All the Pretty Birds
An Epic Tira Tribute by Keaton the Black Jackal
Author's Note: For a good long while, I've wanted to write something as a tribute to Tira, whether it be a pointless drabble or an epic story. I've been examining Tira's personality from the inside-out ever since the game came out, and I've been learning how to write as her and portray her in the best way I can. I can only hope that you all enjoy this story, and that the fruits of my labor pay off. It's about time I made a tribute to my favorite Soul Calibur character (the runner-up being Siegfried), and I figured it would be appropriate for such a violent story to match the main character. To any Violet Version readers who have made their way here—I hope you like this. )
Too bad people might dismiss this as "Another Tira Origin Fanfiction". There are so many of them, BUT I REGRET NOTHING!
Disclaimer: As you may have already realized, I own no aspect of Soul Calibur III, including its characters, stories, plotlines, etcetera. This is just a fanfiction, made out of appreciation for the video game, and the writing in this story, as well as the character Freya, belongs to me.
Warning: Time for the boring stuff. I'm going to be frank—I'm going all out with this story, and I'm trying to make it as bone-chilling and disturbing as possible. Violence, mentions and slightly direct forms of physical and verbal child abuse, and foul language… run for your life. I just hope this doesn't subtract any entertainment from this story. This is my first macabre fanfiction, and hopefully this will be my longest.
But if this doesn't disturb you, then no worries. :D
--
"The art of mothering is to teach the art of living to children."
-Elain Heffner, O Magazine, May 2003
Chapter I, Prelude: Beautiful Child
"Who's my beautiful little girl?"
Crystalline met crystalline; gorgeous, vibrant violet met violet; and beautiful pearlescence met pearlescence, a smile curving the voluptuous lips, head hovering over the green-enveloped bundle in her hands. Curled up in her grip, the pixie of a child gazed up at her and returned the smile, giggling and flailing her hands about cheerfully. Big eyes blinked beneath thick eyelashes, the owner's lips puckered ever so slightly, and her chubby paws finally wrapped around a finger that was offered to her, tugging on it playfully.
She was a mesmerizing girl, nearly identical to the raven-haired woman clutching her so lovingly. She had voluminous, curly black hair, wide, purple eyes, one of which was punctuated with a beauty mark, and creamy flawless skin, turned orange in the firelight.
Her smiling mother leaned back in her chair, making it sway and creak ever so slightly, the shadows beneath her shifting to match the movement and the new position of the rocking chair. The child turned her head, as though surveying her surroundings: orange light filling the dusty, modest room, flickering from the lanterns that illuminated it, filtering through the thick glass, and casting black, sloping shadows along the outlines of every shape and slant in their range. Her finger ran affectionately over the arch of the fiery light on her cheek, tracing the light on her flesh.
"Are you happy, little girl?" the woman inquired, tilting her head, allowing her bangs to drape over her angular face.
The child mimicked her movement, cooing and grinning her eternal grin on her pudgy face. This was all the convincing her mother needed, as she leaned in and nuzzled the baby's delicately pointed nose. "Good," she said, "You deserve to be happy."
"For the rest of your life."
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
She froze where she sat, the tangent disappearing on her tongue like a passing breeze. Repetitive, monotonous clicking rang out in the air, the sound of nails against glass resonating through the light-flooded room. Her eyes shifted; her face suddenly becoming sunken and fearful as her eyes locked on the window, where a silhouette hovered behind the fog-caked glass.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
She couldn't make out what it was due to the atramentous night, cloaking the sky and shadowing the trees, the hills, the snow coating the branches and the skeletons of the bushes. Only the mere outlines of the looming, pillar-like trunks of the trees were visible, highlighted by the silvery moon peeking past the winter mist. In the orange darkness emitting from the window, grease glittered along the slick body of the shadow as it turned back, eyes smoldering like blazing coals.
