often looked at as a freak for her albinism, and though she tried to hide her little devils when other people were around, people still saw and rumors spread about her. The circus, still pretty small at this point, put on a performance in her city, and the lights of the show looked as splendid as the lights of the club district. She hadn’t been able to afford admission, but she’d sat as close as she could outside and watched what she could. After the performance, she couldn’t help but stick around the area, sulking to herself, and it was there that Voltaire found her. She refused to speak to him at first, but he sat bear her and started happily chatting about what a lovely night it was. Hesitantly, she started responding to him, and it was right as she was starting to get a little comfortable that one of her little devils slipped out and floated up to him. She flinched when he exclaimed, ready to be yelled at, but instead he started gushing about how cute the little thing was. And that really threw her off guard, no one beside her had ever liked her little devils before. Voltaire could tell from her appearance that she hadn’t had much to eat in a while, so he invited her to come with him and have dinner with his troupe, and someone in her position can’t really worry as much about stranger danger. The other members were so nice to her, none of them made fun of her for being dirty or for being albino, they all loved how her little devils would zoom about while they all ate, and they made her laugh for the first time in years. After dinner, she was offered a bed for the night, which turned into two, then three, then four, and when the circus left for the next city, Renée went with them.

(Trigger warning for drug abuse and suicide for Charles’s back story.)

Charles became addicted to drugs at an early age, mostly opioids but he’d dabble in other kinds too. He viewed himself as a doll with no strings, lost and adrift in a meaningless life with nothing at all that sparked that passion of life he heard other people taking about that drove them forward. Everything was so grey and dull, at least the drugs made him feel something. He frequented one secret drug den in particular almost every night, spending hours in a drug induced haze. Sometimes he’d talk to other patrons, and that was how he met another man, older than he was, who had recently become a regular, and he got to know that man’s story. He’d been a fairly popular dancer up until a month ago, but the fame had never been what he was after, he lived to dance, he said that when he moved with grace he could hear the world sing to him, that the sweet burning of his limbs and the sweat that poured from him after long hours of practice brought him the greatest satisfaction he’d ever known, dancing was his everything; but then, in the middle of one performance, he slipped, and his leg broke in such a way that quick as that he was crippled and would never be able to dance again, and he’d turned to drugs to try and dull the pain of knowing that. Charles was fascinated with him, how could something so seemingly trivial bring him such joy to the point that even now he could see the remnants of that spark glowing in his eyes. The two became friends quickly, talking every night and sharing stories. But then, after a couple months of this routine, a week went by without the man coming to the den. Charles decided to ask around, and he got his answer from happening to see a short article in the newspaper that the man had been found in his apartment, killed from drug overdose. No one knew if it was on purpose or not, but Charles highly suspected it was. After everything the man had shared with him, he knew that he hadn’t been able to go on without the thing that gave him passion. He couldn’t understand it though, how could this one thing bring him so much happiness that he couldn’t go on in this life without it? From this longing to understand, and from a part of him wanting to honor this man he’d only known for a short time, he started dancing too. At first, he wasn’t impressed, and all the drug abuse had really taken a hit to his stamina, but something compelled him to keep going with it, and slowly but surely, he found more and more that the fire in his limbs and the sweat soaking his clothes felt… good. Like even though he was exhausted, he felt like he was accomplishing something, and the exhaustion was proof. And sometimes, when he danced with no music, sometimes he thought he could hear ever so faintly the singing of the world the man talked about. He still visited the drug den, but some nights he stayed home and practiced, and as time went on the frequency of those nights increased. By the time the circus rolled into town, Charles was only going to the drug den an average of two times a week as opposed to seven. Sometiems he liked to practice outside to feel the breeze on his skin while he moved, and it was during one of those practices that Voltaire happened upon him. The ringmaster was so captivated by him that he practically begged him to come back with him to his circus, he had to be stopped from literally getting on his knees. Charles resisted, he’d never imagined himself as someone who’d run away to join a circus, but then Voltaire made a comment about how he simply must have someone with passion like Charles’s in his troupe and how his eyes nearly glowed with it when he was dancing, and that made the boy still. Even after all this time, he couldn’t see that spark in himself, but this guy could? He was convinced to at least watch one of their performances, free of charge of course. He wasn’t expecting much, but as the show started and the acts went on, Charles found himself inching forward in his seat, unable to take his eyes off the performers. All of them, every single one, was filled with passion for what they did, they radiated life, and as he looked around he realized how bright and colorful the stage around him was. Aftet the show, he went up to Voltaire and agreed to travel with the troupe as a sort of probationary member. He thought that maybe if he hung around these people enough, then he could learn to see and feel passion for himself too. Now, he’s gotten over his addiction with the help of the circus, though he does still puff on the pipe he carries out of habit, but it’s never filled with any drugs. His previous way of viewing himself as a doll with no strings is also why he now has tattoos all over him that make it look like he has doll joints.

