Ice & Glass, Souls & Witches

[FluffyBirdie]

:: FluffyBirdie | Archaea | Female ::

Tryout form for Kalon #1300!
Please do not post.

Contents
:: Prompt Answer ::
Post 1: A Soul, Cracked
Post 2: A Soul, Healing
[ 1950 / 2000 ]
:: History & Personality ::
Post 3: Broken Hearts & Broken Minds
[ 736 / 800 ]
:: Art ::
Post 4: Glass, Shattered

[FluffyBirdie]

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Clop. Clop. Clop.

With each step, the bells tinkered, a charming sound that echoed off the walls of shopfronts and homes.

Clop. Clop. Clop.

Heart in her mouth, papers for the attack fluttering from suddenly sweaty hands, her breathing too loud in the silence that followed those steps. Her body tensed, prepared to sprint yet too horrified to start.

Clop. Clop.

The Witch must be behind her.

Spurred into action, she bolted, running down the cobblestone street, tripping over every small stone, knocking over boxes left behind by careless store vendors. She could hear hooves strike stone again, hear the pleasant sound of tinkering bells; a sound like laughter and death and mockery in her ears. The pace of the bells did not change, the Witch did not walk faster, and yet she sounded close, too close. She was sprinting as fast as her legs allowed, but the bells were louder, louder, louder.

It was snowing.

The shock of cold snowflakes sinking into her fur made her trip once again, its chilling touch seeping through her skin and into her heart. She struggled to stand, but the ground was slick, shiny, covered with ice. Cold air burned her lungs, and she rolled over, some part of her determined to meet death in the face as it came for her. Mist hung everywhere, blocking her view of the street, and it was as if her world was reduced to a canvas of murky white clouds and the bright, glowing moon overhead. The shadow of antlers appeared, and suddenly desperate, she blurted, "I knew your mother! Helena! Helena Felve!"

The air was suddenly silent; the Witch had stopped moving. Seizing this one chance, she continued, her mouth spewing nonsense as a part of her wondered what outcome she expected from begging. The Witch did not spare anyone. She was a demon, her heart as cold as her ice. Nevertheless, she still implored for her life, with some ridiculous hope that perhaps... perhaps there was a shard of humanity somewhere, feelings of guilt, greed, regret.

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to be like this! If-- if you let me go, I’ll call off the attack! I’ll tell our General to never attack your gang again, I’ll be a spy, I’ll ruin every single plan! The Driftwood would never be able to stand up to the Outsiders; I’ll make sure of it! I can—”

The Witch moved forward, and in a flash, answered her questioning thoughts. No. There was nothing in that creature’s heart. Nothing at all.

“Please! I’ll give you connections, money, anything! I have connections to other gangs; I can set up a network of spies, informants!”

Ice spiked up her legs, spreading over her back and shoulders, and she opened her mouth to speak, to scream, to do something, anything, but by then the ice was over her head.

Now just another statue, another death.

▾▿▾▿▾▿

"Done?” The General asked as the Witch entered the room, hooves clattering on the wooden floor, bells tinkering with every movement. The bells had been her idea, and reflecting back, he was surprised he did not think of it earlier. Within a week, hoof-beats accompanied by the merry tinkling of bells became the noise everyone feared - the sound of death unmatched even by the deep tolling of plague bells.

She nodded in reply, and he glared at her until she slowly sat, her expression blank. Her eyes had the slightest tinge of haughtiness though, and he gritted his teeth, annoyed. Their gang had risen because of the fear she brought to others, and he would say she was his most valuable member; even so, he wanted to be free of her. In a gang, loyalty was vital, and she lacked this. Eventually, she would snap at him, and the little kingdom he had sacrificed much to carve out would crumble. He could not have that.

“Good. You've got another target tonight, don't forget.” She stood back up and left his office without even a nod of acknowledgement towards his order. He growled under his breath. What arrogance. No matter what she brought to the table, he had to kick her out, permanently and soon.

▾▿▾▿▾▿

Her soul was dust.

It first fragmented when she killed her mother, and with every kill her soul shattered some more, breaking and breaking until it was like ground glass, drifts of broken glittering sand piled up carelessly around her. She had watched it smash, had broken it with her hooves, her paws. She was the White Witch: soulless, heartless, ruthless.

