Cheshire has been on the run since the day she turned eleven, having made a little too many enemies. Everyone knows who she is; The Cheshire Cat, the sassy assassin with the wicked grin. Despite that, however, she has nowhere to go. Until she runs i...
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Seven years later:
Cheshire threw a glance over her shoulder, slowing down considerably as she did so. Nothing stirred, except the gentle breeze rustling the branches of the trees. The dewed grass bowed at her feet and the pale blue sky peeked around dull grey clouds as if it was searching for a long-broken promise. She knew the feeling well. Calling on her sharp hearing, she concentrated on her pursuers. Unfortunately, she had lost them in the chase. However, the assassin could sense them nearby; too near for comfort. The shapeshifter readied her magic, watching blue flames flicker to life on her palms, and dropped into a fighting stance. Then she frowned and toned the heat down a bit; they might've wanted to kill her, but she didn't want to do the same to them. Just hurt them a little. Finally, the group of angry Lost Boys strode out of the trees, brandishing bows and arrows with dream shade poison on their tips. Cheshire took a step back, raising her hands and allowing tongues of flame to wind around her arms like deadly snakes waiting to kill. One of the orphans shot an arrow, which quickly turned to ashes in mid-air. Soon, the place had become a battlefield, with the assassin expertly controlling her fire to defend against the attacks of the Lost Boys. It licked hungrily at the arrows, consuming the poison without a second thought. Right at that moment, Pan stormed onto the battlefield and the flames immediately dissipated. Cheshire's pursuers backed away, turning their faces away from her. The boy king looked around, his eyes landing on the assassin. She stared back, her posture dead straight, like a silent, scarred soldier. She was still clad in the uniform of the Lost Boys but, after seeing the disappointment in his eyes, she waved a hand and changed her clothing into ragged black trousers and a t-shirt. Her sword, Sæva, hung from the scabbard around her waist and she laid a protective hand over the weapon. The dismay lingered in his air, his eyes, and she felt her walls slide up once more. Then, she turned and paced away into the forest. Thanks to Pan, she now felt like she wasn't good enough yet again. Thanks to Pan, her beautiful sword was just that. He thought that she had started the fight with his beloved Lost Boys. Thanks to Pan, her heart was shattered. For the second time in her life.