Her fear was interrupted, however, by a piercing, rasping crow, and the indistinct shuffling of feathered wings. Completely turning her head around nervously, slender eyes wide, she carefully climbed to her feet as the tapping continued, ever relentless, ever beating into her soul.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Scooping a lantern off of the nearby rickety table with her free hand, and clutching her child a bit tighter, she carefully approached the door. Taking her time with each step, each settle of her foot gentle, she stopped before the glass. Eyes narrowing, and body shaking, she strained her eyes to peek past the clouds of diaphanous mist, glowing eerily in the darkness as it orbited the house and the feathery figure.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
The figure before her dipped back, the raging luster of its eyes muted as it pulled away from the window. Moonlight washed over it, zigzagging through ebony feathers and along the curvaceous shapes of its head and the bodies of its brethren who glided gracefully past, wings beating rapidly. The flock landed in the lower branches of one of the shorter trees, huddling close and nuzzling against one another. One by one, they were joined by more of their moonlit companions, jostling the branches and making the frost twirl to the ground like milky petals.
Releasing the breath she had been holding, the woman sighed in relief, set down the lantern she was holding back on its perch, and drew her hand through her hair, glancing protectively down at her child. The lightning-fast palpitations of her heart started to slow, and the frost thawed from her spine, carefully leaving her immersed in the same calm which once bathed the room as thickly as the golden-orange light of the tiny flames of the lanterns.
Ravens. Only ravens, she told herself.
The last predicament she needed was for another person to arrive, much less sneak clandestinely around the walls of her dilapidated house.
Sinking her pearly white teeth into her lower lip, the woman took a deep breath, gathered up her confused and slightly mussed child, and departed the room. The halls of her house were as sparsely furnished as the room she was once in but were a stark contrast to the ramshackle exterior in its simplistic, sturdy design. To the untrained eye, the house would look like nothing special—just another abandoned, tainted home in the center of a ghost town.
The story —about the town which had been constantly plagued by demons—was renowned among all in Scandinavia. Demons had been deemed responsible for the misfortune and the famine that crept over the land and had never left despite the finest exorcist's efforts. The only option for the townspeople was to flee their cursed home, and they all had done it without looking back.
It was the perfect subterfuge. Nobody would think about looking for the woman or her family in this forgotten part of Denmark, much less in this desolate town.
Leaning around the edge of the hallway and peeking into the room where her family shared meals, she glanced at the wooden table in the center, surrounded by tightly-packed bookshelves. "Álarr?" she called out tentatively, "Álarr, are you here?"
Sure enough, the ebony head of a middle-aged man turned up from the book he was clutching. As opposed to his wife's angular features, his were rounded but scruffy, due to the prickly facial hair trailing down his chin. Blue eyes peered at her beneath perfectly sculpted eyebrows on his porcelain face, giving him a nearly fragile appearance, conflicted by the deep color of his hair. He brushed away the limp, sable bangs of his hair from his face, tucking them behind his ear.
"Ailbhe?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, "What's wrong, love?"
Ailbhe sighed and entered the room, walking quietly—her daughter had fallen asleep, as the indistinct sound of whispering snores emitting from her blanket confessed. "Álarr…" she didn't bother beating around the bush, as he immediately noticed the sorrowful look on her face, barely concealed by her shaggy black hair, "We can't do this."
Álarr, however, didn't seem to understand what she said, as he merely cocked his head and blinked, confused and uncomprehending. Snapping his dusty, aging book shut and standing up, he asked, "What do you mean?"
"We're living like animals, Álarr," Ailbhe protested, cradling the baby close, carefully rocking her back and forth, lulling her deeper into sleep, "We can't live like this any longer. This isn't natural. We can't raise our child like this—"
He almost instantly interjected,"You know perfectly well we don't have a choice," he stated.
"Yes, but—"
"We're criminals, Ailbhe," Álarr reminded her, "Remember? Everywhere we look, they'll be looking for us. We have no choice but to lay low—"
"But for how long?" Ailbhe demanded, "Must we really subject our child to this? To live like a fugitive without experiencing the world around her?"