Gaston comes from a wealthy family, he grew up never knowing material want. But from his place in a world of wealth, he’s saw the corruption and greed that ran rampant in it as well. Even as a boy, he found that nothing satisfied him, his parents were harldy around to be personal with him and the people who did take care of him were only there to be paid and nothing more, they felt nothing special for him. His cynical eyes developed young, it was like a switch in his mind. The people clawing for success and more, more, more all around him was disgusting, there was no real warmth, only selfish desire for the things want and then when they get their hands on those they turn to the things still not in their possession in a cycle that would never end. But, what could he do, that’s the way of things so that’s the world he’ll adapt to thrive in. He’s a very smart guy, and he was able to skip multiple grades due to this. When he could enroll in a college as a teenager, his parents encouraged him tk pursue a law degree, because that was a good way to become successful and make money. He couldn’t really care either way, so he agreed. The way of humanity is greed and corruption, if he hadn’t already known that then studying law really drove that idea home. All the cases he saw were of rich men and women throwing fits over the silliest things. And even amongst justice, it seemed that nothing was ever truly just, for even as a student he saw more bribes passed from hand to hand than he could count. He couldn’t really find it in him to rage against this or anything, he knew it was simply humans are, and so he was resolved to live with it. He became known amongst other members of the upper class as this aloof bastard, and people started to gossip and resent him for somehow always being able to be a jerk and give only blunt answers, shutting down suitors and business men in that blunt uncaring voice of his, and yet his status was never threatened because of his family. The days became dull to him; studying, socializing, meetings, more studying, more socializing, more meetings, on and on and on. Everything felt so boring. One reprieve from it all that he had was escaping into the forest to fish, it was something he could do to be actually alone for a few hours and sit in silence. His family owned the patch of forest he fished in so he never had to worry about people interrupting him… or, he shouldn’t have had to. He heard a rusting in the trees behind him, and out of the bushes stumbled Voltaire. Apparently, he’d somehow gotten terribly lost and separated from his troupe and managed to wander onto the private land. Gaston told him to leave immediately or else he would report him for trespassing, but Voltaire asked him if he could please sit and rest by the lake first to rest before he tried to find his way back. They sat in silence, Gaston refused to respond to any of Voltaire’s attempts at small talk. But then Voltaire made a comment about his attire, saying he looked awfully nice for someone simply out to fish, and if this was private land then he must be super loaded and how that must be nice, all the good food and gorgeous decor he could surround himself with, everything he could want at his finger tips, that’s enough to make anyone the happiest person in the world. Gaston furrowed his brows at the water in front of him. But then, Voltaire remarked that if that were true, Gaston’s eyes wouldn’t be so dull. That made Gaston look up at him for the first time since he sat down, and he became cautiously intrigued by this strange weirdo as he continued talking. He was asked if he was happy with his life, and again he gave no answer but this time it was because he honestly had no idea what to say. He should be happy, he knew that. But everything, all that sparkling glamor and the laughing faces of the socialites, it was all nothing more than an illusion he was trapped in. While he was wrestling with that, Voltaire stood up, dusted off his pants, and presented Gaston with a ticket for a circus performance, saying it’d be good at any point should he wish to see a show like nothing he’s ever seen before, and then he left, leaving Gaston alone again. Later that night, he heard about the circus performing