Hello everyone :) I was on holiday in Canada and have had the idea for this fic for what seems like a very long time. I had to write it down as soon as I came back, from fear of losing it completely, so I will continue with other fics asap; big writing weekend!
The first chapter is here and the second will be along very shortly, though in the mean time I would very much appreciate opinions even if this is the rather ambiguous opening. Much more to come, promise, as the next chapter just needs refining!
Hope you enjoy it, this has given me many sleepless nights trying to think of the words to perfect the idea and I hope it is ok... :)
Scarlet Vengeance
Chapter 1
The soft scents of spring, of blooming flowers basking in the bright affectionate light of the sun and new life taking in its first heavenly breath of fresh air, were long forgotten as fat slovenly droplets of rain pummelled unyieldingly at the ground. The sky which had once been set alight by the brilliant colours of a new morning was a damp and solemn grey, as the dull clouds masked the luminescent moon from the powerless abiding Earth.
The wind howled, the strangled cry of an angry animal in pain, hurtling through the air with a rage which knew no boundaries and held no prisoners to its mercy. It relished the destruction it knowingly caused, though no level of anarchy would ever be enough to satisfy such endless fury, regardless of what cost came in trying.
The Goddess of Weather herself was enraged, her livid screams the claps of thunder which shook the sky so violently. At her command, lightning struck the Earth to burn her sacred mark forever into the ground below. She banished the cool, fertile air of springtime and ordered chaos to follow in its wake; she had power which belonged to no other, as no-one else bore such a rage, and she was not afraid to impose it on her land.
But through it all, in the midst of the trees which wept in anguish standing amongst their dishevelled leaves, lay a castle of strong grey stone which hid between the creaking branches. It stood fast against the raucous bellowing of nature and lay down in the path of what would be a mighty storm: David and Goliath in battle. The castle embraced the power of the wind, brushed the falling teardrops sourced in woeful clouds from the roof and protected those who lay sleeping within from the cruel, harsh reality raging outside.
It was taken for granted, its rising turrets seen as prison watchtowers with only the purpose of confinement rather than places of comfort; yet in the segregation of this isolated place, the girls were safe. The castle, swathed in hundreds of years of magical history and prowess, stood as a shining beacon of hope and security and a shelter from the oncoming tempest.
As the weather destroyed its loyal kingdom, forcing the trees to bow down and tearing their branches until they stood baron and naked in the cold, Constance looked down from her own. She moved across her room to the open window, gliding effortlessly like a celestial goddess yet with an unquestionably certainty which could come only from someone in complete control. She understood, unlike so many others, why the weather turned in the blink of an eye to a portrayal of mindless rage and destruction; she knew because she had seen such deep anger in life, in others, in one woman she hoped never to meet again.
Constance rested her hands on the ledge of the window, feeling the cold rough surface of the stone beneath her fingertips. She liked the clear, sharp smell of rain as it splashed against the windowsill; it was a strong yet benign odour, one of a power which was present yet not necessary to yield. It remained there all the same, strong and deep in the brief scent it emitted as each droplet broke and shattered like glass.
It was easy to see what kind of person Constance Hardbroom was simply from looking; at least, it was simple to see the person who resided on the surface. She held her head up high; self respect and dignity were two qualities which she carried with her always like treasured possessions. The way she stood, her straight laced posture with an expression which would give nothing away, gave her a natural power and authority. She, like nature itself, had the capability to use her strength and skill to dominate and destroy, though she wore a wise head upon her shoulders; she needed to. Anyone who had lived the life she had led so far without her level-headed intelligence would surely have been driven to insanity.
The impossible truths of who Constance really was were hidden, lying locked away liked prisoners of war and the burden was left for her alone to bear. No-one could completely forget their past, discarding all of the memories to start life a fresh; the knowledge of what we have done influences our lives at present, and that could not apply more to anyone than Constance.
Every day she was reminded, her youth like a dark cloud hanging over her that only she could see and forcing a weight upon her shoulders that no-one could ever know she bore. She often wondered if they would see her differently if they knew, if they could read her life like that torn and frayed pages of an old battered book to discover the answers to questions they had not even thought to ask. That was why she kept the knowledge to herself; she couldn't stand sympathy. It was poison to her ego and everything she had worked so hard to protect and to conceive would crumble down around her, falling like the great Empire of Rome until only vacant buildings, the echoes of the woman she tried to be, would remain.