At long last, Álarr's limited patience snapped like a toothpick. Snatching his book off of the table and tucking it under his arm, he snarled, "That's enough. Would you prefer we be hunted down like wolves and killed, without any interference by our oh-so-virtuous ruler?"
Ailbhe said nothing; she only glared in silent defeat, still cuddling her baby close, as though she were banishing the pure, cold anger from her body. Snorting to himself, Álarr whirled around, turning his back on her, "We're done here. Good night, Ailbhe."
Ailbhe didn't get a chance to say anything, because he had already stormed out of the room. Screaming a string of curses in her head that would've made a whole growth forest burst into flames, she returned the gesture, huffed, and stomped out the way she had come, too enraged to bother remaining quiet for her snoozing baby's benefit.
Idiot! Ailbhe fumed, coming dangerously close to repeating that profanity aloud, That goddamn idiot! He's completely right. We're trapped here. There's no way out…
Their story was a morose one indeed: Álarr, once a loyal and trusted guard for a wealthy noble, had overheard some of his master's corrupt agendas, and had threatened to report him. Unfortunately for him, the person he had turned to was just as morally devoid as the man he worked for, and had undermined his crusade, forcing him and his wife to take sanctuary in a safe hiding spot. It was here that Ailbhe had given birth to her daughter, and away from any proper medical attention, she had miraculously survived through the process against all odds and obstacles.
She stopped in the midst of a step, remembering to keep her footsteps quiet once she felt her baby stir. Cursing herself once more, Ailbhe apologetically cradled her, bouncing her and whispering comforting words until the child was soothed.
Staring into the sleeping face of her baby, Ailbhe sighed in relief and waited for her anger to subside. Sadness overcame her beautiful facial features, transforming light into darkness, and permeating her diamond eyes with unhappy smog. Combing her hand through the moptop of black hair budding atop her daughter's hair, Ailbhe murmured, "You deserve more than this. We all do…"
Creaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak.
Once again, Ailbhe felt her body instinctually stiffen in fear, color draining from the peachy paleness of her flesh. Her baby twitched again from the infernal, prolonged sound, but didn't wake up, instead rolling onto her side and rubbing her head into the fluff of the blanket. Ailbhe waited for the sound to repeat itself, but thankfully, the atmosphere returned to its morbid, silent state.
It was not surprising that the house was creaking, considering its exterior's tumble-down state, but something about the sound frightened her like nothing else. On a normal basis, the rickety sounds of her home were much quieter, much more subtle, than the raspy noise she had just heard.
She shrugged it off. It was probably Álarr, throwing some form of temper tantrum as he stalked his way to bed. It wasn't the first time her husband had done such a thing, as both of them had notoriously turbulent tempers.
That was all.
Ailbhe sighed and shook her head, her limp black bangs whipping before her face. The stress was really getting to her. Maybe it would be best if she went to bed with her husband and put her own sleepy child to rest in her basket. With this objective in mind, she turned, and, bundling the baby tighter and more comfortably in her blanket, she traced the trail her husband had left.
The moment her foot settled on the first step along the staircase, a loud thud reverberated from high above Ailbhe, followed by a vibration from the wooden, slightly unreliable ceiling. Stopping in her tracks and withdrawing her foot, she stared up at it, as though expecting another sound to accompany it.
No such thing happened, and with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes, Ailbhe trudged her way up the stairs with an air of trepidation that she couldn't restrain. Something wasn't right, she told herself, but she tried to banish it back to the dark, miasmatic pit it had emerged from. Reaching out for the doorknob and giving it a twist and a push, Ailbhe entered her room.
And she nearly screamed at the horrific sight that awaited her.
Sprawled in a pool of tainted red, a limp, lifeless Álarr lay on the ground, turned over on his stomach. A long gash cleaved over his spine, revealing the sinewy muscle beneath the frail skin, glowing with blood in the acrid light.
"A- Álarr…?" Ailbhe stuttered in disbelief, squeezing the bundle with such intensity that her tumultuously trembling knuckles turned as stark white as her face, "Álarr?!"