for the next few nights in the city, he went to none of the shows, telling himself it was a waste of time. But… he couldn’t get that man and his words out of his head. A month went by, and each party he attended and each time he witnessed the dirty politics behind court cases put another crack in him. When he decided to look up the circus and find out which city they were in then, he told himself he was only going out of boredom and to kill some time. And the show he saw really was like nothing he’d ever seen before, because it was all completely authentic, the joy and laughter were coming from a much realer place than he’d ever known, and they all looked truly free. He wasn’t sure how Voltaire knew he was in attendance, but he found him after the show and grinned at him like he was a lifelong friend, asking what he thought of the show. Gaston said it was fine. For a minute, neither said anything, Voltaire simply stared into his eyes with a peculiar smile, and finally broke the silence by saying here at the circus, there is no need for a masquerade, and you could never find a more authentic bunch than them. Gaston was totally taken back, how did he know exactly what he was thinking? He went on to say they were always open to new members and Gaston scoffed, he had no use for something silly like a circus, why would he leave everything he’s ever known and the comfort he has for some ragtag band of miscreants. But even if it’s silly he still came to see them, Voltaire said, and even if Gaston was comfortable he was also being suffocated and crushed a little more each day, but the decision to take a chance was entirely up to him.

(Trigger warning for animal abuse for Rachilde’s backstory.)

Rachilde was born into a family that owned a dog fighting ring. She grew up to noises of pain and suffering from the animals her parents kept in cages, staring into the crazed and starving eyes. She clung to her mother’s legs, looking over the arena where two dogs tore each other to pieces, and wondered to herself, is the world really such a cruel place of merciless blood shed and twisted enjoyment? Is this really the nature of things? It never sat right with her, but it was also all she’d ever known; any misgiving she voiced to her parents resulted in a dismissal at best and a scolding at worst, either way her words were never heeded. She was too soft, they said, too innocent to the way things worked, toughen up, they said, the world has no place for such childish views and will crush her to dust unless she accepts it for the dirty, uncaring place it is, they said. Part of her was horrified at the rest of her that became more and more immune to the suffering of the animals as she grew up, and to the suffering of others in general. It was horrible, but it was the way the world worked, she told herself. One day, she was walking along a street by herself and heard a noise from an alleyway she was walking by; she turned her head and saw a dog cowering on shaking legs. The outlines of it’s bones were clear to see through it’s skin even from the distance she stood at, and it whined and cried but made no movement besides trembling, and she realized it was probably because it was so hungry it no longer had the strength to lift it’s legs and take a step. Other people walked by while she stood still, and they glanced into the alley at the dog’s cries but did nothing, turning their heads back to look forward and continue along their way. It twisted her stomach. She tried to tell herself that it was only natural, and whatever happened to that dog wasn’t her fault, but her legs wouldn’t move away from it, they brought her toward it instead. It growled, but was too weak to even bite at her, so she scooped it up and took it home. She had to be careful and sneak it past her parents, she managed to keep it hidden from them. She took care to nurse the dog back to health, every day smuggling little bits of her own food back to it. The dog quickly became her best friend, the most important thing in the world to her, and she for the first time realized what difference pure compassion can make as the dog became healthier and happier with her care. But the healthier it became, the harder it got to keep it a secret; until