Lyselilla

by lynara-valessie

A girl gets reborn into Naruto's warring states era, dies, then is reincarnated once more—this time, in the Harry Potter world. Only, it's a crossover, and she doesn't know what to do. Honestly, though? She's there just for the ride, family of killers and all. It's rather…familiar. [SI-OC as Lord Voldemort's daughter; cross-posted on AO3]

1. Born of the Serpents — I

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Before anyone questions the crossover, I just want to say that this is a fanfic based on my experience as a reality shifter. If you don't know what that is, I recommend keeping an open mind and doing some research.

I've had the idea for making a story for my HP and Naruto DR's for years now. Many parts of the fic will be things that happened in it, though obviously with a spin for the sake of the narrative itself. Also, yes, if you've been on the Tumblr shifting community, you'll recognise me as my-reality-my-rules. If I haven't been active on the platform, this is a part of the reason why. And before anyone from the shifting community gets concerned about certain events in this story, please remember that this is a fanfiction. I am so exhausted at seeing people trying to police so many things about shifting; and, again, this is only a creative interpretation of my DR.

I rated this fic Mature because of certain themes that'd pop up in the future, as a heads-up for those who might not be comfortable with them. Here's a few of the major topics to be included: identity struggles, incest and familial violence, crime and morality, bits of philosophy, and so on and so forth. Please remember that the MC is an unreliable narrator, and no matter how factual the tone of writing sounds, she's still very much biased in her accounts.

Lastly, there's a drabble at the start and end of each chapter. They're mostly small interactions that happen in the future; they don't particularly fit into any serious part of the narrative, so, I just added them as a little slice-of-life type of thing (because I was bored :P).

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LYSELILLA

Born of the Serpents — I

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

[April 1980 — June 1981]

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A black leather diary.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, it says on the back.

Once opened, the pages will be blank, devoid of any sign of life. But there is a weight to them—to this yellowing bundle of papers; a history of blood, a sequence of events that she does not bother to recall. The girl takes the book from her uncle's hands—a gift, he intones softly, hah—and there is a sneer itching to twist her face, but she only grins up at him in quiet thanks.

It is an innocuous thing.

Her magic begged to disagree.

Later that night, she cracks it open as she lays in bed; taking her ballpoint pen and inking down an introduction she knows the spirit inside cannot ignore—not for anything. And four seconds later, when he responds in kind, in that beautiful flowing script of his—

…what a surprise. I wouldn't have expected someone from your family to have come by my diary.

—she actually sobs, ecstatic.

Oh, how I've missed you so, she smiles sadly.

•⸻•

•⸻•

It began with a name.

Immortalised in nothing but ink and stone.

(Her father always calls her the wrong sort of killer; a curse, a stain upon his own family. The one to lead their very line to its ruin. Once, she begs for his mercy. Once, she cries for his warmth. Then, in a flash, he is the one reaching out to her, and she is the one who spurns him.)

(He is not wrong, but he is not so right, either. Her heart has always been too big and too soft for someone of their status—so, he strikes it out of her chest, and his hands are stained with her agony. The organ beats. One, two, three. Four. Then, when he dies, she pulls out the last of her own identity herself, strings of the flesh stretching and snapping; and she ensures she will not repeat the mistake.)

(And yet, against her better judgement, she does. She cannot get rid of this bit of humanity in herself, try as she can to rebuff it.)

She bled out, twice then, content with embracing the end of her being, of all that she had done and sinned. Her legacy was secured with her very blood and bone. Death had always been something she sought out willingly—something intimate to her, in all the ways it counted, even if she did so now with more moral intentions at hand; this was no different.

Perhaps she was craven to take a romantic way out, in both times. First, with the sword of the thunder god through her chest; and second, with the mercy of a mad lover in her throat. But here, now, as she stared up into a red moon, fingers cooling into the earth—she could not find it in herself to care.

(The girl she once is gasps in the back of her mind. She writhes inside a cage, a weak little beast made of hopes and wishes. One lifetime ago; she will have yearned for better tomorrows, for lovelier days, for soccouring years. She will have chased those childish impulses.

But now, that is all in the past—and here, she can only cough and keen as the chill seeps into her skin. That girl can only watch as everything fades away, she can only cry softly as all she knows dissipates.)

Her passing was coming along.

She gave her best to the people who mattered. Her comrades would find her there, sooner or later, lying down on dead earth as the last of her breaths stuttered out of existence. And by then, she would feel completed once more, content to lay her head on her weeping lover's lap as she drifted out of consciousness. It must be fine, it had to be. All that she did, they led to this moment, and she could not spare any more time to regret those choices.

It was queerly easy to smile, to laugh, in those last few seconds.

And, with one last sigh of peace and contentment, the world faded away in silence.

She did not intend to wake up again.

"Kyō." A voice sobbed, and then she was gone.

(Her father cares little about her; she will not meet him in the Pure Lands after this. If there is another sort of existence afterwards, then perhaps she will damn him once more. Perhaps she can have another chance at vindication. But she knows that this is not it. There is no heavenly judgement here, there is no satisfaction to be gained. It is only a state of transition.)

("Kyō." That is how her life begins. Her sire sneers down at her; and he utters the name with sheer hatred. "My bane and misfortune.")

It ended with her name.

And then.

And then.

And—

But—

But then—

But then, so came a light.

(And so comes her rage.)

When awareness settled, confusion overtook her. But she knew.

First came the surprise, and then came the vexation, and then came the grief.

So.

It had not been enough for a respite.

But still, she wondered.

Perhaps this was penance, perhaps this was purgatory.

