Shadow Hearts: Covenant and all its characters are copyright their respective creators.

Candy Canes and Gingerbread
02: Origin


Winter, 1892

Cold winds of winter swept coarsely across Russia's darkened backstreets, engulfing its inhabitants in a cruel chill. Although the season of snow and hail lasted but three months, it might as well have lasted for eternity. The frost never went away - embedded deep into the vermillion marrow of their bones - forever to linger no matter how closely they pressed against the pathetic fire - coal-black smoke rising from burning cloth to water their eyes and poison their lungs.

But they huddled closer anyway, hands outstretched in the vain effort of collecting whatever warmth available, palms held open as burning fireflies drifted into the icy night. One could barely wedge a thumb through the wall of humanity that surrounded the metal barrel -

Yet the frail, skeletal girl in scraggly blonde hair did her best.

He uttered a half-crazed, territorial growl and a large, coarse hand lifted to strike her down. The man mumbled a mixture of expletives through half-missing, half-rotten teeth, about to tear the raggedy thin blanket from her shoulders.

She merely watched with grey-blue eyes, metallic and steely and dead in their gaze, her too-small clothes soaking up the wetness of the pavement.

A roar of flame erupted suddenly, plunging the backalley into shadows and light, throwing him backwards. Cowering old women and shivering large men watched with half-dazed fascination at the writhing form before them, edging closer to this grim source of warmth.

The girl turned towards the streets -

A small figure silhouetted by the setting sun. Glossy brown hair fell delicately around finely-boned features, settling gracefully upon shoulders protected from the cold by rich, shimmering fur. She wore thick make up over her creamy skin, and stood regally with the posture of a queen.

Without a word, the girl picked up the torn blanket, throwing it over her shoulder confidently. "I could've handled that myself."

"There is no need to fool yourself so, child."

Her small nose lifted slightly. "Hmph. How do you think I survived living in this wretched hellhole? By asking for help at every turn?"

"You would have been dead if not for me."

"Hah! That old drunk couldn't hit a wall if he walked into it." Pale blue eyes smirked derisively, the scent of burnt flesh caressing her senses. There was a misplaced confidence about her, a mystifying sense of self, a personal assurance that she was better than street scum and she knew it.

Silence. "...What is your name, child?"

The first sign of hesitance flitted across her features, before she answered quietly, small hand lifting to push matted dirty-blonde hair from her face. Her thin shoulders visibly squared, white skin hardened by life showing through a large patch, drawing herself to a regal height unbefitting her tiny and forlorn stature.

"I am Veronica." Pause. "And you?"

The briefest amusement crossed the flower of Florence's features. "Carla."