It was a cold day, but she didn't mind, because through the frigidness she saw the beauty—such as the heavens, which were clear, bright, and endless, never deterred by even a speck of cloud. Sighing, she reached for a second blanket and pulled it over her shoulders, all the while falling into thoughts.
Her eyes went up instinctively. She gazed at the branches of the fig tree, giving a rare smile. The girl finally fell into the comfort of its silent prescence, tossing her head back and just sitting there.
Her long, red locks were pressed back by a tossing, grabbing wind. It whipped and changed direction, causing the girl to moan when the invisible fingers of air clutched her blanket and released her hand from the warmth. She drumed her hand about, searching for the corner of blanket so that she could pull it back. An exasperated sigh escaped from her throat as her unruly hair swept into her eyes, getting in her way—as always.
She found it, turned her head back to the sky and canopies, and nuzzled beneath the blanket again. This time most of her was covered—up to her nose and above. Absently, she murmured, “It might even be a wonderful day if it wasn't so sad….”
Times like these made the girl feel so alone, though she would never admit it.
“Lyssa, talking to yourself again?” crooned a voice. Lyssa scowled; it was Sylvia. Her shrill, high-pitched call was only good for annoying and rowding when the boys wanted to take out their own sorrow on none other than Lyssa. The catty Wardmate was incredibly annoying.
Careening around the corner, Petur and Rusl smirked and stood beside their adversary. “Aw, must be a sad day for you…” said Rusl in mock sympathy.
Lyssa narrowed her gaze. She had lived with them for six years—since she was eight—and yet they still found a way to make her temper flare like an unpredictable fire. It was a good tactic, as her temper might have been her biggest weakness. Her temper made her lose control and got her in trouble. A part of Lyssa hated it—and yet another part, deep within her, made Lyssa feel like it was just her, and there was no stopping it.
Petur finished Rusl's sentence, “Yeah, since your shady dad decided he would get lost! You know, because you were that annoying!” The lanky, gangly boy snorted his laughter.
Sylvia smirked, flipping her long, blonde hair. “And then your old Grandpa decided to die because he couldn't believe your father had you.” The girl snorted and looked away as if Lyssa stank like a pig.
She looked at them, anger smouldering, with dangerously narrowed eyes. In her head she could see what she wanted to do to them, but the pleasure was not there. No matter how many times she saw it, Lyssa knew that it wasn't happening. She began to rise up and take action but then sank down again. It's not true, Lyssa, so don't let them bother you.
But it did bother her. It bothered her every single day that they came around and began to relentlessly bully her.
And today would always be the worst day. On this day her father had gone missing—and the next year, on the same day, her grandfather succame to illness. It made her shiver as she remembered how quickly his strong, tall figure had shrank down into an elderly scrap.
She wished that she could have normal days, that this day could just be another day.
Lyssa wished that, on that cold morning, those exhausted figures didn't trot up with heavy hearts. She wished her father never had gone on that trip. She wished that she could blame someone, just to get closure, but there was no closure.
She wished that she hadn't felt the world drop away at her feet. Or the pain, the sadness, the anger, or the betrayl. Everyone had known but her. And she was her father's own flesh and blood.
And then the fury came as quickly as the sadness. It was harsh and devouring. For the longest time she had absolutely no control over it. Lyssa remembered it clearly—the gnawing void in her heart replaced by tedious and yet somehow comforting fury.
It was all that she remembered now. Her father's face faded in her memory. She remembered the emotions—such as the happiness she had felt when her father let her try on his cloak, ignoring that it dragged in the mud for that moment of fun.
The thoughts in her head were painstaking. She wanted to stop thinking about her father, yet she clung onto the memories tightly, knowing that she did want to remember. And it scared her, because what if she thought about something else? Then maybe one more memory would be crystallized into nothingness.
They said something about her father, trying to get a rise out of her. She barely heard, but it still infuriated her—and her calming tactics began to stop working. Ignore them, Lyssa. They'll get bored and leave you alone, Lyssa. She constantly told herself. But then their insults became harder and harder for her to bare. She felt her usual fire come up, eager to take over her mind with ravenous anger.
“One more time,” she heard the Baron say, his voice losing its joking tone, “hit them, punch them, scratch them one more time and you'll learn a lesson on your attitude.”
Lyssa tried to hold it back because she liked Baron Arald. He was kind and funny; he treated her like an equal, not some troubled, needy orphan. She realized how badly she didn't want to disappoint him.
But the anger reasoned with her, reminding her that the Wardmates had messed up her day. The first day in a long time that she had felt—strangely—at peace.
But not anymore.
Something around Lyssa bore into her senses and made her feel the need to look around. Before she could see it, she heard it—still far away, and she turned her head. Honing in on the sound, Lyssa barely heard Rusl hiss, “What'cha looking at, dummy? A squirrel?”
A chorus of fake, sharp, mocking laughter came from Petur and Sylvia, taking away Lyssa's concentration.
Lyssa was apparently the only one to hear the horse. And where there was a horse, there was a rider. And at the thought of a rider, she felt overwhelming embarassment.
This was her place—her secret place where she could get away from so many things. Of course, her Wardmates knew, but they didn't count.
This fig tree was where she just sat—where all of her feelings and deepest emotions were poured out. She would talk to the tree or her father, where ever he was, just to get things off of her chest.
