Disclaimer: The world this drabble takes place in is (c) belongs to me, as well as the characters mentioned and used.
FND: Welcome, one and all, to Metamorphosis, an origin story. Please read the note at the bottom!
Thank you!
-METAMORPHOSIS-
"All things truly wicked start from innocence."
-Ernest Hemingway
I.
With her eyes still screwed up tightly in pretend sleep, she realized that she could not hear her father's footsteps. Oh, perhaps he was being especially quiet so as to catch her unawares. He liked to surprise her, her papa. Her fingers plucked at her cover restlessly as she waited, her eyes beginning to ache from holding them closed for so long. She waited and waited, listening for him, but the house was still silent and the hall empty of feet. Finally, dark lashes lifted from alabaster cheeks, golden eyes staring petulantly at the slanted wooden beams of her ceilings. Chryssatin Sinclair rarely pouted, but this once, the two-and-a-half year-old felt justified.
Every morning, right at dawn, her father tiptoed down the hallway-his feet were too big to be very quiet and she'd pretend to be sleeping, to fool him-and he would peek into her room.
"Why, look, a lovely little faerie sleeping in my bed," he'd whisper in awe. "I must have pleased a goddess somewhere for her to bring me such a precious gift." And then he would cross the room, lean over her, and tickle her. She'd laugh and shout to startle him, before she leapt at him. "Oh, no faerie at all, but my little Chryssie! Do you wish to fly like a faerie, darling?" He'd lift her high in his arms and fly her through the house, out in the yard, and back into the kitchen, where her mother would smile at them as she finished making the morning meal.
But this morning, for the first time ever, he hadn't come. He'd forgotten her, or perhaps he didn't want to play today. Today, Chryssie wanted to fly.
After only a moment's sulk, she sat up, her blanket pooling at her tiny waist and her hair tumbling down her back in riotous black waves. Her papa did work hard and maybe he was only overtired? He'd never forgotten her before. But he hadn't even come in to wish her a good morning. She glanced out the hole carved into the wood, frowning slightly at the sun already halfway over the horizon. It was indeed morning, later than ever, and he still hadn't come.
Her fingers anxiously pleated the edge of her cover and she stared down at her fingers pensively. Maybe her papa was sick? That could be the only reason he would not come and see her. He had been coughing the last week or so, but Mama had assured her it was nothing more than cold air in his body left over from working in the winter. Papa took a chill whenever the weather was foul, but it had never stopped him from their game.
Carefully, she shifted and wiggled around until her little feet hesitantly touched the harsh, cold floor. She let out a startled breath before she strengthened her resolve and rested the pads of her feet down. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and made her way quietly to her door. The wood opened without a creak or a groan, a testament to her father's skill.
She poked her head out into the hall, glanced left, glanced right, and frowned at the sound of voices coming from her kitchen. It was not her mother's soothing faerie voice or her father's deep, poetic voice. These voices were gruff, loud. Chryssie made a face as she crept down the hallway, closer to the kitchen. Those voices sounded like villagers. Chryssie didn't care much for villagers, despite her parents' good opinions of them and people in general. She was scared of them; they made her stomach flutter in a nasty way whenever they came to her home. She pressed her back against the frame of the door and listened.
"...you need while he is ill, Mistress Sinclair, please, do not hesitate to ask of us." A gentle, eager voice, perhaps one of the young men.
"The wild is frightful this time of year, Mistress Sinclair. Your husband is skilled and knowledgeable about these woods, but I confess I do not understand his reasoning for venturing in this weather. Well, it matters little now." A second male voice, raspy with age and cold. "He is back home, where he belongs."
"Matters little indeed." Yet another male voice, stiff and prim. Chryssie knew that voice and her shoulders hunched as her stomach cramped terribly. It belonged to Brandon Carey. He was the village blacksmith, and the little girl held him in the lowest opinion such a young child could muster. "I believe he takes a hard fever, Mistress Sinclair. Perhaps you will see to him? He works in the village among us and we desire no mystery illness of his own doing to befall the lot of us."