Yet it only took a name to break her, to reduce her to the person now flying over abandoned buildings, seeking for refuge from her memories, her history. She created a platform out of ice, hidden out of view, and landed softly, the chill radiating off the ice reassuringly familiar under her paws. She laid down and tucked her head against her chest, her antlers scraping on the unyielding surface, her body trembling.

Since her mother’s death, she had been numb to everything; it was like watching herself move, pulled by a puppeteer’s strings, committing actions that had no consequence on her, actions that did not affect her sleep. Her emotions were dead, uncaring of the blood on her hooves, of her status as a murderer. Nothing mattered, not her feelings, her past, her soul.

But that name pulled her back and forced her to realize the horror of her actions, of just how she had changed and became a creature of nightmares. Memories were rushing back, reminding her of who she used to be, and images flashed through her mind in a confused blur. A kind smile. Bright blue eyes that looked at her with tenderness, love. Days when she did not hate her power, when she enjoyed the gentle touch of snowflakes and the stabilizing strength of ice, when she had wishes and dreams, aspirations for her future. Times where everything, for the briefest of moments, was perfect.

I love you still.

She cried.

[FluffyBirdie]

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“Well at least Driftwood’s General wouldn’t be an issue.” Videl finished, before dumbly laughing at his friend’s joke about the scatted papers found throughout the city. “I know right! Why was she even carrying that? Those plans ruin things, ha, I’m willing to bet they don’t… don’t have the money to pay off the govers. Governeers.” He laughed at his own slurred speech, and distantly listened to his friends attempt to guess the woman's last words. Each guess was wilder than the last, and he chuckled at some before adding his own suggestion to the mix.

“Ya know, I’m relieved.” Videl suddenly said, staring seriously at his two friends across the table before continuing. “Least this means the Outsider’s General is happy for a while, right? He doesn’t send that Witch of his killing for more than twice in a week, and never in a row. We’re all good!” They shared a laugh, and resumed the nonsensical chatter of the drunk.

He downed another drink before getting up from their table, mumbling something about taking a stroll to clear his head. His friends laughed when he almost tripped on his way to the door, and he grinned back, before stumbling out onto the street. The night air was cool on his face, and he blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind. He walked without a destination in mind, feeling unreasonably happy. Now that Driftwood was out of the way, their path towards the Outsider’s warehouses was clear. They think like they have driftwood in their heads. He mused, before laughing and making a note to himself to tell his friends that. It was too funny not to share.

The world a haze, he didn’t hear the bells until it was right behind him, and he jumped, attempting to turn and face her but instead stumbling and cursing his love for drinks. He forced himself to stand still, and squinted at the view around him, but the haze seemed to be growing, and he cursed louder before growling under his breath. “What do you want?” He yelled, or at least, he thought he did; the world was too quiet. “We’re not planning nothin’, why are you attacking? You’ll… attacked yesterday, so you shouldn’t kill me, that’s not right.” He wasn’t making sense, and he shook his head, trying in vain to force his mind to work.

A hoof broke through the mist, followed by the silhouettes of antlers, and he again asked for what she wanted with him. The White Witch moved no closer though, and feeling confident, he stood taller, grinning arrogantly at her outline. “Yeah, don’t attack, or… or you’ll won’t have nobody to kill next... next day. It’s not even twelfth bell yet, I want to die at midnight.” He argued, and stepped forward, before suddenly noticing… nothing. She wasn’t there. Ha! She must have been afraid of him. Of course.

He started making his way slowly back to the bar, fully prepared to drink more and boast to his friends of how the Witch had fled from his brilliance.

▾▿▾▿▾▿

She couldn’t do this anymore. Looking at her next target, at how he stumbled and slurred and seemed so alive, she realised that she was horrified at the thought of taking another life. The White Witch had no guilt, hope, dreams, emotions. She could kill without thinking, without caring.

Was that creature gone?

The jingle of bells distracted her, and for the first time, she looked at the bells clearly, almost laughing when she realised the meaning behind them. Maybe she, without knowing it, had felt guilt and wanted to punish herself for her actions by asking the General for them. The bells, after all, functioned as her shackles, didn’t they? It reminded her of her targets, of the fear the sound brought, of her past, her mother. Helena had loved the sound of these bells.

Maybe someday, she would remove them, once she’d made up for the lives she had ruined.

"I'm leaving."

Mother.

Surprise darted over the General’s face, but it was gone as fast as it arrived, replaced by a deep frown. She wasn’t sure if he was surprised at her words, or her speaking, but it did not matter either way. “Leaving?" The general asked flatly, his voice bordering on a growl.

