Work Text:
Soft footsteps crunch the cold white earth.
Shrouded in grey, the girl traverses the dark forest.
Birds were silent.
The wind stilled, anticipating.
Bright flowers bloomed in the windows.
Yellow, blue, violet.
The home was bright and filled with laughter.
Family not anomalous.
The small child in white watched her mother at work.
The figure arrived at a castle.
Frost fingered the dark stonework in bizarre patterns.
Dead vines clung like rotting cobwebs.
Even great human feats were not immutable to nature.
A sharp rap on the door.
A brusque entry.
Bloody uniforms mocked with shining buttons.
Claims of transgression.
Fingers twitching for insurgence.
Frightened gasp.
The mother protects her child, always.
The air tasted of cinnamon.
Shadowed figure slips into the castle.
Guards of their sinecure, oblivious.
Cold disdain for men's megalomania.
Mother in fetters.
Much castigation.
Vicarious aggression.
Dragged away.
Crimson spray.
They never flinched.
Standing one moment, then gurgling in their own blood.
Eyes black, twitching.
The air tastes of cinnamon.
Rusty shackles bound small tattered hands.
Quiet whimpers. Screams.
Copper, sticky.
A sneering face.
Many an aspersion.
Two parallel scars.
The demagogue.
Footsteps no longer silent.
Confidant and impending.
She reached the door.
Much contriving.
Surreptitious escape.
Sudden shouts.
Running.
Two parallel scars, eyes narrowed in rage.
Door creaks open.
Two parallel scars.
Ennui. Surprise. Fear.
Cajole for freedom with money and power.
Blood boils.
Snap.
Room coated in red.
Heinous crimes avenged.
The air tastes of cinnamon.