Frozen Memories
A/N: Hai everyone! I'm an avid Fanficion reader, but this is actually only my second time writing one! From how this turned out, I'll most likely stick to just reading them. ( ◡‿◡ *)
This was actually written for a school assignment that I was able to make a fanfiction as well,, so it's a little different than something one would normally read. It is a little dark!
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"People of Ardhalis; for how long will decent men and women of Ardhalis accept to live in these indecent conditions? The Aevaster family is guilty of crimes.. have tried to keep buried. A person's social status shouldn't determine the consideration they receive from their rulers…We are left trembling with indignation at these disgraceful injustices… Right to education, healthcare, security… We do not call for violence, we want a peaceful Revolution… We demand that our plea be heard and that the people of Ardhalis be treated like the decent men and women we all are."
The Snapdragon
—
Snow fell from the sky.
It landed on the tall roofs of Ardhalis city, piled up on boxes at the docks, and dusted the flowers in the Royal palace's garden. It fell on the desolate streets of Graychapel, through the holes in old roofs, and blanketed the ruble. The snow even fell on the river, where it dissolved into the giant mass as it slowly but relentlessly carried everything in its way with it to the vast sea.
The snow fell on everything, not caring what it fell on, or who. Whether it fell on the spires of the palace roof, or the cracked chimneys of Graychapel, it did not care. It treated all as equal, for nature does not follow the petty rules of men. No matter what man may think, under the powers of nature, man becomes powerless.
Yet everywhere, everyone did their best to evade the snow, as if knowing its cold grips would spare no one pity.
They hurried quickly to their destinations, keeping to the sides of the street where there was shelter. Cars drove at a slow pace, pushing their way along, tires giving slightly on the packing snow. In homes across the city, fires were lit in fireplaces, the warmest of meals prepared, and blankets warmed.
—
The less fortunate had their own ways of surviving the snow as well, or their pitiful attempts to do so.
These were the masses forgotten, or willfully ignored by the general populace. With their lack of social status, and denied education, healthcare, security, these outcasts gathered in the one place they felt welcome, Graychapel.
A desolate corner of the city surrounded on two sides by water, this slum was full of abandoned buildings, blocked off alleyways, and grimy factories. This neighborhood, if it could be called that, is where many of the homeless found themselves.
There, they fought for the best places to beg, the buildings not completely ruined, the hidden alleyways the police didn't know of. They filled the streets, huddling in whatever shelter they could find.
They were destined to live out the rest of their days, fighting over mere junk, in the hopes that somehow they might find the means to last a little longer in the unforgiving world.
Unless… there was another option.
Something never spoken of, barely even acknowledged. But still, the rumors circulated.
The Phantom Scythe.
Everyone, from the King and Queen, to the homeless in Greychapel, knew that name. And what it meant.
All the murders. The explosions. The assassinations.
Everything the Phantom Scythe did spread fear in the city, but that wasn't what they were after. They were after the monarchy. If the king would not change to help the people, they would change him.
Through violence.
There were those who thought that the violence was too much, and who feared the group. They thought of them as evil. But when the cold got too frightening, the hunger too strong, and death crept closer, the unspoken option seemed better and better.
And so, every now and then, someone would disappear off the streets. Either they had died, or…
It was left unsaid.
Staying meant death, but the other option.. meant death of the soul.
—
The snow also fell on the shoulders of a young girl, as she sat on the street with her back to one of the tenants. She blended in rather well into the bleak world around her, her large gray dress almost the same color as the filthy street. Even her hair, the pale pink that it was, was dirty and unkempt, having no means to keep it nice. The one thing that stood out against the gray was the small flaming match that she held almost carelessly in her hand. Her eyes duly stared into the fire, as she watched it bravely burn in the night, its fire creeping down the stick toward her fingers.
This girl hated the snow.
To her, the snow was not beautiful, it was hard and evil, and served as a reminder for just how cruel this world was. She hated it, because the snow was just like the nobles who sat in their rich houses, and the king and queen in their palace. The snow may look pretty, but get close and one realizes it's just cold and painful, and takes life as easily as one might blow a match out.
It would cover over all the grime, broken buildings, broken lives, with a bright layer of clean snow, but Bella knew better. Even if the brokenness was hidden, it wasn't gone. And when the snow melted, the brokenness would be revealed, even more rotten than before.
And when snow came to Greychapel, it meant death. The snow would cover anything and everything it could with its freezing flakes, whether what it covered was things.. or beings. And once the cold blanket first landed, and seeped through the thin cloth onto skin, then it became nearly impossible to invade the numbing death that would follow.