No response, even as Ailbhe dashed up to him and leaned down, frantically shaking her husband with her free hand, "Álarr! Wake up! Please wake up! Oh God—"
The milky whites of his eyes stared numbly into her face, barely hidden by disheveled strands of sandy brown, and glowing with the same look of terror that was completely petrified on his face, the remnants of his emotions just before his brutal murder. Salty trails of tears streaked down Ailbhe's face, trickling from her bloodshot eyes, descending her cheeks and her throat and splashing onto the shamrock tufts of the baby's blanket.
"Don't leave me!" she cried, voice strangled by sobs, "DON'T LEAVE ME, ÁLARR—"
This can't be happening, Ailbhe shrieked mentally, her body filling with frigid, stupefied numbness, creeping up her limbs and nearly stiffening her like a statue even as she almost dropped onto her knees, sobbing, her only source of heat the throbbing pulse of her tossing, turning baby. Too preoccupied with her husband's death to care about the sudden, rigid opening of her child's opalescent eyes, she panicked, This is just a nightmare, this can't be happening. I'm just going to wake up next to him, and my baby, and everything will be back to normal—
Suddenly, the cold caress of metal slid across Ailbhe's throat ever so tenderly, grazing her throat and aiming the tip near her jugular, snapping her back to merciless reality. Pupils dilated, her back arched, and her shoulders slumped, her entire body reacting unintentionally.
Bronze, eagle-like eyes peered into hers behind a smooth veil of vigorous, dyed teal hair, narrowed and animalistic—the sign of a depraved beast of a woman, one completely void of virtue. Battle-scarred skin, shadowed by the hood of the intruder's cloak, greeted her, juxtaposing the slender shape of her eyes and body, and her silky, beryl hair. The rest was completely draped in black, likely as camouflage—rather effective camouflage because of her undetected entrance.
The hand clutching the knife twirled it almost casually as a tiny, elusive smirk curled the edges of her luscious, cherry-rimmed lips, barely moving as she tauntingly spoke, "Well, if this isn't a wonderful surprise," her other arm hooked around Ailbhe's neck beneath the blade of her knife, holding the woman still, "I didn't think anybody else would be in this house."
Ailbhe said nothing, her throat completely evaporated of all moisture and any potential words as her jaw hung slack, lips damp from the rolling beads of salty fluid still dribbling from her reddened eyes. No matter how much she struggled, she didn't dare to look at her dead husband's corpse, only able to lock her eyes onto the knife's blade.
Bright red splotches completely drenched it from tip to leathery handle.
And she knew perfectly well it wasn't her own.
An assassin, likely sent by the same noble they had cowered from.
Anger—animalistic, unforgiving anger—welled up inside of Ailbhe like the bellowing plume of a wildfire, a hoarse, devastated howl tearing from her mouth. The purple eyes of her baby snapped open, widening almost simultaneously to the attacker's own startled cry. Ailbhe's elbow lashed out, knocking her back with all her might—her body completely blind to the sudden scrape of the blade that carved a thin, shallow divot against her throat. It was nowhere deep enough to threaten her life, but despite its nature, it continued to throb and beat at her infuriated, blinded mind, her battle cry further antagonizing her terror-stricken, bawling baby.
Her assailant stumbled back, and Ailbhe raced right past her in a blur of ivory and black, her long hair billowing behind her like a banner. Her speed was remarkable despite the fluttering hem of her dress, each step broad and swift beneath the dusty ripples of fabric. The teal-haired woman grunted and rubbed her aching stomach from where she was shoved on the floor, glaring ferociously at Ailbhe before she completely disappeared down the stairs, the hysterical, undisturbed wailing of her baby streaming behind her every step of the way. Snatching her knife off the floor and gripping the flat, immense bundle strapped to her back, the woman grunted, leapt to her feet, and pursued Ailbhe, charging down the stairs.
