Eunoia | Sirius Black

INTERLUDE-3

Vienna, 1561
May 5th, Sunday Afternoon
Early Monsoon, pelting thunderstorm.

One foot. One action. One wrong move. And your entire life changes.

It had been a strong sunny afternoon, but not for long. Monsoon was not set to start for a month yet, if at all. But it had come.

It was normal drizzling at first, and the townsfolk believed it would be gone before they'd blink. But it had only deteriorated. Now, it was a thunderstorm.

Hella was sitting under the old oak tree she'd helped her sister in-law - her brother's wife - plant nearly three years ago. Right after they'd gotten married.

Her brother was a strange man to the folk, stranger still to her. He was unnaturally patient, abnormally tall and had the deepest dimples she'd ever seen on anyone.

Not that she'd seen a lot of people with dimples, perhaps ol' Fluorine wouldn't count. Her dimples were more sunken cheeks than anything. But they looked like dimples - or rather ghosts of them. She liked to imagine Fluorine would've been a beauty in her time.

Her rag-tag dress was now soaked irrevocably, the bottom of it drenched in mud under the tree shade. But she couldn't make herself get up and run towards the house which was only a few yards away.

She was scared of thunderstorms. And moving under the rain all too well felt as though she was inviting lightning to fall upon her.

Her townsfolk were vague souls. Year before, thunder had struck a man fifty years her senior. He'd had the most coppery shade of red hair, a moustache so bushy she wondered what creatures resided in it, and his eyes the black of a raven's feather, broad back and wide belly adding to his age. Not to count his balding head.

The people had thought it to be a sign of God. Had compensated his family by their own coins, even though poverty was striking like a deadly viper in the village.

She didn't want to believe in God. But she wouldn't ever dare reveal her disbelief to a soul. She'd be burned for it. That's what they did to people who revolted against religion. Religion was sacred. And anyone who questioned it was unholy. A swine.

She was a swine.

Hella sighed and forced her legs to stand. Leaning against the bark of the huge tree, she hissed when her palms scraped against the rough surface but stood on her shaking feet.

And moved.

One foot.

There was smoke from somewhere nearby. They were burning them again. The witches.

There were more and more now. It was believed only a fluke that such ungodly creatures could exist. But they did live, and they lived amongst the townsfolk.

There were men yelling at their comrades to bring on torches, careful not to step under the sizzling rain and extinguish them. She could hear women screaming at their children to get inside the house before they drench themselves. She could hear little boys shrieking with laughter as they wasted precious skin parchment by floating it on the water. She could hear so much, watch so much, and yet, she went unnoticed.

No one paid attention as she took another step. And another towards the house. And then away from it.

She wasn't a beautiful rose like Belle, who was shielding her flowers in the small makeshift garden she had in the yard of her tiny cottage. A beauty even with her hair now clinging to her shoulders and neck. Her cheeks rouge and her eyes wide and pretty.

She was a dandelion amongst these girls, the mothers who warned them to not stray near the girl named after the realm of hell itself. Hella Hawke.

Her mother's name had been much more splendid. Eunoia, they called her.

Such a pretty beauty she was. Such pretty eyes she had, prettier than Belle. Her rosy cheeks and red lips, her long luscious locks and envious bosom, her elegant laughter and seducing smiles.

Hella walked again, this time farther away from her house.

She had a vivid memory - or perhaps it had merely been her imagination - of her father calling her name.

He wouldn't be grieved if she never returned, no he would be glad there was more food left to eat. Would be glad he wouldn't have to live with the failure of a daughter who's hand no one would take in marriage.

She was a dandelion and she only deserved to be stomped on.

She walked, one foot, one step, another, another, another and another until she had forgotten the way she'd come from. Had forgotten why she was ever afraid of the thunderstorm. It felt so good on her skin, the rain, it felt as though it whispered in her blasting ears.

O Hella, Hella, Hella

And she relished in it. She relished in it for what else she could do? She was too far gone from home, she had no way back.

Hella, Hella, Hella, there is so much you need to know. Hella, O Hella, there is so much I need to tell you

She walked and walked and her feet were now blistered from the jagged rocks, exposed by the storm, and her hands were trembling and her arms had gooseflesh.

Hella, my Hella, once I swam through a salty sea, breathing, breathing, breathing, waiting to drown

Hella, my Hella, once I dove from the highest cliff, falling, falling, falling, waiting to fly

Hella, my Hella, once I ran through a meadow, watching, watching, watching, waiting to be lost

Hella, my Hella, once I sat under the stars, counting, counting, counting, waiting to die

She could see nothing, feel nothing. Her eyes were fluttering under the strength of the rain, her hair were stuck to her scalp, and her dress was clinging to her body, invisible.

O Hella, this is how we loved. When our lips touched the burning winters, and our hands caressed the laughing summers, and we ran through the towering grass towards the home we could not see. When we poured the wine down our chins and spun around, gazing at the wildfires in one another's eyes, and when we shouted our names into the night sky, and our tongues met, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. Alive

Her eyes were glistening with something that was not rain, and her mouth was leaden and dry with tumultuous amounts of water around her and she wanted to run, she wanted to leave, she wanted to walk away.

Hella, you are a dandelion and you are blowing away with a hook in your mouth, and they are pulling, pulling, pulling. O Hella, your mouth is foamed with dead leaves from the autumn mist and your eyes are bleeding with misfired syllables and your hands are shaking from holding on. Hella, don't be afraid, my Hella. Hella, O Hella, do you hear me?

She could no longer see anything, the rain so thick and heavy and she couldn't move, the wind was pushing her away. She was tired, so tired of walking. Perhaps, she could go back. Perhaps she could still go back home and her father would let her eat another scrape of bread, would glare at her but would let her live another day. Perhaps, someday he'd resign. Perhaps, someday he would come to love her, too.

Hella, O Hella, you are drowning in my arms, and there is a river in your eyes and you are holding on. You are holding on even though no one would help you up. O Hella, my Hella, close your eyes, and the river will stop. Close your eyes, and you won't drown anymore. Close your eyes, my Hella, and no one will hurt you

So Hella closed her eyes. And the next step she took didn't lead her into another alley or another street or another town, or back home. She took the one step, one that tumbled her down towards the blissful edge, falling, falling, falling, waiting to fly. But the wings never came, but she smiled anyway.