They say the only feeling you're incapable of recreating is falling in love for the first time. What happens when the bastard prince, who so happens to be the Greek embodiment of time, finds a way to do just that?
In which a frenzy of ups and downs...
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prólogo! colombe sans ailes. ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ
A menace, would you not think so? An outcast. ㅤ
Was she not a menace indeed? Monstrosity, then, more so? At least that's what the mouths of some irrelevantly pathetic souls would irrationally spill. Blabbering, "should not one pay for such a heinous crime?" They always thought justice needed to be served whenever they commanded. ㅤ
But she was only a child, one who had just lost her mother to the unwinding fate that tangled her in locks of impending dooms. The infantile being was a mere loose string away from the closing curtains of death; only a fraction of a snip or slip would secure the fate of her encasement. ㅤ
The sole sacrifice that had come from the obscure depths of every mother's heart, her soul, her love, and her willingness to give a life for another was able to save the poor being from the coming fate. But none of that they knew. ㅤ
"Hang her! Make her pay! That child should have never been born; it'll tear us all! " The insolent pricks went as far as dehumanizing, yes.
ㅤ ㅤ
The misleading word was spread across the town of a child who killed her very own predecessor at birth. Something sparked within the town; was it deliberate? It had never happened before, nor was it heard of, and to the woman so beloved to the town. ㅤ
People began with their foul assumptions. Oh my, the varieties of made-up stories could come from these repulsive mortals' mouths. But the choice was not hers to make; it never was nor will it ever be, no matter the times she could try and decide to change the fate of her predecessor. ㅤ
And so there began the false myths, the fiction, whatever people may call it. They gathered the child was inhabiting a curse within her, they always presumed beforehand. That she was a witch's incarnation or evil being of some sort brought as punishment for a deed they had acted on yet did not know of, their foolish imaginations atoned. Perhaps they were correct... Anything goes wrong, and the blame is on a curse; what did the origins of her hometown hide? ㅤ
"The dram tales those gents bid art false. Allow me to wipe the grease of thy filthy visage," father would always bite back to the 'gentlemen' who butt in and gave their far unneeded words; regardless, he always kept a smile on his face in the saddest or most frustrating times. ㅤ
ㅤ
No justice was ever brought to the truth; has she lost hope that there will ever be? Mayhap. ㅤ
Outcasted, they had been exiled for some time, the child, and the father, who was now alone, entitled to her. A danger they had been perceived and consequently banished, never to return or set foot in their homely region. ㅤ
That was until a certain someone turned to the scant age of 4, the ruler allowed all banished, regardless of the village, the permit to enter his area of reign once more. The father, still hesitant about going there, after all, feigned a decline. ㅤ
He would wait a week in a previously built cabin outside of the region until then. Who would've ever thought they'd have to go and proceed with life under aliases, disregarding the fact that they were not in the town they once lived in? Word spreads around faster than lighting when it chooses to strike.
ㅤ _____________ Prologue ..¡!
It was as if they lacked the aspect of sympathy'. ㅤ
Was it her fault, so truly as they say? ㅤ
They did not know that her pictorial memory could ultimately remember and feel it. That whilst she was loudly wailing and flinging around in the warmth of comforting arms, the arms of a mourning father, a grieving husband as he wept. ㅤ
There was nothing more she could have possibly done but watch helplessly as the glinting light in her mother's eyes slipped and waned, like holding up a burning match in the face of heavily pouring rain. It would burn or wash out one way or the other.
ㅤ ㅤ
Such haunting thoughts, constantly pounding
and pounding,
and pounding, ㅤ
like little hammers. They repeatedly banged, with no stop nor visible trace of remorse. It was always happening, never ceasing; the clanks drove her close to the hands of madness once. They banged and pounded inside the walls of her head, in her mind, a continuous cycle, as if they were taunting. The little hammers... they were taunting her.
