Parlance

The crisp, earthy scent of grass,
The wetness of it clinging to her bare feet as she fled,
The taste of ash in the air, and echoing above the chaos of the fallen city,

The laments of women mourning their dead:
All of it arrested her senses, gripping the child in terror. The burning in her chest refused to be ignored. Her legs were weak from carrying her own frail body, which had never seen the sun, so far from home. Desperate to preserve both of their lives, the nurse ordered to flee with the child to the kingdom across the mountains urged the wisp of a child forward.
The dogs' howls ringing through the catacombs beneath the illustrious marble city, and the victorious roar of the conquering invading armies, still sounded in the little girl's ears, promising nightmares for years to come. All color seeped from her small angelic face at the memory of her father, the king; his head crushed beneath the boot of his own traitorous brother, as his hand clasped the scarlet seeped linen that belonged to his murdered bride.
Hope, this night, came on a gentle polar wind; sweeping down from the white capped mountains before them, it chased away the hot dry air and welcomed the fugitive pair into an eternal winter that deepened with the travelers' ascension towards the jagged heights. The scent of freshly fallen snow and towering pines soothed the child, whose poorly wrapped ankles left trails of blood to stain the crisp, white perfection. The nonexistent only daughter of the Teagmháil clan's greatest stronghold had survived the massacre .