She knew it to be another chance, but she, for a long time, had since shed the arrogance to assume it stood to be anything close to forgiving. To scholars and religious fanatics, this might have been paradise. This could be their romance, their grand adventure, their heaven after the bridge. To some others, the cycle of death and rebirth appeared to be a blessing, something to be celebrated. And perhaps it was; after all, the gift of life was a privilege. She would be a fool not to take it as one.

And yet, all the same, she had been too sentimental to think—to even lay a smattering of wishes on the off-chance—that it would have been her last go-around. To her, this stood as everything of the irrational—this existed as what finally pushed her off-balance, what made her float on another cold expanse of guilt and paranoia. It creeped in as a subtle agony, always on the edge of her mind, hemming and hawing as she pushed herself to her limits.

The idiot she had been, as she opened her eyes to that second reality—she dared to be happy. To create a better world with the idols she held dear, to leave it a place with more good and kindness than she started out with; she peered out to the sky and declared her own ambition with a smile.

(Her father tears through that idealism, and she keeps herself alert with her own paranoia.)

She would not commit that same error again.

Somewhere, deep in her soul, she hoped everything ended here. There was a growing sense of dread in the pit of her stomach—the kind that made people confused about acids and butterflies in their hearts, the one swirling in madness and that feeling of muted comprehension.

This would be the end.

It had to be.

(It has to, it has to, it has to.)

(Not for anything else.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

("Don't you want to live forever?"

She sighs at his question. Her cousin takes the pipe from her limp hand before it falls, and she blows the smoke out to the side. They both watch the white fuzz swirl into nothing before them, an exhale of exhaustion pushed out of her; and she closes her eyes.

"Not…really. I just want to die in peace.")

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Will I see you at the end?"

"If that's what you want."

"Then wait for me. Just be there."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

And so.

She is a child once more.

It was easy to pretend to be one, easier still to let loose the emotions that only a babe could cry out. The pettier side of her, however, forced her to disregard those infantile urges; to choke back the wails when her memories settled, to close her eyes when her fists shook, to stay silent when her body demanded its proper nutritions. Come the course of days, weeks, perhaps even months—her agitation shifted into subtle unrest, but soon, she found herself needing more.

Struggling for survival had become second-nature to her. There had been a certain nostalgia to it—to those images of war in her mind; a sort of adrenaline that nothing else could quite replicate, where every vein in her body sang with freneticism.

Here, now—

Waking up in a body not her own was not a foreign experience—after all, she had faced this once, before. But it is jarring, nauseating. She was trapped inside another cage of her own flesh; movements restricted by the body of a babe, unable to do anything but shit and mewl. The indignation clawed at her, most of the time; she would refuse to interact with whoever had been put on duty to watch her, too caught up in her own humiliation to even bother to care about them. Her anger seethed underneath the surface of her skin, pushing and pulling, going in a back-and-forth as time passed.

Not to mention the fact that she is surrounded by some sort of…humming energy, buzzing about in her ears; loud, constant, insistent. It seemed to be a light displacement of air, like the feeling of static on skin and hair. The girl would not have minded it, much, if the sounds had not been so echoic and incessant.

It follows her, even in her slumber.

It is infuriating.

Out of pure frustration, she would hit her head with her tiny fists—until someone came along and quickly took her into their arms, hushing her and burying her face into their neck. Her eyesight, still developing, did not allow her to see who it had been that did these things; but when she inhaled their scent—that sweet fragrance of jasmine, with a hint of plum—she calmed, her cries slowing to hiccups, her hiccups weakening into sighs. This is her reprieve.

When she was tucked into her crib again—in this tangle of silken sheets and feather pillows—she babbled off to nothing; pondering upon her existence. The resentment bubbled up inside, threatening to consume her whole. There is a distinct sense of disesteem there, and she cannot help but feel like she has been cheated once more; that life itself has cackled as it tells her another of its cruel jests.

She should not be so confounded by this turn of circumstances, she knows. But she remembers all her lives, before; and when she lies still in this pretence of a babe—with no way to express her malaise, to communicate her needs, with nothing but the damned humming to mull over her own thoughts—she is reminded of how utterly desperate she is.

This is not her.

(She is feared throughout all the lands. Every man, woman, and child; they speak her name with terror and reverence, aware of the sheer amount of destruction even a simple swipe of her hands can bring. Those who stand against her, jealous and disbelieving, spit at her for belonging to the fairer sex. But they do not deny her power, they do not refute the acclaims.

Those people risk a single glance at her hair and her eyes, and they take to their knees, cowering before even only her gaze alone.)

There is one thing that saves her, in all this.

The dreams.

The girl reached out into nothing as she watched eerie little stars floating above her crib—much akin to the lights in a theatre—and she yawned. This life started with dreams; with little sighs that slipped from her as she slept, and smiles that never quite filled out the fullness of her lips as she closed her eyes. She fantasises about those stars, first. There is not much else to see, even if they looked to be so far away. What does more light look like, in this place?

What is on the other side?

(Then, when her vision and her memory clear; she remembers trysts, cramped spaces, and happy evenings. There is a hot spring, and she is sinking into the waters. Her lover's skin slides upon hers, and the two of them chuckle in the quiet, kissing and grasping with desperation as they try to fulfil themselves. She places herself upon him. His grip bruises on her waist, but she goes on—and they slot into one another, over and over again, panting.)

(He is one of the few people she allows herself to get close to, to pretend to be normally mortal—but never mortally normal—with. The man is quite a set of years her senior, perhaps near a decade. It used to gnaw at his conscience, but she does not care. For her, she has found someone to witness her as she is—free from judgement. He meets her eyes with no fear, red against violet, and he pushes her onto a bed.