"I know what ails my husband." There, Mama's voice, soft and weary. A broken-winged faerie.
"Mistress Sinclair," Brandon inquired slowly, coldly, "perhaps this illness...is not of your husband Master Sinclair's doing at all?"
"I do not understand your question. My husband is fevered and you yourself have told me that you came upon him in the woods. If not the doing of so many factors, then what do you propose, Master Carey?"
There was only a heartbeat of silence. "Perhaps your doing, Mistress Sinclair?"
A fist thumped loudly on the table, the raspy voice bellowing, "Brandon!"
"She is supposed to be a healer," Brandon argued condescendingly. "And the husband of the town healer falls suddenly ill? It is no coincidence, Masters."
"How dare you insinuate such a thing," the young male hissed. "Mistress Sinclair is an angel of the highest caliber, she does so much good for all of us. Why, she even nursed my Emily back to health two winters ago! Damn you, Carey, to insult such a good woman!"
"George. Jeremiah." Her mother's voice was a sigh, only barely audible over the crackling of the hearth fire. "It was only a question... wasn't it, Master Carey?"
Chryssie held her breath, waiting. Mama rarely, if ever, yelled, but she feared her mother would flay his skin from his bones with her words. What if he struck her for her tongue?
"Master Carey... Every winter and spring, my husband Christopher is ill. It has always been this way for him and his father before him. And yes, healer that I am, I cannot stop such a thing. When I say I know what ails my husband, it is only because we live with it every year. Do you wish me to truly believe, Master Carey, that as a blacksmith, your own horse never needs shoeing?"
"Oh, you speak as if you knew the very thing of forging. But do not forget your place, Mistress Sinclair," Brandon reminded her icily. "You are still a woman and you cannot change this."
"You are in my home, Master Carey, and I can change that." The back door was opening, Chryssie felt the cold air skitter under the door to chill her feet. "Good day, George, Jeremiah. Master Carey. I sincerely thank you for bringing Christopher home. Take care on the path, please, for the stones are slick today."
"Good day, Mistress Sinclair." Old Jeremiah's footsteps were slow, but sure, when he walked out.
"Take care of that leg, Jeremiah."
"Yes, milady."
"Good day, Mistress Sinclair. Please, if you need any sort of assistance, Emily and I would be all too happy to help you."
"Thank you, George. Give Emily my best."
Chryssie risked a glance through her peephole in the door. She was unable to be of much help, but she did not want Mama to be alone with Brandon Carey. He was mean, scary. Heather stood at the door, holding the wood open for the last of her guests to leave. Brandon loomed over her. Chryssie bit her lip. He was so very big, and her mama was so dainty. His wide face was flushed red, the muscles in his thick neck and arms taut. He yanked his hat onto his head, glaring down at Heather. "Your husband lets you speak too freely for my taste."
Heather jerked her chin up, met his gaze head on, and Chryssie saw that this made him very angry. Another knot tightened inside her stomach and she let out a tiny whimper at the discomfort.
The woman kept her gold eyes intent on Brandon's face. "It is a good thing your taste matters not to me, Master Carey. The husband that I have loves me as I am." Mama's voice was still quiet, calm, but Chryssie shivered nonetheless. Her mama was very angry, she could feel it. "Please leave, Master Carey."
He leaned closer, menacing. He was close enough to spit or bite, but Heather would not step away, would not retreat. "Do you not see the folly in this, Heather?" he demanded. "You were not promised to Christopher Sinclair, but to me." His fingers curled around her arm, jerked her hard against him, his other hand gripping her wrist. "Your father promised you to me and you married Sinclair, you embarrassed me."