Having played the part for so long, even Constance did not know what truly lay beneath. She worked so hard to keep the mask, to hold it together on the days where she could easily have fallen apart, that she had become at one with it. Had one known Constance before her sixteenth birthday, they would not have recognised her now; she had changed, become something she never wanted to be and who nobody could ever even like because it was kinder than the truth.
She could have been beautiful had she ever allowed a genuine smile to soften her features and illuminate her face, or her ebony curls to hang loose around her shoulders rippling like waves on the ocean. Her face was too pale, her eyes holding back the bright spark of passion and wit which had would once have lit up a thousand skies.
The potions mistress had rejected any image of beauty a long time ago, hiding beneath long, thick black dresses through fear of being liked, or worse: of being loved.
No, fear was not something that she had ever admitted to nor felt the need to embrace, for she had learned many years since that fear brought nothing but darkness to already hopeless situations; she had needed to learn. When you're drowning in a pool which seems to have no end, to thrash is only to distress yourself further; Constance could think of no better analogy for her youth. It was a lesson she had required not just for her peace of mind, but for her survival.
Constance's long, thin fingers moved to the taught braided bun which sat in silence atop her head. She began the long and arduous process of releasing the dark curls from their imprisonment; she had adapted long ago so that she did not feel the agony of each moment as her tight scalp throbbed. As her fingers worked now, she ignored the stabbing pains which radiated across her head.
Pain was a weakness that so many took for granted, though which Constance had sworn never to indulge in. It had become her normal state of mind; pain, for so long, had been a part of her life and now it was part of who she was. Her younger self would have cursed her words, the undercurrent of self loathing in every action against her body; that was a different her, a different girl from another world who could never understand.
The wind caught the first loose tendrils in its mighty grasp and as the rest was freed she allowed it to be caught, the breeze brushing gently against her cheek despite its power. Constance folded her arms regally across her chest, a queen looking out across her land; something was not right. She could feel it, how something did not sit right although she had not seen or heard anything untoward. Constance trusted very few things in life, but her instincts were the only things she had true faith in; to her knowledge, they had never been wrong.
She looked past the rain, through the haze which hung like smoke in the air and into the night
beyond. Even with the eyes she had taught to tune in like a hawk to any obscurity on the widest of scales, nature would not allow her to look deeply into the night. The darkness, she feared, held more secrets and evil tonight than she would ever wish to know.
Constance knew that they were protected and that no-one should want to harm a school of girls, but the voice of reason seemed to sing a muted tune beneath the chorus of alarm bells. She felt a shiver reach down her spine, as though a droplet of icy water was crawling down her back where no-one was ever allowed to reach. She was not scared, she was never scared, but something about this night unnerved her more than she cared to admit even to herself. It was the feeling, as she took one final glance from the window, that if she turned away then she would turn her back on an unseen enemy.
Xxx
The rain was like a chorus of drums as the droplets hit the leaves on the ground or which clung desperately to the strongest branches. The darkness watched as Constance turned away from her window and retreated into her own shadows; only it wasn't just the darkness which was looking on.
A figure moved almost soundlessly across the leaves, darting between shadows and hiding as they watched the castle walls with malicious precision. The figure wore a thick black travelling cloak, with the hood pulled over to mask their face though no-one was around to see and all that was visible through the night was the impossibly bright glint of their eyes. There was something deep in those eyes, something pure and reckless; not a combination of perfect harmony.
The figure placed a gloved hand on the rough bark of the tree and dared to move closer to the edge of the forest. The hunger, the desire to move now and invade the castle silently like a virus was almost overwhelming. But no, the plan was set. Everything was in motion, and as the cloaked stranger blended once more back into the shadows, becoming lost to the night as they wished it to be, they allowed a smile to creep across their covered face.
It was a knowing smile, one which warned of dark days ahead for Constance Hardbroom.
Yes, I know, ambiguous but the next chapter will be up very soon and whilst waiting for that, you could, oh I don't know, possible spend a few minutes telling me what you thought? :)