The girl leaped up and stared to her side. She pegged the clattering noise of hooves on the path, confirming her fear.
Lyssa squinted her eyes and saw an unusual, shaggy horse with a small figure atop. Then the rider slowed its steed to a halt, looking at something—maybe her or the tree or her Wardmates, but for some reason she didn't want to stick around and find out.
Lyssa felt her throat constrict with fear of the weird shadow. She had always been wary and distrustful of people, but this was different. This figure aroused a droning memory deep within her—and she somehow knew that she didn't want it.
Fueled by desperation, she flung herself forward. A mass of jabs and rough clothing was around her. Immediately, she tried to pull back—but she was too late.
She was between her Wardmates—and she perilously realized her mistake.
Sylvia shrieked a warning; Petur and Rusl grabbed her arms, thinking quickly.
The lanky, freckled Petur grimaced at the effort, and Rusl did the bulk of the task. He smirked and pulled her up.
Lyssa's mind told her that she was in trouble. This, no matter how much she didn't want to admit it, was a good tactic, as both Rusl and Petur were a good few heads taller than her.
That left her screaming louder than she ever had before.
Her legs thrashed, assisting her feet in their search for footing. There was none, and she knew it because she could feel how much air was beneath her, and she could just imagine how far the snowy ground was.
Lyssa thought quickly. She squirmed, freeing one arm—her right one—and felt a glimmer of hope. But she had far too quickly.
She realized that she was tilting to the left, slow at first, and then quickly like a falling tree. Held only by the weak Petur, Lyssa screeched and grabbed with her free hand. For a long, fearful moment there was only air—but then she caught Rusl's rough woolen shirt, and with a hard shove to get the stronger boy closer, she was upright again.
A part of her wished that she had fallen because they were relentless. And smarter than usual, she realized.
The boys hauled her up and shook her from side to side. Petur was mumbling something, probably that his arms hurt, and Lyssa felt herself sway. “If you drop me—”
She realized that speaking was not a good idea. Her stomach was queasy, bubbling and giving her that terrible weak sensation. She thought that she could taste that morning's breakfast rising in her throat.
Lyssa barely knew what she was doing—but she knew that it was desperate, and that her gasoline was instinct, fear, and anger. She coughed, opened her mouth like she was going to spew vomit, and felt an immediate sense of satisfaction.
The squeamish young boys dropped her (a bit roughly) and hastily backed away.
Her dark gaze flickered to the shaded figure, taking up precious seconds. She could have gotten away, but yet there was a new sense of fearful curiousity within her. There she saw that the horse and rider had not moved; the rider was still intent on something.
And suddenly Lyssa's time was up.
“She was faking!” Petur hissed dumbly, making the girl jump and look behind herself.
There Rusl gained on her, his arms outstretched, a sly smile on his face as if he thought this was a game. She realized that he was ready to grab her again.
Immediately Lyssa tried to shove him, but he dodged clumsily, leaving her as the one off balance. He finally grabbed her small arm, barking something about his triumph to Sylvia and Petur.
Lyssa was too fast for the burly young man—especially since he was busy dwelling in his accomplishment. She turned her head and, in a snakelike movement, dug her teeth into the flesh of his arm. There was a stinging sensation in her mouth as she bore the teeth deeper than she ever had. Then she spat, the disgusting taste of blood filling her mouth.
Rusl yelped like a dog and threw her away in horror.
Now she looked for the shady figure, realizing that it hadn't left—not at all. It was beginning to gain on them, making Lyssa hesitate as she watched, trying to be sure that what she was seeing was true.
She leaped up and ran aimlessly, dodging Rusl, who cradled his arm and howled in such agony. She thought he looked like a crying toddler and would have laughed, but there was no time to dwell on the fact because she had stopped dead. This time Lyssa was the one crying.
Sylvia had her by long hair. The blonde tugged and grabbed Lyssa's shirt, clawing for hold as the opponent squirmed.
“Don't you touch my brother.” Sylvia snapped with a dangerous, low voice.
Lyssa knew that Sylvia meant business—but business to Sylvia meant hair-pulling, screaming, slapping, and clawing like to a cat. To Lyssa it meant balled up fists, speed, and strength.
Out of the corner of her eye Lyssa saw the figure come closer, yelling at the top of its lungs for the skirmish to stop.
Sylvia looked up with fearful wide eyes and released Lyssa's red hair. It was a bad move, because Lyssa's reflexes immediately kicked in.
While she recovered, her hair matted and tangled, she thought of a tactic. Sylvia wasn't looking at her, but was staring at the rider. That was a weakness; Sylvia wasn't paying attention, and so Lyssa sent the taller girl reeling with a punch to her pretty, pretty little slim nose.
The figure came closer, and she couldn't stop a scream from ringing out.
She thought of her choices. When scared and angry, the most dangerous one seemed right: get out of here, run, and never come back.
But she couldn't risk anyone following her. With a dark, angry glare she locked onto Petur, who winced.
She stunned him with a quick kick to the gut, earning her just enough time to turn tail.
Lyssa ran as quickly as she could, shooting forward like an arrow, wind buffeting against her ears. The girl's hair followed her, a trail of bright against an otherwise normal scene.
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