Please.

"Yes."

Don't ever forgive me.

"And why did you decide to go?”

Don't ever let me forget what I did to you and to my targets.

“Does that matter?”

Haunt me in this life and the next.

The General sat back, his expression thoughtful. She looked back arrogantly, goading him to refuse. She knew he disliked her, and she wanted to use it to her advantage.

And till the day I make things right,

“Don’t ever come back.”

don't ever leave me...

▾▿▾▿▾▿

She entered her barren room, picking up the only personal item: her mother's gift. The flower was still there, as beautiful as ever, and she tentatively formed a paw out of snow, before gently picking up the hairpin and clipping it to her hair. She looked up at the small mirror in her room, wondering if the blue gem in the flower was glowing brighter, or if that was just light reflecting off the ice that was already forming over it. The Witch carefully smiled, a small upward twist of the mouth, and she, after years of emptiness, felt a freeing joy in her heart. The snow was gentle on her fur, the ice now a friend, a reassuring constant in her world.

Maybe she could piece together her soul and become Archaea again, as well.

[FluffyBirdie]

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She lived in a world where wealth dictated everything, a rule known by everyone, from the merchants leading society to the lowest thug in the gangs that roamed the night streets. In such a world, weakness was inexcusable. Enemies were everywhere, and a show of weakness would destroy everything generations of families have built.

Maybe that explained why Archaea was so hated: she could not control her powers. She could suppress it and direct it, but she could not control it. It was a constant, always in the cold air around her, always dripping off her antlers. In this way, it was like breathing, but unlike it, her powers did not keep her alive. It was a weakness that her father could not tolerate, a weakness that could ruin her whole family, and so she spent her childhood attempting to subdue her ice, to wish it away along with her other abnormalities. She hated her hooves, her ability to fly without wings, her ice.

But there were times when she briefly enjoyed her powers, times brought about through her mother, the only person willing to be near her. She encouraged her daughter to create little snowdogs and elegant reindeers with beautiful hooves just like hers, and told stories of people who, thanks to their amazing powers, saved the world and gained the adoration of everyone around them. Those moments made her feel like it was okay not to have control, that the snow was her friend and it only wanted to stay with her.

She would never experience those happy hours again, for her mother was dead now. Because of her.

Archaea had thrown a tantrum that day, although now she couldn’t remember the cause. Maybe suppressing her powers only meant it built up inside her, maybe the pressure of being different broke her, but either way, she had lashed out with her ice, and had frozen her mother. There was no excuse. She might have been angry, she might not have meant to, but she had still killed the only one who cared about her.

The worst thing about it all was her expression, the smile she gave Archaea as the ice consumed her body. Those gentle, forgiving eyes, saying It's okay dear. I love you still. That kind smile, with the power to release all her guilt. The simple fact that there was no hate, not in her pose, her face, her soul.

Her mother was forgiving her. Despite everything, she had whispered her love to her cursed daughter, her killer.

Why?


Her father had flown into a rage when he entered the room to see his wife, now a pillar of ice, and his daughter, daring to still stand in her presence. He had thrown her out of the house, his face dark with grief and hatred as he promised her death if she showed her face around him again. An ornately decorated box was thrown out along with her, and when Archaea finally looked down at the attached tag, she burst into tears. It was a birthday gift from her mother, with little niches on the lid for her hooves, and everything suddenly seemed too real. If only she had never cared about her blight of a daughter, if only she hated her like everyone else, if only... if only...

The box contained a delicate flower, coloured just like her and tied to a small hairpin. It had been the present she had asked for, but looking at it now, her mother gone, Archaea could only feel emptiness.

Outsider gang members had found her then, and she had followed them, her mind empty, her soul lost. Years passed under their care, and a day came when the General, leader of the gang, told her to start earning for her stay, past and present. She was to be their weapon, he said, and she did not argue.

She did not care.

She did not feel anything when she raised her powers against another person.

Her soul was breaking with every kill, fleeing from its horrible body, and she allowed it to leave, to hopefully never return. She did not want a soul, a heart; she wanted to be a husk, a creature with no past and no mother. The people who feared her gave her a name: the White Witch, the demon with no soul.

She took on the name to its fullest.

[FluffyBirdie]

:: Full size | Artist: stormy and rescuer ::