For those who are new here, welcome.
This story is incredibly wild, confusing, sad, cute, fluffy, aggravating, wonderful, amusing, and enticingly adventurous.
The first chapter is the hardest, so please bear with me because this was*exhale* different.
For those of you who know me/this story...
I told you I would be back, didn't I?
This is not OHD. This is a do-over if you will.
My first fanfiction was just that, a first. Hopefully this will be an improvement.
If not. At least I tried.
Please enjoy it. I promise it will be better. Welcome back. I have missed you all.
Happy reading.
I respond to every review.
Shout out to all those who expressed there love to One Hundred Days. I will give responses to those who reviewed the final two entries of OHD next chapter.
I've missed you all.
I hope this doesn't disappoint you.
-PetiteElefant
P.S- I haven't fully decided on the name of this story. I apologize in advance if I change it.
Chapter One: Snowflower
Everyone lies. Everyone sins.
Some, like myself, made doing so an effortless routine.
My name in fact means The One Who Lies.
I am a monster.
Quite in both a literal and figurative sense.
I have harmed many. The blood on my hands the deepest of scarlets.
No longer am I proud of this.
I have been refined. Adjusted, if you will.
I am not supposed to be happy. Happiness was not an entity to felt, find, or even wish for, neither back then nor now.
My punishment, my dues, were to be everlasting. The length of my confinement a life sentence.
A death sentence.
Are these better words?
There I was supposed to wither and die as a firi blossom in the frost of winter. The bitter cold dries the frigid earth beneath it, choking it, sufficating ever so slowly. One by one it's delicate pink petals shrivel to a leathery brown and snap off, only to be carried away by the wind.
My life was as frail and fleeting as a single flower.
At the beginning, I knew not of whether my end would come as swiftly as being crushed by a heavy sole or ,perhaps, bit by bit like the drying up of thin, spidery roots. Yet it was neither. A gradual severing of the bud from it's stem by the blade of a pruning shear. Excruciating, deliberate.
My world was dark. My world was cold.
A faraway place of ruin and torment. That is where I was kept. That is where I was meant to die. Suffering was in fact, the objective. The method of which was very well-fabricated. Ailment inflicted in ,at first, subtle ,almost negligible ways...then, not long after, untold misery.
Chained to the inside wall of a jagged palisade within a murky cavern, I sat on a floor of icy rock, wearing very little, speculating what would happen to me. The darkness was so thick, so infinite, it almost had it's own consciousness. It was deviod of inhabitants save the nameless serpents whose collective murmurs of ghastly hisses would echo throughout the cave as they slithered over the surface of the blackened ice. I was constantly terrified.
Usually they kept to themselves, but once in a red moon, one would grow restless and I would hear a hollow croon as one approached me. Then, before I had a moment to scrabble away, a warm, sticky mass would creep across my feet. It was only then that would remember how large they were, some longer than my own height. Soon others would follow, and I didn't dare breathe noisily let alone move, for I knew from experience that doing so would provoke them. Oftentimes, I wasn't attacked albeit they left behind a viscid ooze that would cause sores to bubble up on my skin. They would itch and grow and bleed. Making any movement was uncomfortable.
Above my head icicles thawed and refroze, a cycle which produced an incessant drip, drip, drip. The cold water trickled onto my hair and soaked my body, and I would become gravely ill, accompanied persistent, violent fevers.
I was left alone initially, not having even an inkling of where I was. I attempted to yell for help but the efforts were futile. I was muted. My muzzle reduced me to silence. For days I called out. Pathetic squeaks were all that emerged.
They led me to believe that I was in solitude, that they wouldn't return. That they hadn't been watching me every moment. Eventually, on a day on which I cannot recall, they emerged. Slinking out like phantoms from the shadows. Cackling, laughing, like fowl.
The rank air was heavy with the breath of my brothers. What resulted was unimaginable.
Who would have known that hell was such a cold and barren ward?
Night and day they would come and I was to serve my punishment in passive silence. All there was to drink was that of the spilt blood of my sins, and all there was to eat were the ripened fruits of my transgressions. When I was awake I saw them, when I was asleep I saw them.
I cannot remember when I stopped counting the hours, the days, the weeks, the months I was in captivity. Consciousness was an unending nightmare, so I prayed for oblivion, when my body could no longer live for me, the scent of death lingering by my face.
After months my perpetual affliction, I awoke to the eyes of crimson as I had done for seemingly aeons. Those eyes of vermillion that belonged to my family, my family of blood, whom as an adversary they had handled me. The red eyes of hatred.
After being beaten, burned, staved, and otherwise wounded in which I will refrain from listing, I could not see, nor smell. Everything had pooled to an unlit black. My senses were numbed, truncated.
But I could hear. I heard dark, seething voices. Venomous. Icy.
"This is the last day. The last day of our betrayer." they said. "He'll be dead. He cannot live. Our mirth has finally ended."
That place...those dreadful eyes...how I still shiver. How I still quake.
Alas, I was not unlike a firi flower. I did wither.
But, my dear reader, I did not die.
Firi flowers are quite peculiar flora. They faint almost of fright at the slightest hint of cold, curling under on themselves and receding into the ground. Per contra, even in the dead of even the harshest winter, it germinates deep within the cryotic soil when a warmth beneath the layer moistens it to a loam.
As it grows, it battles the confines of the frozen earth until it breaks the hardened surface. It braces the frost and its petals bloom fuller and brighter than ever. It cranes and stretches for a single beam of light, and upon finding it, relishes in it—as if seeing it for the first time.
A ressurection.
And as I lay there, at my darkest moment, I took my final breaths. Yet, with my demise on the horizon, I felt an eerie warmth. Something that I hadn't felt in such a long while.
A golden sliver of hope came to liberate me. To bring life to a wilted flower on the verge of death.
It is only now that I recognize, at least in s surprisingly figurative sense, what is was.
It was my savior.
She did not know it but...
It was she.
Her.
My ray.
My light.
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