"You just made the worst mistake of your life, you bi—" she snapped at Ailbhe, even as she heard the front door slam open with such force the foundations of the rickety house quivered, and the clangorous footsteps beat against the unstable, poorly-fashioned wood that marked the black-haired woman's flight.
Despite the lead Ailbhe had on her, the teal-haired woman kept rushing after her, her legs a mere blur, pumping beneath her. The object tied to her back jostled and bounced within its paper sheath with each inch she made as she started to close in on Ailbhe. Thanks to the crying of her baby echoing in the winter air, hunting Ailbhe was easy despite the veils of fog and the viscious snow muffling and restricting their footsteps.
She was close now, and the distance was all the woman needed to whip her package off of her back, hand ripping away the dusty paper cocooning it, to reveal the silver, dangerous edge within it, glowing with empyreal light in the moon's ethereal, slick shine.
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it forward, the ambiguous ring whizzing through the air like a serrated boomerang. It closed in on Ailbhe as it sliced neatly through the air, Ailbhe's eyes nearly engulfing the entirety of her face as she glanced over her shoulder, a scream dancing on her lips—
--and then the weapon perforated her back, ripping through her blouse and layer upon layer of flesh. Red geysered through the velvet, vaporous night, plummeting to the ground as Ailbhe hit the blanketed earth with a scream of pain, managing to land on her side so to not accidentally smother her baby. Planted in her back, tip-first, was the wing-shaped ridge of an abnormal, silver abomination of a weapon, hoop-shaped and nearly perfect in its impeccable gleam. A fresh coat of dappled carmine coated the ridge, racing down the edges and glittering like grisly liquid mercury on the metal.
The assassin's smug grin was almost sickening as she strode up to the immobilized woman, plucking the weapon out with a sharp tug. Ailbhe twitched and groaned in pain, voice marred by defeated sobbing. It took every muscle in her body to keep her steady enough to not roll over and crush her child, even as keeping herself on her side became all the more excruciating.
The watery purple eyes of her baby deliberately shifted, meeting the glazed ones of her mother. Ailbhe's body shook uncontrollably as her would-be murderer loomed over her, examining her with a nearly absent-minded disinterest.
As her sight glided over the macabre scene before her, darting from the blood of the woman that snaked along the frost-encrusted ground and down the back of her dress, she deeply inhaled the malodorous scent that trickled into the air with a felineesque purr. Savoring the gasping and the pained heaving of the woman, she twirled the ring effortlessly in her hand like it was just some child's toy.
Her smile, however, faded when the baby's anguish failed to cease. Pulling her eyes away from Ailbhe's red-stained, spasming body, her eyes landed on the baby, who thrashed and cried in her viridian blanket, as though reacting to the distress of her mother.
"Well well well," the blue-haired woman said, stroking her chin, "Look what we have here…"
The seething fog clouding Ailbhe's head dispelled almost instantly, her eyes widening to the size of twin, bloodshot discs. Peering through the locks of hair glued to her forehead, her pupils pinpricked until they were just dots—begging for the impending, wretched phantasm unfolding before her to just disappear, for her to jolt out of bed and awaken to see her whole world pieced back together, with her child in her arms and her husband at her side...
Oh no… Please no…
But Ailbhe's prayers did her no good, as the woman leaned down and swiped her baby from the ground with her free arm, staring coldly into Ailbhe's eyes as they squeezed shut. Her strange, ring-shaped blade dangled from her other hand, dripping corrupted red onto the dirt, and soaking the black leather of her protective glove. The woman's eyes darted over the child, inspecting her, examining her, no longer amused or bothered by her mother's pain as she grasped desperately toward the woman's ankle.
Fingers wrapped around the heel of her boot, tugging in a futile effort to draw the woman's attention towards Ailbhe. This gesture was rebuffed as the woman's foot lifted, and she smacked the hand away with a jerk of her foot, threatening to crush her wrist as Ailbhe withdrew. Pain sparked inside of her body, searing like a wildfire from the sudden movement. Despite this, Ailbhe continued to struggle, pushing herself up onto her wrists the best she could.