They make love in the night, fucking like wild animals as she forgets about her life beyond their room; with him, everything is both wholesome and amatory.)

If she bothered to wake, it would be with a screech from her remonstrance—and so went the hatred, and eventually, the ferality.

(He does not smile, much. Even the ones he gives her are rare. But he does not oppose that joy, whenever he is around her.)

She did not intend to wake up again. And yet, wake she did—with a heartbeat in her chest and a gasp on her lips; and the babe's screams clawed their way out of her throat.

Always, it would be too little or too much to ponder upon, and she found herself consumed inside her own mess of snot and drool. She squirmed in the pillows and the blankets, groaning as sweat beaded on the back of her neck and her chubby little hands hit the bars of the crib. As someone worked in the background, she ignored the fretting around her, and she drifted back to where she wanted to be.

("Kyō—" He moans, and his voice is a faint thing. She returns his call with a cry of her own, and he pushes her legs even further back, bending her at an angle she did not even know she can reach. One more thrust, two, three. Her body shakes underneath his.

When the buildup strikes, her hands latch onto what they can, and her back arches; the friction remains, then she feels him come undone inside her—hot and wet and full. He whispers her name into her mouth, and she blinks up at him in a daze.)

(His sorrow is the last thing she can recall.)

Like it had happened before, her mind was still muddled whenever she gained wakefulness.

A weight abated, and it laid upon her like a post-battle haze; like the state of being half-awake and half-aware. A sensation of fleetingness overcame her—and she felt as if she was floating in the sea once more; with a burning in the corners of her eyes going past, forgotten as her vision bleared into an endless expanse of grey, white, and blue. The memory of the water called to her, carrying her with its salt, and she drifted with currents both cutting and soothing.

The distant part of her, the half of her consciousness that oversaw the state that she slept in, sat quiet in the back of her mind. It was not agitated, not even moving. For the first time in a long while, everything was allayed, and she did not possess the energy to change that. Birth and death marked the limits of life, but she was content with staying inside this state of not-being-at-all—of staying still as everything else passed her by.

Then, the bustling of noises.

Hands put themselves upon her body and she squirmed, but she kept her eyes closed.

She saw and heard everything, but for the love of the gods, she could not listen nor observe anything for long enough. So, as this happened, she paid none of it any mind.

The girl dreams again, and…it is nice.

(She looks down at the sight of familiar sceneries, of rivers that stretch into seas and forests that give way to villages, to sturdier people and happier times.

Then, there is a man who meets her with a blade made of lightning, and she catches his lips with fervour—even as blood trails down her chest. His eyes widen, and another man screams, and she falls. Then, she lies on black earth, in one other's hold at a later time and a darker place; and they are by the roots of the tree where they once proclaimed their love.

Four seconds pass, but it feels like another eternity. Four seconds pass, and she is gone from him.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

("Sharingan." Her father whispers, awed as he holds his infant daughter close. There is pride and greed there, all at once, and she feels dread settle in her gut as he looks outside, to the red dawn sky. "Amaterasu's blessing."

The plot is damned.

There is a space shaped like Atlas where her heart should be. Sweet summer child, watcher of the world; she is all the things that the people around her will never see. She carries their secrets, the very whispers that will damn them into the hells of their own designs, a statue of their burdens unheard.

And here she is, Cassandra once more; doomed to relive the narrative she once tries, in futility, to prevent.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"I was afraid to see the ending. Mother was right all along. The story isn't even tragic, anymore—it's well and truly just a waste of life."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

The first person she met in this life had not been quite what she expected.

There was a woman with silver-gold hair and lilac eyes, and she called herself her mother.

(She cannot remember her other ones. The first is only a title, a mere set of words that compose the definition of a birth-giver. Her memory of her has long since faded. But the second is a voice in her dreams, begging for a pair of twins to be named. She lies on a bed stained with blood and sweat, and her husband kneels by her side.

"Make them strong," she weeps, "my children.")

When the babe first caught sight of her, returning from another fantasy, she very nearly wailed again—thinking her to be another apparition from the past, remained to haunt her in this new existence. Then, the woman whispered, in a tone so soothing—unnatural and hypnotic—and the squall that meant to tear itself out of her throat went down with a forced choke.

That scent of jasmine and plum returns, and she—

She—

The girl settled for staring at the woman with a wide, wild gaze.

And she laughed.

Oh, you look like me, she cooed as this stranger embosomed her, you look just like I did.

She appeared young, just barely out of her girlhood like she herself had been in death: with the softness of a child entering adolescence still on her face, on her lips, in her eyes. There was disenchantment in her behaviour, apparent in the wariness and quick movements, but enough of a glint in her eyes for her to know the girl-woman had a tough resolve. Heaviness clouded her presence, something tired and sad, but she pressed on.

Amongst other things, the words that fell from her mouth reassured the child. The language was a relief; something she never would have thought to hear again, after years and years of another that laced itself on her tongue. When she spoke, the babe let out a joyful hum.

"You've been so angry, little ashling." She whispered and caressed her cheek. "You've known nothing but that rage. And if not, then sleep. But nothing else."

(Angry, angry, angry. She supposes she has not been so welcoming to those in this new reality. She has only screamed her way into this life, with the adrenaline that only the desperate can elicit—like the dead babes she, too, smothers in their cots, or the mothers that bawl with them. She makes their throats bleed raw and red, and when she remembers where she is today, she cries with the same amount of fury and lament.)

She giggled, even as tears stained the woman's cheeks, and she pressed her closer to herself; their dichotomy clear to anyone who would have looked. Then, their warmth blended into one, and the babe sighed when she gentled back. The woman took her from her crib, then ambled about here and there—and here, the girl took note of how grand the area looked to be.

