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. . . March 1st, 1914 somewhere near alaska
Wanda Gambet wished for the world's greatest gift, to swallow the sugarcoated sky whole to silence this empty space between her ribs. Because if she swallowed it raw, naked, and unclothed, it would curdle her insides, and shrivel up on her tongue.
Because this— passion between breaths, fault-lines in her soul— is marked of a girl turned into beauty, praying sacred lines for splendor.
But she wished to not see her dreams be forgotten like once beautiful blooms become trambled flowers. So the girl waited; as if the gates of this forest would free, if chosen worthy enough before their honest hands. She refused to be forgotten, written off as unworthy. Her dreams felt millions of miles from her ashed fingertips, waiting for her ancestors to shun her from their grace saying she'll burn from their rays, but with her mother's hands to help strap her paper and glass wings to her back with a smile, Wanda stepped before their open gates.
Her wings were fragile. Like glass, they shattered when they're dropped. Like paper, they're ripped when pulled apart. Shattered, torn, or split, Wanda's wings could wither before her eyes. She'd drown herself in the sweetest, pure sugar because her disappointment raw would curdle her insides, and shrivel up on her tongue.
The moonlight licked the backs of her bare legs, a polka-dotted pattern splattered across the overgrown ferns of this garden she stood before. The moon's light wrapped around Wanda's hand like a glove, its finger-like rays laced through hers. She trusted the moon, the moon never lied. With swollen eyes that leaked tears of pride, the moon whispers "good luck" speaking before the girl. With the moon's hand in hers, she wades out further in the swale of scaly deep brown bark, the most enchanted blooms, and cloaked with the lace of magic. From the rotting bodies of withered roses, flowers shall grow on their burial ground, and for eternity.
She opened her palm, pleading with the magic that ran through her mother's blood to be worthy within their eyes. The sweet sweet burn of magic coursing through their bones like the trunks of trees, muscles like the strength of the earth's crust, and even, the soil of the body that would seed the most magnificent blooms, the soul. Just a crumb of what they sow, the magic that thy hath laced through their souls. So she asked for just a bit of their sweet dirty crumb.
(...Truth within her held that Wanda wanted it all. She was gonna, AT LEAST, receive a fraction of what they sow whether it was granted gracelessly, or Wanda had to take it for herself.)
With tender hands, its magic touch spread through her palms. Merciful, they were. Pity towards the girl.
But their cries bleed through the earth, with their song reaching the clouds, no designation of where they'd go. They weren't finished. Wanda was tested of her virtue of thy power she hath within her bones.
To build the most sturdy home for thy magic to hath.
House No.1: Her fingers ran through the sand. With a fist full of sand, she pats it into the ground, constructing her perfect sandcastle. Built from the sand she had stolen from the earth's oceans. But eventually, the tide came, and would never stop. So beautiful once, but now it laid ruined.
House No.2: Her eyes land upon the prettiest tulips, magic-infused through their petals. Dust, sparkly dust, dripped from the ends of their petals. Her fingers contour their waterfall, the sparkling dust landing between each crack and crevice of her fingerprint. Beside the beautiful flower, were mossed twigs. But they came tumbling down, and the girl laid defeated.
House No.3: But from the corner of her eye, something sparkled like the sun. With the prettiest pennies, she began to construct her house. But they shook their heads at the girl's silly antics; the gods disapproved. But with Wanda, no wasn't an answer. Her home would be made of her pennies, whether or not their god of wind knocked it over. She'd build it up again. So her cries burned the earth when she was denied of her home made of pennies, lightning touchdowned, rupturing sleeping dogs that lay beneath their feet. Wanda didn't need some god to tell her the power that she sows was worthy. So she took her coins and began building her castle of pennies over their ruins.
Before the ruins of her heart could wither like a grave of frozen blooms in a frost-biting winter, she ran them dry of their magic blood. A woman full of rage took what was she desired, what was denied of her; and a fire erupted in her eye, a fire that ran within her soul. She turned her cardboard wings into sparkling resin with the magic that she sow beneath the depths of her skin, and began to soar to the sun's eye.
Wanda took what she wanted; a gatekeeper of war. And they had held her back. Even though Wanda was made of glass, when she broke, she cut those who broke her. They would've left her, shattered glass and ripped paper and all.
So they died; in whispers, no one but Wanda heard. Yet, Wanda lived for eternity, their blood held tight in a locket, worn around her ivory skin.
a/n: ahahaha! my queen! anyway, there is a playlist for anyone who is interested. just look up "The Roman Myth" on Spotify. I promise, everything will make sense later, if it doesn't already. I hope you enjoyed the prologue, I promise more chapters will be coming out soon! Enjoy the rest of your day <3