Bella also hated the snow for another reason, a more personal one. It reminded her of times she didn't want to think of, but most importantly, a day she wanted to forget.
—
It was a day no different than the one she was in now, with the exception of one thing, or rather, one person. Bella's mother. Bella had grown up in Greychapel or as long as she could remember, but at least she's had her mother. And her mother has always tried her best to take care of her.
Forever hiding from the police or thugs, her mother and her would spend nights in alleys or in abandoned buildings, whatever they could find. Her mother would often leave in the evening, re-appearing in the morning exhausted and tired, but carrying a piece of bread or such. She'd give whatever it was to Bella, promising her she'd already eaten, and then curl up under their blanket and sleep till evening came again. She often cried while she slept.
Once Bella asked her where we went during the day, but her mother only replied that she was doing what was necessary to keep Bella alive. She didn't mention herself, or say any more. But she always told Bella to not go out and about during the day, and to stay hidden at night.
And that's how they lived, until that day.
It used to be a day Bella thought she would never forget. But after years of pushing away all thoughts and focusing only on survival, she seemed to have forgotten the details of the day. But she did remember the haunting images that seemed to never leave her mind, and the very real anguish and anger she felt.
They had been walking through an alley- that she remembered. The alley was surprisingly clear, most alleys in Greychapel sported at least two or three homeless, most more. More than should be on the streets, especially on such a day.
Her mother held her hand; she always did that when they were traveling together. The snow crunched beneath their feet, though the snowfall had momentarily paused. Bella could see her mother shivering, her breath visibly billowing out in front of her.
Bella watched her breath almost fascinatingly. She'd watched it many times, yes, but she always found it fascinating. It was a sign of life, of a body still trying to fight against the cold.
A car appeared around the corner, and came toward them, the headlights shining into Bella's eyes and making her squint. She could see the driver at the wheel, a stoic man, his eyes directly boring into hers. In the back seat, she could see a gentleman and a lady, clearly wealthy.. nobles perhaps.
Her mother hated the rich and nobles. She said they were the reason Graychapel was so full of homeless beggars like themselves.
The car rumbled toward them, not once slowing, and suddenly Bella found her face full of snow and the cold wet all around her, aas her mother pushed her into one of the snow piles. She heard a thump, and her mother cry out, her voice pained. Bella immediately pushed herself up on her arms, looking around worriedly.
The car was near the end of the alley now, continuing to rumble on at a steady pace. She could see the nobles peering out of the back windows, their faces unreadable. The woman's mouth was open, as if in shock. Then the woman turned away, and then the man pulled down the blind, shielding them from view. The car turned the corner and disappeared.
Bella quickly turned her head and found her mother also lying next to her in the snow. But the snow wasn't white. It was red.
Her mothers face, which was normally red and chapped, was now pale. Her life force slowly seeped out into the pale powder, as her face whitened with each passing moment. Her eyes were open, but didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. Bella became aware that the warm billows of breath she had watched so intently earlier, were slowly becoming smaller.
Then they stopped.
The snow began to fall again, the small flakes landing on her mothers face and body. They didn't melt. The snow already began to cover the thick blood that had pooled around her mothers neck. You can cover the blood, but you can't erase it.
Her mothers face reminded Bella of the snow that surrounded them, so pale and cold. White like the snow.
She hated snow.
—
Wind blew through the street, billowing her dress around her and her hair ruffled slightly. In her hands, the flaming match blew out, it's warm red fire snuffed out in an instant.
Bella stared at the black nub a moment more, and then dropped it into the hard stone street. Without much apparent thought, she pulled another match from the matchbox she clutched to her chest, and lit it with seeming ease. She then resumed her position, gazing with uninterested eyes at the small flame before her. How eagerly it burnt. How bravely it danced. And how easily it died, destined to stay alive for not much more than a minute. Once it began to burn, it could not escape its fate.
Footsteps.
Bella could hear footsteps as they came down the street, the noise echoing off of the buildings around her. Footsteps too loud for this area. Everyone who lived here tried to not draw attention to themselves, but it was clear that the owner of these noises did not care to try and hide.
She slouched even further against the wall, her eyes never leaving the flame at her fingers. The footsteps continued to sound, but Bella noted that they didn't seem to be getting fainter.
Then they stopped.
The feet stood in front of her, polished shoes with white socks. Shoes that didn't belong here.
Slowly, she lowered the match to her lap, and then cast her eyes upward, her face unchanging.
A hand reached out, resting in front of her eyes.
Stay here and die tonight, or follow that hand to an unimaginable future, one forever connected and indebted to the owner of the fancy shoes.
The choice took only a moment.
—
A/N: Thank you for reading!
