Title: Tripudio per Nox Ventus
Rating: T (will go up)
Genre: friendship, drama, tragedy, mystery, eventual romance, etc. etc.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Underworld (characters, places, time periods, viral infections, etc. etc.).
Summary: Burned, scarred, and alone, Anya is left to die under the moonlight. She is more than willing. Perhaps it is Fate's cruel joke that she should be saved by a beast—a monstrosity of matted fur, thick fangs, and sickle-like talons.
A/N: This will be told from my main OC's 1st person POV. It will also be told through Raze's, Lucian's, Singe's, and other OC's 3rd person POV. I'd posted the prologue of this before, but I took it down. I've changed a few things to those that've read the earlier piece. Completely disregard that prologue... mostly anyway... The French translations are at the end of the chapter. I tried to make it to where you didn't necessarily need the translations to understand the story. I hope I did it right, lol.
Chapter o1:
Of Sand and Sorrow
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... near the outskirts of Alexandria, Egypt... 1825
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"Non!" I gasp.
Flames writhe around the expanse of my sanctuary... my home. The windows are blackened by smoke and I can hear heart wrenching screams.
Mother... Father... Lyra... No, no, no... No!
Aucun Dieu! Please, no!
I tear across the field of sand, which appears a dismal grey in the bony white of the moon, and trip going up the steps. On the porch, I shield my eyes from the brightness of the flames and blow out the stinging air through my nose. The suffocating perfume of burning wood and furniture lingers, imprinting on my memory. I can't refrain from gagging and my spit all but chokes me to death.
... la chaleur... si chaud…
The granite pillars flanking the entrance are no longer a smooth white, but a thick sable. I take a step toward the double doors, but a window near it bursts and the licking flames engulf the doors completely. The hot glass showers across my skin and I howler out in pain. A few pieces have embedded themselves in my right arm, one wedged glaringly in my palm. I do my best to ignore them.
"Lyra! Mère! Père!"
Rien.
I brush my dampened bangs from my sweaty forehead and shiver uncontrollably. Their screams have long since silenced. Arctic fingers weave their way around my insides, making me nauseous. The skin on my lower stomach creeps and bitter tears claw at the backs of my eyes, much like the sun does when it's far too bright ... stabbing... twisting... agony!
"Mother!" I scream in her native tongue.
A minute passes... still nothing!
"Père!" I sob as I race around the back, nearly tripping again.
My only acknowledgement is the disjointed hum of cackling flames and the splitting, sizzling sound of blistering wood. I peek in through the reasonably pristine window of the library. The books are swiftly becoming nothing but bound ash and the plush cherry wood seats are close behind them. I glance around myself frantically and pick up a wrought-iron chair with my left hand. My wrist almost gives under the weight, but I'm able to shatter the window. A surge of asphyxiating smoke escapes into the night and I lurch backward.
"Mother, answer me!" I cough, using her native tongue again.
My heart flutters wildly as the muffled sound of coughing enters my ears. It's my father. I'm sure of it!
Working with shaky fingers, I rip a thick piece of my shirt free and tie it around my mouth and nose. Several times, the material catches the glass in my hand and pulls nastily, forcing a strangled yelp from my lips. I bite my tongue against the pain and focus on my father's miserable coughing. The warmth of the blood as it trickles along my fingers turns my stomach and I quickly swallow the disgusting bile back down.
"Père!" I shout into the broken window.
The smoke burns my eyes, but I awkwardly climb through, falling roughly on my side. The pain is short-lived and dull compared to the heat on my skin. I get to my feet with the use of my left hand and exit the large room through the opposite entrance to the dual doors, which are now utterly swathed in flames. In the corridor, the smoke remains elevated due to the grand height of the ceiling, offering me clean air to breath, as I hurry past a porcelain vase, which I accidently knock off onto the floor. The sound of its vociferous nose-dive echoes throughout the glowing hallways and crackling rooms, but I do not pause. Only my eyelashes flicker and my ears seem to prick forward, as if I'm am some kind of dog.