one night her father caught her off guard while she and the dog were playing. Her parents scolded her for keeping her secret pet, and she cowered under their stern gazes. Then her dad came forward and grabbed her dog by the scruff if it’s neck and started dragging it away. She panicked, asking what they would do to it, and they told her that the dog had no other use in their possession than to be put in the ring. She felt the floor drop out from under her; the dog was still so weak from malnourishment, it wouldn’t last a single fight, they might even simply use it as a bait dog, she couldn’t allow them to do that to her best friend. From that panic, she used her ability for the first time, her father collapsed into unconsciousness, letting go of the dog, and her mother was too confused and focused on him to stop Rachilde from picking up her dog and running out of the house. She wanted to free all the dogs they kept, but she knew that she wouldn’t have time, and even if she did they were all feral and would tear not only her but each other to bits and then all she would have accomplished would be letting a pack of wild beasts loose on the people in the area. A voice in the back of her head tells her that maybe the people deserve it for their complacency and maybe the dogs deserve their revenge. She still thinks about this decision sometimes, and even though she knows it was logical, she can’t help but regret not trying to save them. She ran all the way to some nearby train tracks with her dog and they hoped on the cargo train going by, not caring where it was heading. She and her dog traveled from place to place, and they’d stay in alleyways and parks with the other stray animals. She learned her way around animals like this, often giving most of the food she managed to find to them rather than eating it herself. She had arrived in a new city the night before and was exploring the streets one evening when she passed by a little sweets shop and she couldn’t help but stare longingly through the window. Dog fighting was a decently lucrative business, so she’d always had access to sweets back then and seeing all those delicious looking confections made her miss the taste. She was started and spun around at the sound of a voice behind her, asking her if she’d like a bag. Voltaire had decided had decided to take the opportunity on their last day in that city before the circus went to the next to walk around some, he had been so busy up until then that he hadn’t had the chance to take a leisurely walk, and that was how he’d come across the same sweets shop Rachilde was looking at. He let her pick out an assortment, and he got some for himself too, and they walked and talked. Voltaire told her about how he was visiting the city with his circus, Rachilde told him she was a tourist and was thankful when he chose not to press her. When they finished their snacks, he presented her with a complimentary tickets to that nights show and walked away. That performance was the first time she’d ever seen something so wonderful. The only stage she’d been witness to before had been soaked in blood, but this one was filled with pure laughter not at the expense of others pain, it was joy for the sake of joy. She felt like she needed to talk to Voltaire again after the show, so she snuck into the back area to try and find them. It was there that she found a group of show dogs, skittish and underfed. She felt anger and sorrow build in her, she’d thought this place was different but it seemed they were as uncaring as everyone else, until again Voltaire came up behind her. He explained that these dogs were recently rescued by them from another circus who was mistreating them. Ever since taking them in, they’ve been trying to help them, but none of them have experience with animals so it’s been hard. Rachilde had an idea, and she asked Voltaire if he would allow her to travel with the circus when they left in the morning in exchange for her taking care of the animals for them. He smiled, like he’d been so hoping she’d say something like that, and agreed. The circus has grown to have a solid number of animals, from small dogs to large lions, but her original little doggy remains her best friend to this day.

