𝕸𝖀𝕽𝕯𝕰𝕽 | 𝖂𝖊𝖉𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖉𝖆𝖞

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓

~

XIII

~

The two girls trudged through the woods for around thirty minutes before they managed to find the dilapidated husk of the old meeting house.

They pushed the doors open and entered it, but it was empty other than some beams, planks of woods and rubbish.

Wednesday deposited her bag on the ground and Thing scuttled onto the soil.

Thing made a disappointed gesture.

"I was expecting more too," Wednesday declared.

But Thing didn't reply, only tensed as he alerted them of a presence behind them.

"What're you doing here, little girls?" a voice growled.

They turned and glared at the large, messy, bearded hobo. "Use the words 'little' and 'girls' to address us again and we can't guarantee your safety," Wednesday and Aiyla chorused.

"This is my place," the man snapped, "Get out!"

"Thing, a hand here?" Wednesday inquired.

Thing scuttled forward and jumped atop the man's leg, climbing up his body rapidly and grabbing at his throat. The man exclaimed and flailed as he attempted to dethatch Thing from his throat, but was dragged from the compound giving muffled screams of "Get off me!" 

They looked around but - sure enough - there was nothing of value to be found in the rotting wood.

"There ain't shit here," Aiyla voiced looking around.

Wednesday observed her for a moment, "You sounded really British just then."

Aiyla rolled her eyes, "Shove off."

"British," Wednesday mocked.

"Look," Aiyla turned to her best friend, "Do you want me to tell you what we really think about the American accent? If not, then please, shut it about the accents."

Thing tapped the ground, breaking their conversation and bringing the two girls back to the task at hand with his inquiry.

"No, I can't just touch something," Wednesday answered, turning around to face the amputation, "My visions seem to happen spontaneously."

Thing then signed something else that made Aiyla attempt to badly conceal her snort of laughter with a cough.

"I would rather dye my hair pink than ask my mother for advice!" Wednesday seethed in reply.

"Prove it," Aiyla mocked and Thing jumped in agreement.

Wednesday rolled her eyes and grabbed a support beam - nothing happened. "No." She walked over to the wall and slammed both hands against it, once again there was no sign of a vision, "Nothing." She walked over to a pile of rubbish, "I bet this -" she picked up an old Taco Bell bag " -will give a real insight." She began to shake all over and three her head back in faux seizes, mocking a vision, before her head snapped back up and she glared at both Aiyla and Thing.

"Your visions are about as predictable as shark attacks," Aiyla pointed out.

Wednesday picked up her bag and began to walk towards the door, "I know right." She grabbed the door, ready to push it out, when her head snapped up, her eyes went glassy and-

FWUMP!

Wednesday Addams fell to the floor in a dead faint.

"Bloody hell, the sharks are attacking!" Aiyla swore. She made her way to Wednesday and kelt down next to her, prodding her slightly to see if she were awake. She wasn't. Aiyla held out her hand for the Taco Bell paper bag and Thing handed it to her. "Thanks." She placed it on the ground and sat on it and turned Wednesday's body so the girl was facing upwards and placed her head on Aiyla's lap.

"So," Aiyla hummed, looking at Thing and bringing her hands up, "Rock, Paper, Scissors?"

...

In the time that Wednesday was busy seizing or lying passed out, Aiyla had time to think.

Think about murder.

And control.

Today she had to reign in Wrath five times - she almost gave in five times. Even that very thought was causing frustration to fill her veins. How had she become so weak as to let anger shake the foundations of her control? 

How had Xavier Thorpe made her so weak?

She was certain it was him, for that was the only explanation to why her emotions were suddenly more passionate and chaotic. But why?

Why the sudden surge of protectiveness for someone she had known for about a month? For someone who was just a silly little crush?

But was he that? A silly little crush?

It didn't feel like a crush.

Especially when Wrath was calmed by the very sound of his voice. The look in his eyes. 

Heavens, those eyes! They were filled with so many emotions and so many stories; and Aiyla wanted to hear them all. Those eyes had cried so many tears and witnessed so many sorrows. And yet, they had also been narrowed with concentration during the pleasant victory of a completed painting or the rewarding success of a shot arrow.

If Xavier Thorpe was a weapon, he would surely be a bow and arrow. He was tall and lean, but muscular and supple - he had the narrowed eyes and the pointed frown of an arrow. The stance of an archer.

And a bow to an archer is like an instrument to a musician.

Aiyla was beginning to realise that if this were a 'silly little crush' then she would not be so drawn to him, as if he were the other side of her coin.

They fit. Like two broken piece of the same broken puzzle.

Like an instrument to a musician.

Like a painting to an artist.

Like a bow to an archer.

And Wrath had realised it.

That was dangerous, Aiyla decided, if Xavier Thorpe made Wrath unpredictable - then he was a liability, then he made her weakness.

And 'there is no room for weakness within a weapon'....

It was that last horrid thought, the one that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise and her skin crawl, that stayed with Aiyla - like an acrid feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She had hugged a boy.

She had struggled to control Wrath.

She had shown weakness.

And weakness must be punished. Viscously and scathingly.