I reach the spiraling staircase—one of three, including the main stairway in the foyer—and hastily make my way up, bounding artfully, two steps at a time. Atop the stairs, the fire is heavier, hungrier. I cautiously make my way past its roaring talons and toward my parent's room at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar with a russet-colored hand wedged in the opening.
Mother...
I slowly push the door until it is stopped by something solid. I peek through. My mother is laying face on the carpet, her raven hair a wild mess and burns polluting her lovely skin.
I don't see my father.
"Mother…" I whisper hoarsely as I kneel beside her.
No answer.
"Mère! Mère, s'il vous plaît se réveiller!" I beg.
She does not stir.
"Get up, mother! Where is father? Where is Lyra?" I try in her Egyptian tongue.
Her flesh is sweltering beneath my hands as I gingerly roll her over. My throat locks as I drink up the charred ugliness of her face. Her eyebrows have been burned off and her skin has been practically melted to the quick. Her lips are cracked and bleeding, and I catch a strong whiff of burnt hair. I'd smelt it earlier, but it hadn't register until now. Her hands aren't in any better shape than her face and the nightgown she wore had burnt holes dotting the silken material.
Tears crawl up my throat again and wet the rims of my eyes. My vision blurs and I lean down to hug her. No breath blows across my face as I kiss her hot cheek. "Mother," I choke.
Of course, she never answers me.
After a moment of absorbing the fact that my mother is indeed dead, I hazily remember that I'd heard my father's weedy hacking. Perhaps, my sister is with him. I needed to find them, but I did not want to leave my mother. My hands tremble and I cough into the already grimy strip of material wrapped around my nose and mouth. I wouldn't last in here much longer.
Looking back down at my mother's charred body, I whisper a swift prayer and exit the room. The tears course down my cheeks like swelling falls and my stomach twists into raw, aching knots. The fire has taken over the entire hallway now, leaving my sister's room as the only chance of exit. I step through the doorway and am greeted by a thick wall of black smoke. I crouch low to the floor and call out to my sister.
No answer.
I feel along the floor, searching for her bed. "Lyra!"
Then, that flimsy strangled coughing. "Père? Père!
"Anya…" his uneven voice grunted. "Anya?"
"Papa, où Lyra?" I struggled with the next sentence. "Maman... ânesse—"
"Je sais , amour." He murmured weakly, sadness lacing his tone.
I inch along the room until I can see the outline of his figure, crumpled against the far corner of the room. His sandy hair hangs damply about his sweaty face and his morning eyes—the color of the dawn over a diamond faceted sea—shines with the fire's glow. I reach for his hand and he grips my fingers tightly, desperately.
"Où Lyra?" I cough; the smoke is becoming too thick to breathe.
He caresses my face with his other hand; it's covered in blood. "Ils ont pris Lyra. Ils torturer Layla." He sobs. "L'incendie... Le était pas une l'accident."
"Quoi!" I gasp, the smothering taste of smoke souring my mouth.
The fire had been set? They tortured mother? They took Lyra? Boiling anger replaces my trepidation and I glare at the flames. Who'd want to harm us? Who'd want to kidnap my own sister? Why? It couldn't have been thieves. All the valuables are burning with the house... my home... If it'd been for ransom, they would've taken all the shiny heirlooms, thick, expensive books, and gorgeous vases with them. Everything burned.
"Quelle?" I clench my father's hand, causing him to groan.
"Je fais pas savons , chérie. Vous avez à échapper à voici précédemment it's trop de tardive." He finishes the last word and drops his head in exhaustion.
I could not leave him. I would not. "Père... Nous devons sortir ensemble. Viens one." I attempt to help him up.
"Non," he coughs, his breathing more labored than ever. "Non... Vont Anya. Moi ne pas se promener."
I glance down at his legs. His right one is mangled beyond repair. They must have tortured him, too. My lower lip quivers. "Papa..."
"Font que Je dis , fille!" He snaps harshly.
