Chapter Text
Part I
Her first memory is as a toddler, clutching the leg of a woman through thick skirts. The woman was humming a song and her childish desire told her to be as close to the sound as possible. To listen.
Later a woman, perhaps the same woman, perhaps not, crouched next to her and pushed a piece of pastry into her mouth. Apples and cinnamon.
The woman who braided her hair may have been the same woman. She was gentle with the brush until she wasn't. Desired perfection. Tugged and yanked and pulled out disobedient snarls. Until all she was left with were smooth perfect designs.
She called the woman mother once. Or she called many women mother once. The reality doesn't change the story.
And later she entered a room and dropped her doll on the floor and cried because her face was as cracked and broken as the woman's, even if the blood was less.
And she crouched down next to her and pushed a strand of hair out of the blood. Eyes wide open and not seeing and dead.
Part II
Mother had expectations. And expectations had to be met or there were consequences.
They didn't speak of what those were because it's not polite to speak of such things.
Her father wasn't exceptionally wealthy, nor was he poor. Perhaps he spoiled her, or perhaps it was just that a modicum of attention was far more than she deserved.
They said he loved her later. They asked how she could do such a thing. Such a horrible thing to someone she loved.
No one asked for proof of her love, it was as expected as an expectation. Consequences.
Her mother, who took money from her father who was wealthy enough to offer some, dressed her in dark velvet dresses. Thick and soft and dark. To hide but not cushion, soft to the touch but nothing more.
When she was alone, which was rarely, she peeled the dresses off her skin and piled them on the stone floor and they reminded her of dried blood.
She would stand naked and stare because what else was there to be done.
The bruises that mottled her ribcage were always quick to fade, but the stains on her bedchamber floor refused.
Part III
She was free.
Not really of course, because freedom was for the weak or the ridiculous or something that she never was going to be. Allowed to be.
But the speed of the wind in her hair gave her joy.
For a few moments she was untouchable and that was all she'd ever wanted.
He gave her that joy. And perhaps she would have loved whoever first gave her a thing she truly wanted. Perhaps.
Still she loved deeply and truly.
If such a thing were possible when her love had always ended in blood.
As such, his loss should have been of no surprise.
Part IV
The child could have been her salvation. Years later another would be.
But this child, this girl, was as beautiful and pure as her name suggested until she wasn't.
Years later she would be thankful, oh so thankful, that she had saved the child.
But first came centuries of the opposite. Of the knowledge that her downfall came from a split second decision to try to save life instead of destroy it.
She should have known she wasn't any good at that.
Part V
He offered her an escape. He was no Daniel, but still it was an offer.
And one never refuses a good offer, she'd been taught that, her bruises would attest to it. Some lessons never fade.
It was true seduction. It was true joy. And anything she'd felt before faded in comparison.
Maybe she finally had what she wanted after all.
Power.