They were in some chamber of sorts, large as the ones in castles had been built to be; light and airy in colour, with decorative stone building up much of the interior.

Suns and swirls. Intricate woodwork. Yellow, orange, red, sometimes pink—they lie littered in the details, amongst all the walls and the furniture. A tapestry hung on one side—a depiction of…a dragon falling, woven in silver thread upon a bronze field, with its rider a spot of black and red on its back. Delicately carved furniture out and about, an aesthetically pleasing mix of rounded and edged. Marble tiles that gleamed. Thick carpets made of goat hair and sheep wool.

Even her crib looked to be a grand cradle of its own—with what she assumed were feather-filled pillows and silken white sheets, and a sheer gold canopy. The place took after Moorish architecture, especially in the finer things: such as the chandelier that hung above them—shaped with bronze and diamonds, the tall vases in the odd corners of the room—painted so vibrantly, or even the curtains by the balcony doors—shining and fluttering in the wind.

Look at all this wealth.

Her eyes roved over these things, and she took it in with wonder clear in her gaze.

The humming in her ears becomes louder and louder, as if it resounded within every object in her view; hiding from her sight, but still making its presence known. She grunts, nuzzling her face into her mother's neck. Her skin is soft, smooth; unmarred save for a faint red-violet love-mark on the crook of the collarbone. The babe pawed at it, feeling the pale flesh, smiling when the woman did not seem to mind.

"It's so bright here, isn't it?" There was a sigh, and a jostle from her arm told her she had wiped her tears. "Even I'm still unaccustomed to such a thing. Outside, there's so many flowers and fountains, too. Mother tried bringing me here, before, but Grandfather was incensed…your father was kind to let me come back."

This new woman must be a princess, to some degree, or something like it.

(How quaint. She has snapped the necks of many girls like her. They all tried to run; beautiful kimonos ripping in the swirls of their escapes, ankles twisting as they fell into her traps. Their pleas and protests go unheard when she flashes behind them, and their silence is the only thing that remains when their necks bend at unnatural angles. She watches them with a pitiful expression, sighing when they attempt to flee with whatever moneys or sentimental objects they can.)

(Who is this? Will her spine be as fracturable as those pretty noble daughters'—will she break like their porcelain dolls?)

The two of them came out to an azotea. Immediately, she picked up on the fragrances—summer flowers, carried in the air, and the slightest bits of sea salt. The wind whistled, and she spied her mother's long hair swaying. The strands glittered underneath the sunlight, like a tassel of pure silver and gold, and she took a lock of it into her hands.

So pretty. Just like starlight…

(She wonders if her lover has ever seen her in this manner, before—if he has ever taken one look at her long white braids, before they became partners, and wanted to run his fingers through them; feeling if they will be as soft as the kindest springtimes, or as cutting as the thin wires she entangles within. Her hands worked meticulously every other night to keep them thick and strong, enough to even be used as a strangling device. She had cackled many times, then, when her hair was stained a dark red in the battlefields.)

The babe thus dubbed her new mother Lady Seika.

Pure summer; a flower in the sun.

That was likely not her name, of course, but she needed a way to address her.

Lady Seika sat them down on a stone bench that overlooked the ocean, and she felt her breath hitch at the sight.

A vast expanse stretched out before them; blue, so blue, and glimmering like a thousand diamonds were cast inside the water. The waves thrashed against the boulders by the bottom of the castle wall. They were high enough that nothing splattered against them, but only then did she realise that they were also high enough to view a large portion of the fortress. From what she could see, it was built with pale red sandstone. It added a softer contrast to things, she thought. A subtler, earthier colour coordination to the spiritedness of the waves in front of them.

"I dream too, you know?" Her mother quirked her lips up ever so gently. Those lilac eyes bore into her soul, as if looking right through her, and the babe was mesmerised. "Sometimes, when I can't seem to tell them apart from…from reality, I go here. And I look to the sea."

She stared out into the distance. There was nothing much in sight, truth be told. Only an island far-off into the horizon, and even then, it appeared as only a speck in the scenery. Hardly any birds flew about, and no ships passed by. It was just them and all this infinity that stretched beyond what she could see.

The girl murmured with an expression of light joy again, and the woman ran a finger onto her cheek. She pressed a kiss to her brow, then laid her head on her chest.

"When I get angry, I go here. When I cry, I go here. When everything's too much, I sit down on this bench and breathe. I look out into the sea—and even if it doesn't give me answers, even if I call out to it and I only hear my voice drowned out by the wind; I feel free. I stare up into the sky, then, I wonder if Mother ever flew on that damned beast…and saw herself in a moment such as this one."

Then, she waved her hand, and sparks followed into the space where she moved. Her fingers flicked about, making small motions that invoked magic—and the girl jerked at the sight; dumbfounded, amazed, speechless. She whined, blinking, every thought in her mind coming to an abrupt stop as the little lights wisped out. Her eyes widened, her mouth hung open, and her voice came out in a croak.

"Gah!" She flailed her arms about. "Wahf?"

What was that?

Lady Seika laughed. "I know, I know! It must be strange for you to see such a thing. You've only had the stars in your crib…hmm, perhaps I should've told Tinsel and the others to open the ceiling, then…"

The babe remained quiet, still open-mouthed, at the scene that played out before her.

What was it? What did you do? How did you do that? Is this some sort of trick?

("I think it'd be prudent to say that those at the court wouldn't take well to your presence," the man hums as he directs her hand in the correct stroke order for the seal, "regardless of the claims pertaining to your…unconventional abilities."

She scoffs. "I'm not a witch."

"No, but they all see you as one. It matters little how the rest of us think. They will spurn you."

"Then let them!"