"Please…" she whimpered, coughing, "Don't hurt my baby…"
The teal-headed woman said nothing, instead simply neglecting her in favor of appraising the baby, who quivered and went silent in her grip, as though cowed from the sheer, terrifying look in her eyes. What did she want? She had murdered her husband in cold blood, and now…
Now, the dark, sinking feeling of her imminent death was encroaching deeper into her mind, like some vile, tunneling parasite, ready to rip her to pieces.
Was she going to kill her beloved baby for no reason? Or was she going to, in an unexpected and possibly uncharacteristic show of mercy, leave both of them be instead of finishing the baby off?
She was unsure whether to embrace the fact that she would be reunited with her husband or weep that her child would face such a brutal and meaningless death before experiencing how wonderful life truly was. It was her deepest prayer that the baby would grow into a fine young woman—a respectable woman, one who would be detached from the undeserved reputation of her parents. Ailbhe's eyes watered, tears beginning to brim anew in them as she gagged and choked, blood dribbling down her chin. Her time was short—and there was no escape in sight, with her legs so paralyzed.
"Interesting little brat you have here," the woman unintentionally mouthed in spite of the woman's wordless dismay, "Yes… she could be useful."
One last tug on the folds of the woman's boots garnered her attention back to the child's dying mother. Ailbhe's musing was finally answered as the woman tore the child away from her eyes and glanced dispassionately down at Ailbhe's pleading, bloodied face. The Ailbhe's heart sank—there was no compassion nor any forgiveness in the assassin's shadowed, war torn face.
There was only barbarity.
The teal-haired one murmured thoughtfully, mouth arching into a wicked, devious smile. "I think I'll take her."
Ailbhe's heart turned to stone, dropping to the bottom of her stomach with a vociferous, almighty thump. Prayers and protests flew about helter-skelter in her aching head, crying over the interfering agony of anguish and despondency. "No!" she shouted, head whipping around, "You CAN'T! Give me back my baby! DON'T TAKE MY BABY!"
But once again, Ailbhe's voice deteriorated into a garbled scream as the weapon was brought down again, completely impaling her back. Releasing a choked cry, she collapsed completely, falling down the point that emerged from her stomach. Twisting the blade, the assassin removed it from her body again, setting her foot on the edge of Ailbhe's spine.
"Funny," she said apathetically, "I don't recall that you had any say in this."
Ailbhe merely clawed at the ground, nails uprooting ground and tearing grass to shreds as she groped for a proper footing. She had to save her baby—she had to stop this woman from taking away the last remnant of her family - to flee this nightmare—
She never got the chance. The foot on her back pressed down forcefully, driving Ailbhe into the ground. Out of the corner of her eyes, past a wall of fire, she saw the shine of the ring-blade weapon as it was lifted to the electrified sky, high over the blue-haired woman's head.
"After all," the woman said, clutching the traumatized, sniffling baby to her cloaked chest, "I think she'll be of much more use to the world than whatever you had planned for her."
The weapon came down with all her might, composed in that one, final swing.
"No…" Ailbhe moaned, "My… my baby—"
And as the sound of Ailbhe's last words slipped from her mouth just as the weapon made its impact, the baby mournfully screamed once more.
--
Once upon a time, the child had been taken away—far away by her kidnapper, over to the very edge of Denmark, past its ample forests. Resources ran dry and snow thickened as they had approached the no-man's land, neglected by the populace and seemingly inhabited only by wild animals.
This was seven years ago.
A loud, pained scream echoed in the air, ringing crisp and clear in the slate-grey, murky sky.
Blood leapt through the air in a scattered ribbon of flying beads, the nubile body of a young girl being thrown to the ground. A ring-shaped weapon, encircled with an acute, spiraling blade and etched with dimly-spun curls on its unimpressive edge, tumbled from a mitten-encased hand as the girl's back struck the floor, crushing a few unfortunate blades of grass beneath her emerald-hued tunic.