Chryssie backed away slowly from the door, her fingers pressed against her lips to stifle her gasp of fear and pain. He was going to hurt her mama, he was going to hurt her bad. Her other hand pressed against her stomach, desperate to stop the nasty pain knifing inside. She jumped when she felt a cold, weak hand on her shoulder, glanced up into green eyes as that hand nudged her gently out of the way.
"I made my intentions clear from the beginning to both my father and to you, Master Carey, and I swore I would never marry you. You are a monster, a brute and a bully. I love Christopher and I don't love you, simple as that. I'll not have you come into my home and accuse me of nonsense, will not stand for you coming here and trying to dispel my happiness with my family." She bared her teeth in an unladylike growl when he flexed his fingers, trying to crush her wrist in his massive hand. "You had best take your hands from me."
"Pray, listen to milady's words." His fair face bathed in the faint light of the fire, Christopher Sinclair's green eyes seemed to glow. "You will want to release my wife now, Carey."
Brandon stepped back, dropped Heather's arm and wrist with a grunt. His cold eyes appraised the leaner man. "You have the look of some of your health back, Sinclair."
"Aye. Tis a pity you will lose some of yours, Carey." He walked with slow, careful steps. "I thank you, indeed, for bringing me home. But there will be no thanks in the way you handle my wife."
Brandon cocked his head. "Jealous, Sinclair, that I should handle your wife at all?"
"No. For I know my Heather is true, just as sure as I know she can handle the likes of you. We have had this debate between us once before, just after Heather and I were wed. There is no law that decrees you must have love in your heart for me as your neighbor." His voice was soft, only a hint of darkness in his tone. "But there will be not a hand raised to harm her, lest you wish to deal with me." His eyes flared. "I promise you, Brandon Carey. That will be one fight you cannot bully your way out of. Now...I believe my lovely wife bid you a good day." He nodded courteously to the door. "Mind the wet stones on your way down."
Brandon scowled between the pair of them as he stomped out the door. "This is not over, Sinclair."
"No," the couple said in unison, watching him go, "it is not."
Christopher closed the door and held out a hand in silence. Heather turned her hand to expose her wrist and the ugly marks already forming there. Without a sound, he brought her hand to his face and touched his lips to the bruises and reddened skin. She sighed and reached up with her other hand to touch his face. The skin was cold, clammy. "You have only minutes before it fades away," she murmured with concern.
"I will be fine. Fetch Chryssie, Heather." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "She hides beside the door."
"I know that. Why else would I allow Brandon Carey to speak to me in that manner in my own home?" She could feel his mouth smiling against her skin at her indignation. "Our little faerie will not see me take a butcher's blade to the likes of him."
The fingers resting on Heather's shoulders twitched, curled. "It's slipping." His voice sounded strained. "Please, go, Heather, take Chryssie. I do not wish for her to see me as..."
"I know, my love." His body was already beginning to tremble terribly, his breath wheezing in his chest. She hugged him tight for one moment more before she released him and strode from the room. There was their little one, curled in a ball with her back pressed to the wall. "Chryssie." That little dark head lifted and her daughter's golden eyes were swimming with tears. "Ohh, little faerie, whatever is the matter?"
"Stomach hurts, Mama. Makes my stomach hurt. Bad man." The child's face crumpled into a sob and she raised her arms to be held. "Bad man, Mama."
Heather was in the middle of lifting her when she heard the terrible thud of her husband's knees hitting the floor. His glamour had faded, the appearance of health he'd summoned now dispelled. She swiftly took her daughter to the other end of their home, murmuring soothing nonsense over the sounds of Christopher's gasping and violent coughing.
FND: And so begins the tale of Chryssatin Sinclair, the child who would become Satin Sin. Comments? Questions? Let's hear them, guys!
Also: QUICK UPDATE! For those of you unaware, THE FIRST 8 CHAPTERS OF VH HAVE BEEN REWRITTEN! CHAPTERS 1-6 HAVE BEEN UPLOADED! So please, by all means, check 'em out!