He sighs, but there is fondness in that exhale of air; and she can see the corners of his lips twitching.)

"Oh," her mother blinked, tilting her head, "I never thought you'd be so enamoured by such a thing…when I dreamt, I saw—hm…"

She shook her head, as if ridding her mind of a notion, and smiled. The woman paused for a moment, but then she continued on as if nothing happened. Her mood lightened, and in a blink, the weight in her gaze faded away.

"It doesn't matter. We're here now!" She grinned, and her voice rang out like a songbird's delight; a sweet, but elegant sound that resounded somewhat in the space on the balcony. Then, a sigh escaped her, and it was as if a small amount of happiness seeped into the breeze. "It gets so lonely in this place…I have only the flowers and the sun for company. Perhaps the elves as well, but oh, they always refuse. And the portraits are boring."

The babe gurgled, then reached for her mother's face. As she gave her a few words, a mess of babbles that hardly even counted for anything, she wondered. For the first time in this new life, she found herself curious—so very intrigued, by this set of developments. Who was this woman? Where did she live? Where did they live? What did she mean by dreaming? How did she perform that feat, earlier? Was it magic? Was she a witch—

Her eyes widened, and the speculations forming halted.

A witch! Of course! Spells, chants, and all that eleganza! And you are a…a princess-witch? A rich sorceress? Interesting…

The woman laughed again, and she called for someone. "Tinsel!"

Watching with wide, fascinated eyes; with bated breath and tiny fists clenched in excitement; the babe jolted as suddenly, in a crackle of blue light and a twist of smoke—a tiny creature appeared before them. It looked like a cross between a bat and a person: with leathery skin, pointed ears that protrude outwards, and a lithe form. It sported a black tunic and a pair of matching trousers; embroidered with the red-gold designs of waving fires. The thing looked up at them with light blue eyes, smiling and bowing in respect.

Not knowing what to do, the girl only clapped her hands in glee. Her mother bent down to introduce them to one another.

"This is Tinsel," she said, "he's our main elf in the castle. I've grown up with him, and he's been by my side since I was as small as you."

The creature—an elf—waved to her, and she babbled out something like a squeal.

"Hello, Little Miss!" His voice was a high-pitched thing, reminding her of toys that squeaked when squeezed—or perhaps men that mimicked pigs as she had driven blades into their guts. "A pleasure and an honour to finally meet you! You probably do not remember, but we elves has been watching over you every night."

For the child, seeing this sort of power and mystery in action—for the first time, ever—was a moment that would stay with her, no matter what. Here, she began to discern just how…different, this new world could prove to be, and came to terms that it might not have been too bad. Not yet. She held out her hand, waving a tiny fist, and Lady Seika kneeled down to its level. The girl made noises, acting eager, and the creature swooned.

"Oh, oh! She is so precious, and already aware. Tinsel has never seen a babe grow so fast. She is already quicker than you was at her age, my Lady. The Little Miss has been seeing and dreaming earlier than you or Lady Jane." The elf, Tinsel, peered at her with a knowing grin. "Tinsel thinks Lord Thomas will be very proud!"

Lady Seika hummed. "I hope so…she's also taking after him, after all."

"What else has my Lady seen?"

"More and more of the conflict, to be frank," she sighed, and then stood back up, "but the lavender rain likes to gleam."

"Will the Little Miss be safe in the clouds, my Lady?"

"She would, she would…a bit of trouble, but she'll…" The woman adopted an air of longing, looking back into the distance. She pondered upon something again, until the elf placed its hand on hers and the babe squirmed in her hold. "Nevermind that now. Come on, let's show her the rest of the castle!"

Her youth showed in that moment, and as they travelled, the babe came to realise that perhaps there was more to this entire thing than what met her eyes. The day that then followed had been long, exhausting, but also unforgettable. Lady Seika the Witch held her in her arms, and with Tinsel the Elf, showed her this new place; and much akin to blossoms in the clouds, the babe felt like she floated atop her own airy poetry—taking bated steps into a wonderful world, dancing and spinning as they went inside even further.

The walls, the ceilings, the hallways; each column and pillar, each arch and gable, each window and fountain; all the drapes, all the thrones, all the tilework, all the portraits; they navigated this grand labyrinth—and she stared as this appeared before her, one of her tiny hands grabbing tightly at her mother's finger as they walked. It was almost difficult to contain her own exhilaration, to keep the mania hidden as she is led through the castle.

(This comes close to the high that overtakes her when she is drenched in violence. Very, very, very close.)

(The energy simmers inside her, coursing through every blood vessel; elements shooting out of her fingertips. That euphoria of having so much more to discover, of seeing so much more to devour. She wrings her hands together, both palms stinging as lightning had previously sparked between them, and she snickers to herself. She is a master of all that nature can offer her—taking advantage of the opportunities she once perceives on a glass screen.

Water, air, earth, fire, and all of the things that came with them; she quirks her lips when she ends with a breakthrough in her little quests for science, then weaponises each single one.

The girl she is becomes a legend, despised by those she enacted her cruelties upon, glorified by those who stand behind her.)

(Magic, hm? It…will be her conquest.)

The day ends with the elf cleaning her, drawing a small bath as Lady Seika, too, relieved herself in another room. She is placed into the tub—warmed—soaped and scrubbed, and then taken back to her crib. Her mother visits her, as Tinsel holds up a bottle to her lips. The woman wears a sleek purple nightgown—a vision in the night, glowing like the stars she dreams of. She bends down to carry her once more, this time feeding her, and the babe sighs.

"Sleep well, ashling." She traces a hand on her cheek. Those lilac eyes looked at her with so much love—and for a fraction of a second, she paused, touched. She leans forward into her bosom and hums in response, content as the warmth of her mother's body seeps into hers.