Groaning, the girl twitched and struggled to rise, barely supporting herself with her elbows without provoking her wound, which cut from her shoulder to the opposite side of her ribcage. A merely superficial wound, but painful nonetheless, as her moans were testament to.
Bestial, saffron eyes met purple ones, around which the lashes fluttered, banishing a hazy wall of dull moisture that would've fallen from an ordinary, weaker child. Teal-dyed bangs, once a luxurious black, wilted before her face, disheveled and barely tied in a lopsided ponytail. It had fallen loose from the scuffle with her superior—a tall, blue-haired woman, a disappointed look on her scarred face as she aimed the befouled tip of her winged ring-blade, Aiselne Drossel, at her injury.
The girl's hair had been possessively dyed in the image of her master the moment she grew a full head of hair. Her master had retrieved her from when she was a baby and was training her at this moment. The girl had been specifically instructed shortly after this odd ceremony to never erase the strong dye painting her hair, although such admonitions were unnecessary. The girl wouldn't dare remove the traces of such a 'prestigious' christening, of such a declaration of whom she belonged to, whether she had been ordered or not.
"You're slacking," the woman said numbly, disapprovingly, making the little girl at her feet wince.
Clutching her wound gingerly, the girl rushed her recovery, snatching up her own blade and stumbling to her knees. "Forgive me," she coughed, suppressing a pained croak. "I—I was weak. I…"
Her voice was as lifeless as the abysmal black of her otherwise beautiful pupils--the sign of a broken doll, a tarnished soul trapped within a body too disintegrated and a mind too ruinous for her to resist whatever was inflicted upon her. Long ago, this girl had been restrained at her master's hands and had submission beaten into her upon her introduction into her new 'home'—a rather loose term for what was more of a prison than anything else.
"That's no excuse," was the last thing the woman said before she pulled her leg to the side, and, purposefully aiming for the wound, kicked the girl onto her back.
A sharp stab of pain rocketed from the girl's gash as she was sent sprawling, her hand barely clutching her respective ring blade through her protective, padded glove. Surprisingly, she didn't scream or cry despite the red-hot pain oscillating from her shoulder, even as she reached up and touched it, guarding it from any further attacks.
The woman snorted, making the humbled girl graphically wince—not from the twinge of the cleft that lacerated her tunic and undershirt but from her own shame of disappointing the woman. Bowing her head, she could still feel her tutor's glowering gaze that, even then, was boring into her downtrodden face like brutal, acid-laced knives. This wasn't the first time the novice had failed at training, and despite the countless fiascos, it never ceased to humiliate her or anger her teacher.
It was amazing that even during the mental and physical strain that the girl didn't show anything akin to heartache, or any potential signs of breakdown.
She remained cowed, even as her master's speaking took on an insulting, razor-sharp edge. "Why do you always fail me?" she asked to no one in particular, completely ignoring the dismay in her pupil's broad, innocent eyes as her head turned upright again.
"I don't know, master," the girl said tenuously. Familiar sorrow, or the closest thing to it, started to spawn inside of her like some vicious animal, sinking its fangs deep into her heart and tearing it to shreds as the woman continued with her verbal abuse.
"Are you really this damn stupid?" the woman asked accusingly, looming like a hungry vulture over the petite girl.
The girl's head dropped another fraction, still too ashamed to lift neither it nor her eyes through her hair, which drooped about her face like the vines of a decaying willow. "I…" she murmured, "I won't fail you again, Master, I promise—"
"I asked you a QUESTION," the woman snarled, "And you are supposed to answer it. I repeat, in case your little mind is too useless to comprehend, are you really this stupid?"
The girl forced a nod. The agony from her shoulder was mounting as her anxiety escalated with each word her master dished out, the blue-haired woman's glare intensifying by the second. "Maybe you're not so dumb after all, if you can realize your own flaws," the woman said, hardly satisfied despite this assumedly pleasing answer.
