horology | the darkling

his fault

the archer - taylor swift

i've been the archer
i've been the prey
who could ever leave me, darling?
but who could stay?

/

'memories warm you up from the inside. but they also tear you apart." - haruki murakami

-

irina

Nobody was unbreakable. Irina learnt that the hard way. She was the greatest Tidemaker in the Little Palace. Everybody respected her and feared her. But fear crept into the dark corners of her mind when she close her eyes like whispers in the wind. However brave Irina acted, her walls were concrete iron with long spiny cracks; they looked unyielding but it was the easiest thing in the world to shatter. If one just had the right tool.

Lucky for her, the key to her heart was just as difficult to crack as she was. Nobody had that ammunition.

Memories. That was the missiles that would blow her up. Of a younger self. Laughing black haired self. A time before the little Palace. She was sitting on the floor of a house, not a particularly spectacular one at that but it did enough to convince outsiders that they had some ounce of dignity.

They all had their coping mechanisms. Behind closed doors, her father would drown himself in alcohol and self-pity and her mother would cook and stuff her face with whatever she had decided to concoct. Her brothers killed worms in the garden and dig little graves for them: bipolar sentiment. Irina buried herself in her studies and dreams for a better life.

They all did something they didn't mean; hurtful spits of spite and unfelt punches. Her mother was the most violent. Despite her large size, she moved with the speed of a viper and she certainly acted like one too. Her father was powerless to deal with her; he was rarely sober enough to even eat. It was an ironic contrast; a docile drunk and an aggressive cook. If only she could laugh at the irony now.

Her brothers blamed her for everything bad happened in their lives. Irina sucked it in like a good girl and she never said a word as she lay on the floor while her brothers yelled abused over the sound of the classical music that always seemed to be playing on the radio. After they left, a tear always ran down the side of her face. It was all she would allow herself to feel because she couldn't afford the luxury.

It was late night when it happened. She didn't tell anybody but there was nobody she could have told. The only people in the world who should love her didn't love her. She didn't feel anything as she flooded her house with water from the lake. She loved them so she killed them as an act of mercy. They weren't living; they were existing in a world without hope, alone. Alone inflicts endless dull pain without killing, hurt without touching.

She escaped and left behind the scared little girl always waiting for the next punch to land. So she shed her fragile skin and grew a new one made of iron.

She was discovered by the Grisha, lying half dead in the dirt, she thought she was in the afterlife. But the afterlife didn't smell of horse shit. She was scrubbed clean and trained to be a fighter. Not a killer, but a fighter. Irina could never stand the stench of death and after the incident, she developed an obsession with beauty and aesthetics. Her dark red hair fell in lustrous waves down her back and her face glowed with a radiant shine. She wasn't even called Irina back then. She had hated her name so she changed it, improved it into something better. Something she deserved.

Irina stalked the hallways of the Little Palace not as a pathetic murderer but a queen.

But the smell of blood pulled her back into her nightmares. An image of her mother, in her long night gown, armed with verbal abuse and fists. Her father, eyes half shut and hooded with drink. And her brothers, stupid, handsome, selfish brothers. Despite everything, she missed them the most.