The child drinks the milk, feeling it flow like a sweet wine on her tongue; and when she drifts into unconsciousness, her mind is filled with happier times.

("But the girl clearly has the right of it." An elder defends her as her deeds are revealed to their clan's court. Some grimace, some sigh, some grit their teeth. Their leader stands behind her, making a sound of disapproval when his niece—her—is presented before them. He does not move to respond. "She has done much for us all, my Lord. More than what has been expected of one in her station."

"And yet, she has broken several of our own laws—no matter that her mother's family holds different traditions. I will not stand for dissent in this clan, and I would certainly not wish for this…intermingling of cultures." Another old man rasps out as he taps his cane on the wooden floor. Click-clack-click, it went. "There must be a punishment for such a blatant act of rebellion."

She smirks as her uncle retrieves a scroll and unfurls it onto the main table, silencing all following mutters in the wake of the last statement. He raises a hand, commanding attention, and finally all the senile bastards shut their mouths—gazes sliding to the parchment he laid in front of them. This is the most charitable she has ever witnessed him—to anyone outside of his own brood, anyways.

Tajima tiredly rolls his eyes, then placates the one who spoke with a gesture. "Peace, Elder Manabu. My brother's daughter…had cause to do what she did. There is precedent, Honoured Ones. And for it, she will not be punished in any way or form. Restricted, yes, but not reproved.")

She dreams again—of this woman who shared a face with in her previous body: of she with the melodious voice and the warm heart, of her with the jasmine and the plum perfume; and the humming in her ears started to feel mellower. The girl breathed deeply, as if relieved of a heavy burden, and her thoughts were overcome by kindness. And when the next day passes, and the next, and the next, and again after that; she starts to cry more for her mother—wishing for nothing save for her touch.

(Remnants of the youthful yearning Uchiha Kyō once possessed at birth resurfaces, and she presses herself close to her chest.)

(Make her yours, that part of her whispers, only yours.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(Once, she endeavours to meet the truth. That so-said noble pursuit, the holy grail of human knowledge and understanding; a mirage of shifting sand beneath her feet. She realises it too late: what is true today might be false tomorrow, and what she believes to be real may be nothing more than a dream. She chases after the fantasy, at the risk of deluding herself into thinking that she would actually find it.

In the end, what mattered was the absurdity of the search itself. There is no rhyme nor reason as to why things are the way they become. They only exist as so—by fate or by random design, it does not matter—they all amble into the unknown as they go.

"I hardly think there's much more to it, silly." She kisses the curve of his brow. His red eyes stare up at her, baleful. "Do you believe in the Pure Lands?"

"I did not take you for the type to do so." He drawls.

"I don't. But it's a pretty thought, no? That we could or would see everyone again, after everything ends.")

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"…sometimes, I resent the fact that your mother is still alive. So call it callous of me—but she was supposed to fall by his wand that night, did you know?"

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

More weeks come by.

And with it, a new family that she does not even know how to begin to comprehend. It is not that they are horrible, truly.

It goes like this.

Lady Seika treats her as something actually borne from her body—as her daughter, as a babe.

(From the moment she shows her advanced intellect, her father scoops her up and throws her into a pit—hard-hearted to the protests that slip from her mouth. She is taught to remain silent, soon after that.

He runs her into the ground, on each day and each night; instructing her on how to wield blades where she should have clutched onto toys, to mask her presence where she should be enjoying herself with the other children, to burn through her energies where she should be resting like those her age. He does not see a child born from his seed—past their shared flesh and blood, he only desires the perfect instrument for combat. She is starved, she is beaten, she is locked into their home's cellar; she is denied the joyous pleasures of a growing girl, she is given a rigid schedule, she is taken into the battlefield.)

(Her first word is 'red', once her throat is sturdy enough to vocalise anything at all. Red for the blood as she beholds her second mother's life seep away from her, red for the gaze that she meets when her father suffers through his quiet grief, red for the strings of fate that have led her to this, red for the spider lilies the man leaves on a lonely grave.)

She waits for some sort of expectation, some kind of standard—to be upheld, to be carried out, to be enforced; perhaps a rigorous instruction or even a certain tradition in this woman's background. But no; there is only her and the elf—elves, plural, ever since she realised there were more of them—and this summer bronze-themed fortress they stayed at for an indefinite amount of time.

And so, the child goes through her own actions, repeating a progress she has long since familiarised herself with. Eating, drinking, sleeping; bingeing and purging; smiling and burbling; pondering upon the things that made sense and the ones that never did.

Her efforts are rewarded with the arrival of two men.

"You're healthy enough, my love." Lady Seika kisses her brow. "They've been ever so eager to meet you."

She infers that they are the woman's dearest friends, judging from her tone.

And there, as she idled and rolled around on a pale lionskin rug by the private chamber's fireplace, voices resounded from the parlour. She glanced back, speculative. When the massive doors opened and her mother strode in, she was laughing, arms linked with those of her companions'.

"She's in here." The woman smiled, then let go of the two, gliding across the marble floor with grace as she picked her up. The babe squealed, kicking her legs; the movement ruffling the silver lace on her dress. "She's busied herself with that music box your father sent you. And—oh, ashling, where did you throw it off to, now?"

The said item had been in her clutch minutes ago, shooting off into the-gods-know-where with a jerk when she fiddled with it. It sat in her hands; its green and gold exterior glimmering in the firelight—a surface that was labouriously carved, with tiny runes and designs etched into the wood. What lay inside the box was what truly captured her eye: a tiny figure of a fairy danced around, wings fluttering and garments twirling as she held a rose in her hand.