The girl's head turned up, a wistful smile on the quivering curve of her mouth—possibly feigned, possibly involuntary, but obviously from earning some form of licentious praise from her master. There was a tense, pregnant silence, one marred by the racing of the girl's heart, beating in her ears like thundering battle drums.
At long last silence, after what seemed like an eternity, was broken by the woman as her glare softened in favor of a sly, smooth smirk. "You," she commanded, drawing the girl's gaze up to her face once more.
"Yes, Master?" she asked, eyes full of curiosity and steady eagerness to please.
"Do you remember what I told you about people?" the older woman questioned her, sweeping her ring blade around.
The girl didn't hesitate for even a moment, instead meekly answering, "Humans are a disgusting and hopeless species, and are inherently weak…" she swallowed, licking her chapped lips, "And those who are not worthy of remaining in this world deserve to perish."
"For whom?"
"In the name of our Masters," the girl answered, "I will only obey my Masters and follow their will. They are always supreme over me, and I should never question their decisions, or I will face the consequences of rebellion."
"And you recall that nothing in this world is pure," the woman interrogated her, "And that the strong will prevail. We are the Angels of Death, and we cannot afford weakness. Remember that all of their deceitful, tainted lives mean nothing to you—or the rest of this hideous world. The only goal you live for is not for your own, independent thinking, but for joy in serving your Masters. To slay your targets, you must feel nothing but bloodlust and overwhelming happiness as you completely become our servant and claim the lives of those who have been condemned to death by our hands."
"Yes, Master," she agreed mechanically, not a trace of ardor in her tenebrous voice. "Their lives are worthless, as is mine. I live to serve."
"And, my precious little girl…" the woman built up to her conclusion, coyly, yet boisterously, asking, "When are people—the plague of this planet, our prey--most beautiful?"
The girl's head lifted reverently, possibly the only sign of hopeful emotion she had shown throughout the day, maybe even longer.
It was not enough to grant her any pride but just enough to reveal the shallow blankness and the injected respect in her once lively eyes. "People are most beautiful… right before they die."
The girl's eyes met those of her master's, the woman staring from on high at her, much like an emperor appearing before he would address his servants.
A diminutive, pathetically weak smile started to sprawl along the girl's lips as she released a taut, uncomfortable breath, loosening the figurative, clustered knot that suffocated her lungs. "Right, Master Freya?"
It was Freya's turn to smile or at the very least attempt a sickly, bastardized parody of one. "Of course, my precious little daughter…" her almost demonic smirk expanded as her student's eyes widened, breath hitching excitedly
She was what would become the perfect killer. The perfect student.
The perfect slave.
"Of course, Tira."
To Be Continued…
--
Wow, that was chapter 1. I had this planned out for a while, and I think it came along smoothly enough for such a difficult chapter. It makes me wonder how
Time for useless trivia!
Ailbhe, the name of Tira's mother, is an Irish word that was possibly derived from the Gaelic root, 'Albho', which meant white. In this case, I was referring to her personality.
Álarr, in the meantime, means 'noble army'. Keeping the reason for his exile in mind, it's somewhat appropriate.
Freya was randomly chosen, and was based off of the word Freyja, meaning 'lady', and was the name of the goddess of love and beauty. As you can plainly see, this name's meaning isn't exactly befitting of Freya's character, but it sounds cool. Three cheers for Alan G. Zendra for giving me the name :3 Hmn. I'm going to need to figure out how to balance Freya's character a bit… this'll be difficult. I can't have a two-dimensional character here.
Deep down, I sincerely hope nobody considers this a rip-off of Schizoauthoress's wonderful Tira fanfiction series, starting with Rainy Nights and ending with Monstrosities. Read it—it's what inspired me to write this fic. Here's a shout out to all you guys at the SCIII RP Board!
Even though nobody really does a lot of SCIII RPing there anymore. Boooo.
Special thanks to Schizoauthoress for making said fanfiction, and if she happens to stumble across this, I hope she enjoys this, and I hope that all of you do, because there's much more to come.
Ooh, spooky.