[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
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( A re-enact of Hades...
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The first time Gammaliel saw a Thestral, she was eleven. The beast was visible to those who witnessed death, in her case; she arose from momentary death. It was part of the reason why the Merlin's heiress was entitled as a weirdo for patting the air on the self-pulling carriage.
The beast and the witch shared a certain thing, they understood death. Aside from its eerie physical traits, the boney bat-winged horses were gentle beasts with a sinister-looking posture. It was Alphard who taught her, beasts were not creatures to be afraid of, but to be understood. The monsters she should fear were not the physically terrifying ones, but one laid in a seraphic vessel; sloth, greed, lust, gluttony, envy, wrath, and pride.
Returning for her sixth year, whispers and gossips on the Ravenclaw's table were unavoidable during the start-of-the-term banquet. Even with McKinnon's best effort to chase away the first year around her earshot, she could feel pairs of curious eyes lingered on her peach features. As if mapping the freckles under her eyes—addressed as the last known heiress of Merlin.
The undesired fame was razor sharp to her skin, breaking the chambers of memories she built in her heart. Last year, the Irish girl had a home to return to and Christmas holidays to look forward to. With war, within days, things could change into a precipitous absence. Heaven could be on fire and the limbo for the dead could be swarmed with lost souls. Allowing mountains of grief and suffering revolved around Gaia. The girl had plans for her grief, plan to compose and stitched herself back together; revenge.
The witch's soul was forged in eternal flames of heavenly virtues and it soaked her mortal flesh vigorously, merging to her blood; first was patience. When devils grew stronger day by day, the virtues resurfaced like apollonian's light, slowly then all at once────before conquering the dark in her grasp. Patience was key to redemption.
Diligence came next, she began to train herself with advanced old-magic. A trace of ashy tone under her eyes was evidence pulled from the all-nighter of her attempts to master weather. Sapphire irises met the similar shade of the silk curtain, she pushed it aside to peek at the weather. Petrichor and drenched holy ground assimilated with morning air, smiling when the patchy drizzle finally stopped after the right spell was muttered.
"I'm really sorry," came the voice of Johanna Meadowes, certainty in her timbre. Gemma turned to find the witch stood before her, lips drawn into a line as she continued. "I mean—about your family, I should've said this before, but I didn't think it was appropriate at the time."