A charming tune played when she opened it, one that caused a twinge in her chest. The babe giggled then, reminded of a man with snow-white hair and soulful red eyes, with a cachinnation that eased into hysteria the longer she breathed—until the music box flew out of her fingers, catapulted into a random corner in the room.

There was a snort. "Too green for her tastes? I told you—it's garish. She'd've been better off with the bronze one."

"Oh, shush. I'll just have the elves find it." Lady Seika pouted. She turns around, and finally, the child is met with the sight of these strangers.

They are…incredibly young.

Men—or barely even approaching that—much like her mother in this regard; man-boys on the cusp of transition, bloom still apparent in their appearances.

The first is pale, with black hair and stark grey eyes. Sharp, is exactly the word that she would use to describe him. He holds five inches or so over her mother, and she needs to stare up to view him in full. He is defined by angles—both in his face and in his attire; a smart and handsome teenager donning a dress shirt, with black pants and a black waistcoat embroidered with faint hues of silver thread—the stars and the sea, she thinks, as she peers to observe the finer details—and a loosened crocodile green ribbon tie.

He quirks his lips into a smirk as she takes him in, wiggling his fingers in a tease when she reaches out to him with a babble.

"That's your Uncle 'Eulus." Her mother steps closer, then swivels to the other man with them. "And this is your Uncle 'Mius."

That's the stupidest set of nicknames I've ever heard.

The second is tanned, with straw-coloured hair and light blue eyes. A mild contrast to his partner; he appears benefic, insouciant. He is lanky and casual—and beside the other man, he seemed…rougher, around the edges. His countenance belied ease, something heightened by the poet shirt and the breeches—shifting between simple and noble—an aesthetic combination that gave her the impression of a flower garden by the beach.

"We're your godfathers, sweet girl." The so-called 'Mius grinned, moving with a grabbing motion to take her from her mother. She remained there, wide-eyed, until he had her securely in his grip, bobbing her up and down as he shook with laughter. "I've never seen a baby be so aware. It's uncanny, Ellie, I won't lie."

The woman rolled her eyes. "You haven't even been in her sight for five minutes."

"I don't even need one to know that the little thing's going to be big trouble." He muttered.

"Just like her parents." The other man—'Eulus—supplied. "And—hey!"

Lady Seika—Ellie?—smacked him on the arm. Then, she waved her hand, this time sending an invisible force that fixed her daughter's clothes. At once, the wrinkles on her dress straightened out. She clicked her tongue, but took their comments in good humour.

"Has he returned for her?" 'Eulus asked suddenly. He stepped closer to 'Mius, wishing to inspect her as well. The babe cooed and clapped, gaze darting between them, unsure of whom to scrutinise first. She grunted when the black-haired one lightly pinched her nose. "You've been quiet."

The woman paused, then cleared her throat.

"No—and I'll admit that it…it frustrates me." Her mother pursed her lips. "I can't help but feel inadequate because of it. Is it her? Is it me? Gods, I don't know. But I've done everything he'd asked—and I'm doing my best to be patient, since the last time he graced these halls was—"

She sneered, casting her lour off to the side, at some unfortunate piece of decór. This is the first time that she has seen such an expression on the lovely visage; and it is…a stark difference to how she came to know the woman. There is a disappointment there, with a hint of longing and desperation—amalgamating into a singular blend of emotions. Her jaw is set, and a vein in her neck pops slightly; a minute blue-violet illuminated by the flames in the hearth.

"Nevermind—forget I asked about him." 'Eulus grimaced. He touched her mother's cheek and she allowed the action, leaning into it when a brief silence fell upon them all. Then, he pulled her into an embrace. The babe and her other godfather watched from the side, the man sighing softly as he placed a hand on her head.

"Enough about this. I'll meet him again at the next council." Lady Seika swallowed. "He can see her then."

(When her father is not monitoring her progress, he is absent entirely. Perhaps he is off at a clan meeting—discussing statistics and other formations, perhaps he is having tea—eating that sweet star-shaped snack of his, perhaps he is at their compound's shrine—making an offering and lighting the candles. There are many mundane things he commits to, but none of them involve spending his time with her.

And so, when she spies her younger twin brother ambling into her space—just as she is about to vomit from exhaustion—she forces back the bile.

"Elder Sister," he calls out, "Father's summoning you to his office."

"Why?" She rasps, throat filled with sharp pulses that stung; suspicious.

He shrugs. "Said there's a missive from an outer messenger for you. Also, Izuna needs a partner for whatever gods-forsaken shenanigan he's landed himself in with the brothel.")

And just like that, the good mood is pushed out of notice. A sombre air surrounds them now, and it is as if the three have forgotten that she was with them in the first place. They are referencing their discontent about a man—one acting with authority, lording his power over them. She is impelled to blow a raspberry, then, making silly noises to distract them from the rapid dimming of their demeanours. 'Mius only kisses her cheek in response, and she huffs.

"But he hasn't been with her, has he?" The woman whispered, referring to someone else.

'Eulus shakes his head, then walks over to a nearby chaise. He calls for one other house-elf in the castle, and in a polite tone, requests to bring them food to eat. The creature popped back into the room mere seconds later, just as 'Mius and Lady Seika joined him to have a seat. She remained in his arms, leaning into his chest when they settled.

"Grandfather's keeping my cousin away. We might carry Court blood, but even he knows when an overstep becomes a lunge. She truly isn't going to stop her pursuit, Ellie, I hope you know this—but he's doing what he can to limit her action and influence."