Gillian had vague memories of freedom as a little girl, of a town somewhere in the country side surrounded by fields of flowers and fresh air, open space that made it feel like one could go anywhere the wished without restriction. Those memories were nice, but she’d been too young when she was taken from that place to really remember it very well, especially when her present was so different. An underground organization with gifted members had caught wind of a child with the ability to amplify other abilities and make them incredibly powerful, and they’d wanted that for herself. She couldn’t really remember her parents or her home, but she could remember the terror of the night her bedroom window was smashed open and someone had grabbed her from her bed. And ever since then, instead of flower fields and fresh air, the only thing she knew was chains and monochrome walls. See, she never stayed with the same organization for long. Others would hear rumors that their rivals had something so useful and they came calling to claim her for themselves. She stopped bothering to keep track of how many times she changed hands. It was all the same anyway, the chains never left her ankles, the cell walls all blended together, and the only times she was brought out was when they needed to force her to use her ability. She had been scared at first, but over time she stopped feeling even that. She at least knew they wouldn’t kill her. The only thing that cut through was the bouts of despair. What was the purpose of her being born? To sit in chains amongst these unchanging walls and forever be a tool? Was there no other point to her life? Was the world truly so uncaring to leave her in this place and assign her this lot in life? She remembered those fields, and some mornings she’d wake up crying because she’d dreamed of flying through them, with no chains on her feet and no walls to hold her in. But that was all fantasy, she was still only a child but ready she’d realized the uncaring truth of the world. Very rarely was she brought outside, but sometimes the organization she was with needed to bring her to other locations, and during those times her chains were always covered up by a long dress. She was too empty to bother trying to find help or run away, it’d been years since she’d known what it meant to be free. One of these occasions, when she was in her early teens, she was being led through a crowd by one of the group members; she kept her eyes on the ground, not caring where they were going. And then someone bumped into her, a man seemingly in a hurry and not paying enough attention to where he was going. He knocked her back and to the ground, and as soon as he realized what happened, he knelt in the ground in front of her, a hand outstretched to help her up and apologies spilling from his lips. But even as her attendant was trying to pull him away and insist that she was fine and he could move along, the man stilled as soon as he looked into her eyes. His mismatched gaze bored into her vacant one, and she got the sense that he was looking into her. It felt like such a long moment, but really it was only a second or so before the attendant pulled him up by the arm and got between them. The man’s eyebrows furrowed further when he looked into the attendants eyes, a peculiar expression on his face. But then he smiled, a but strained if one looked close enough, and apologized again for the trouble, scurrying along his way. The attendant huffed and pulled Gillian up roughly so they could get to their destination already, they were already behind schedule as is and he wanted off of babysitting duty as soon as possible. She forgot about the man quickly, it wasn’t worth it to think too much on him. But, the next night, as she was laying in her cell alone in the dark, she heard noises from the floor above. Shouting, thumps, exclamations of surprise, and then it was quiet after a while; until there were footsteps outside her door, which swung open a moment later, light bathing her and making her squint her eyes. To her surprise, in walked the man who’d bumped into her the day before. She stayed still on the floor, not getting up or reacting as he approached her, kneeling with a hand out in the same way he’d done earlier. He introduced himself as Voltaire, and he told her he and his friends had come to take her away from this place. He’d expected her to rejoice, to maybe cry, to at least show some emotion about being rescues, but she only continued to stare at him, and thanks to his ability to read minds, he knew why. She thought this was the same as all the other times some new face had come into her cell to take her away, that he would bring her back to another base and put her in another cell, and nothing would change. He was the one who wanted to cry when he realized this, and gently he put a hand on her head and told her there would be no more chains for her. He reached for the chains on her ankles and with deft fingers unlocked them, and he picked her up and brought her upstairs to meet three others, who she would later learn there names as being Martin, Hugo, and Jane. Voltaire handed her to Hugo since could carry her a lot easier and they got out of there. She spent the first while not believing Voltaire’s words of freedom. The first night and day was spent on the road getting far away from the group they’d rescued her from, but then when they felt they could relax they set up their tents to camp for the night. Voltaire apologized to her about the conditions, telling her that hopefully the next night they’d be able to rent a motel room or two and let her have a real bed and a shower. And then he told her that if she wanted, she could part ways with their group in the next town, that they’d help her find some sort of support to get a place to stay; he had no intention of keeping her locked away and making any choices for her. And in the next town, true to his word, she was able to enjoy a bed and a warm shower for the first time in years, she was given a proper meal, and the whole time none of them were monitoring her or made any move to put new chains on her. Perhaps it was the curiosity at how strange this was to her, perhaps it was simply that she’d never been on her own and the thought of being turned loose to find her own way once these people left town was the first thing to make her feel fear in a long time, but when Voltaire asked her if she wanted to join them in going to the next town, she nodded her head. Maybe it was also because, when they were in the car and the scenery of the open fields and clear skies whizzed past while the wind ruffled her hair, a strange lightness began to fill her chest, and it felt kind of like she was flying.