"Papa..." I weep. " Moi ne pas s'en aller vous."
The lines on his face soften and he cups my face with both his hands; I care not for the blood that smears onto my left cheek. "Vont Anya... vont."
I swallow the lump in my throat. If anyone has the chance of getting Lyra back, it's me. I have to hold onto my strength... I have to leave him. "Je vous aime , papa."
"Et Moi vous , chérie. Vont..." He kisses my forehead; I memorize the way his rough lips feel against my skin.
The arching window near my sister's bed is still untouched by the fire. I stare at my father's acquiescent eyes for a long time before finally moving. His gaze never leaves my back as I unlatch the lock and push the slabs of stained-glass back. Smoke whirls past me and into the heavens, befouling the shimmer of the stars. You have to move. I turn back, soaking up all the detail of the room: my father watching me, watching him, the flames licking like the tongues of hungry hyenas, the wood blackening, the cloth catching and turning to ash... My father's cracked lips trembling, unshed tears held back. He's scared. No... you have to go, Anya!
"Au revoir , papa." I whisper.
Before the heavy sorrow forces me to turn back and run to him, I leap down onto the roof. The fresh air is a godsend to my lungs and I gulp it down like cool, clean water. The darkness beyond is even darker due to the fire. Shadows play tricks on me and the sickle moon is made an ugly, infected yellow because of the poisonous smoke. I creep to the edge and look down. It's a good ten to fifteen foot drop. If I landed wrong, I'd easily break my ankle. I'd have to be precise.
Christ...
I never had the advantage of grace or balance. Too little... too late, I suppose. I grip the edging tightly and shut my eyes. My right hand is all but numb now, the hemorrhaging finally reduced to nothing more than a thin rivulet down my middle finger. I inhale deeply and lean foward. The rush of my body's sudden momentum whooshes my hair back and air whistles past my ears. The ground arrives under my feet and hands before I have time to think and a blistering pain surges through my right palm. My eyes snap open and I see that I've lodged the chunk of glass all the way through the other side of my hand. I wail pitifully and cradle it to my chest. The ache is sharp and unforgiving.
I remain there for a few minutes, simply blubbering like a child. My emotions are so heavy. Mother... Father... Lyra...
I needed to get up. I needed to find her. Now, she's all I have left.
Just as I rise to my feet, a foreboding crack sounds behind me. I turn to look—
And, a window explodes outward, showering my left shoulder and neck with glass and fire. I feel the heat snaking all the way up to my chin and I scream… and I scream… and I scream.
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-Translations-
Layla - Egyptian (born of night)
Tripudio per Nox Ventus - Latin (Dance with Night Wind)
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(French)
Non! - No!
Aucun Dieu! - No, God!
... la chaleur... si chaud… - ... the heat... so hot...
Père! - Father!
Mère! - Mother!
Rien. - Nothing.
Mère! Mère, s'il vous plaît se réveiller! - Mother! Mother, please wake up!
Je sais , amour. - I know, love.
Papa, où Lyra? - Daddy, where's Lyra?
Maman... ânesse - Mom... she
Ils ont pris Lyra. Ils torturer Layla. L'incendie.... Le était pas une l'accident. - They took Lyra. They tortured Layla. The fire... It was not an accident.
Quoi! - What! (on this one, they gave me several different choices... so if I picked the wrong one, please let me know!)
Quelle? - Who?
Je fais pas savons , chérie. Vous avez à échapper à voici précédemment it's trop de tardive. - I do not know, sweetheart. You have to get out of here before it's too late.
Père... Nous devons sortir ensemble. Viens one. - Dad.... We have to get out together. Come on.
Vont Anya. Moi ne pas se promener. - Go Anya. I cannot walk.
Font que Je dis , fille! - Do as I say daughter!
MOI ne pas s'en aller vous. - I cannot leave you.
Je vous aime , papa. - I love you, daddy.
Et Moi vous , chérie. Vont... - And I you, sweetheart. Go...
Au revoir , papa. - Good bye, papa.