"i'm just trying to help you! at least save some broken remnants of your innocence!"
"my innocence? oh god dad, that's long gone!"
or
in which mercy mikaelson is dealing with all the things that make growing up so hard.
{season 5}
{book 2}
compl...
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| return (n): come or go back to a place or person |
MERCY WAS COMPLETELY covered in blood, but she was oblivious to the sticky substance coating her skin. She had grown irreversibly comfortable with her gruesome appearance, but she couldn't deny that her chest felt somewhat empty after her attack on the vampires. The anger and rage had faded, and she wasn't sure what she should be doing now that everything had gone according to plan.
By this point, she knew New Orleans must be drowning in chaos and destruction—just as she wanted it to. When she'd left the city as a werewolf, she had left behind a fire ravaging the town and destroying the buildings in the French Quarter. She had a suspecting idea that her father would be furious once he found out what she'd done, but like before, she didn't really care about the consequences.
And now she was far away from New Orleans, and she wasn't sure why. She'd been running and running, and eventually, she'd stopped; the forest that she walked through was achingly familiar, and she could feel the organ behind her lungs tighten considerably. She didn't know why she was here, but she couldn't stop now. She needed to do this.
She had managed to snag a pair of pants and an oversized men's shirt from a house a few miles back to cover up her naked body. She had her cloak from Keokuk that usually appeared after a transformation, but it wasn't nearly enough coverage to make Mercy feel comfortable. She was barefoot still, feeling the leaves and twigs snap under her steps and between her toes. It was a soothing feeling, and she didn't mind the harsh, biting sting underneath her feet when she stepped on a particularly sharp-edged rock.
She sighed deeply, running a hand through her chopped hair before she realized that she was getting more blood there because of the movement. Mercy desperately needed a shower, but she couldn't take her mind or her eyes off of what was in front of her.
The treehouse looked the same, if not more run-down and discarded from maintenance. Vines had overgrown and covered the wooden planks she stood in front of. The boards nailed into the tree trunk that acted as stairs were rotting and withering away, most likely due to weather and the mold she could see there. The tire swing that had once dangled from one of the many large branches had fallen, laying like a lost dream on the ground, alone. It was quiet, and she felt an intense sadness wash over her.
As if the world around her felt this same sadness, it started raining. Mercy didn't mind the cold drops of water hitting her skin, and she didn't move from her spot when her vision started blurring. She watched the treehouse fade in and out of her eyesight as she blinked away the rain. It was only a moment later when she realized that the moisture on her face was warm. She was crying.
She let the tears fall freely, because at least here, nobody was able to see her. Nobody from New Orleans was spying or trying to catch her in her moment of weakness. Here, she could feel her emotions again without the stifling pain of pushing them down and away for so long; she never realized how exhausting it was to be so numb, and she ached to collapse into the ground. Maybe, if she stayed still long enough, the grass would overgrow, entangling her in its grasp until she was just as deteriorated as her childhood treehouse. Perhaps then, she might feel better.