The more the conversation dragged on, the less she understood. They traded their words with vague comportments, settling when their food was fixed onto a table. There are fruits galore and sweet wine aplenty, she mused. As they gathered in the sitting area, lit only by the glow of the fire and the shimmering light of the candles, the air was heavy with the weight of whatever their concerns had been.

Her mother rested back against a soft cushion, eyes closed as if in deep meditation. She quipped here and there with 'Eulus, while 'Mius spoonfed her mango purée. The babe knew Tinsel stood nearby, his leathery hands folded together, tense, as they all listened.

The girl made an effort to comprehend the interactions happening, wishing for context.

Lady Seika spoke of…of a leader—apparently also her husband—a man who was once doting and devoted, but has since grown distant. He spent all his time on…his business affairs, neglecting his family—his wife and her, his daughter.

And with that, their…home.

There are several significant implications that she ascertains, in that exact span of time. There is this: one—her parents are blue-blooded; two—her father is the head of a group; three—her godfathers do not act on quite the same level as her begetters do, but they are still in prime slots of authority; and four—her mother, and she, herself, are royalty.

Magical royalty, she corrected herself.

The faces of those around her reflected weight and weariness. As she considers each one of them, she sees the bond that entraps them together: a connection that has bound them since a pinpointed beginning, an unbreakable link of kinship. They must have been childhood friends. They knew of each other's struggles, and they could recognise the tolls it left on each one. They each realised that something needed to be done, but they did not have a clue as to what or how.

As her mother finished speaking, it was as if the very air itself was holding its breath. Finally, 'Mius relayed his own opinions on the matter, supporting as he caressed the babe's lips with a thumb and cleaned a stain on a corner. She cooed at him, and he returned her joy. His eyes are blue—light and soft, and so very emotive; almost like the shining sea outside the castle walls—only dimmed by the humanity that kept him in place.

"He won't deny her—he can't." 'Mius intoned, still gazing down at her, and then looked up at his companions. "It doesn't matter if Bellatrix hounds him even more after what Priscilla pulled off with your brother. You're his wife, Ellie. Everyone was there to witness the ritual. It's his pact. To you. Magical children are sacred, and your daughter's the most exceptional I've ever seen one to be. He won't deny you. I won't let him."

…I'm sorry…but what? Did you just say…'Bellatrix'?

(Silver, black, green. Snake, snake, snake.)

"I know." She hisses.

"But he is who he is." 'Eulus mumbled, taking a slice of his cake and chewing. "Although—she's been under his grip for years. Do you suppose he'd blink, should she take her advancements even further?"

"Ah, yes." Her mother says sarcastically, gesturing about with a hand, as if quoting something said to her. "Because Lord Voldemort has time for vapid, venerative whores."

The babe froze.

That name—

"Your brother's a dick, plain and simple." 'Mius deadpanned. The other two snorted. "You'd think with the way he kept you away for himself in the beginning, he'd be happier about the entire arrangement."

"Rhaenar gets many leeways." Finally, Lady Seika slumps into her hand, but it is so elegant a movement that she nearly misses the swift glare of pure vehemence in her eyes. "I'd allow him this, if I didn't have my child. But I do—and it makes all the difference in the world."

They keep talking, and her mind blanks. The names she heard resound in her ears, mocking her, swirling here and there as impressions of the future flicker within her mind's eye; and the hum that surrounds her, it grows—susurrating like the waves that crashed against the stone walls of the fortress, leaving her to shiver, even despite being clad in cloths and laces. The three youths jolt as she screams out of nowhere, and her mother rushes to her—plucking her out of her friend's grasp when she begins to wail.

"Ashling, ashling—I'm here, I'm here."

Bellatrix. Voldemort. She repeats each word and letter to herself, helpless. All at once, the sparks of light that were emitted and the elf that appeared on that stone balcony made sense; and with a terrible growl, her own magic spiralled out of control.

'Mius…Bartemius, Barty. 'Eulus…Regulus. Is it? It is. Gods...no. No. No, no, no—

The babe kept sobbing, tears and drool flowing out in freeform; staining her cheeks and the straps of her mother's gown.

"Ashling!"

Magic. Regulus Black. Barty Crouch Junior. Godfathers. Magic. Elves. Magic. Harry Potter. Magic. Voldemort—

She was not soothed, not even as the woman calls for Tinsel to amuse her or to bring her some luxury that would help an infant. Both men stand behind her, sporting matching looks of consternation. The witch stroked her daughter's hair softly, trying to soothe her with her touch. She even hummed a lullaby, barely audible above the babe's cries. But the child only ululated, as though she could sense her mother's desperation—and the knowledge of another narrative hits her with full force.

(It is not until she meets her cousins that the precognition truly makes an impression. There are two of them who greet her: the elder is a teenager named Hikaku, with a kind disposition that catches her off-guard, and the younger is a pre-pubescent boy named Madara, who is very eager to share his training lessons with her.

They are assigned to watch over her, at the command of their clan head. She spends her toddler years pretending to be male, by the side of this duo, learning and developing all the necessary stuff she is meant to display later on. They are the first to see her fumble, the first to see her stagger, the first to see her become hesitant.

"Naruto," she whispers in the night, dread heavy in her gut as she lies on her futon, "Naruto Shippuden.")

(Harry Potter, her mind now snorts.

A castle of magic, a lake of wonder; snowfall, high ceilings, jocularities that echo through the halls. Nostalgia from a childhood she once lives, a love for a fictional world that she can only yearn for. Tears on her pillow, endless nights filled by the constant wishes for more, an ache in her heart as her eyes trace over every little detail in a movie.)

The girl causes a storm inside the chambers, and the triad looks at the destruction she has caused with wonder. Drapes and cushions wet and torn, chandelier chains tangled, food thrown at the walls, a puddle of water on the floor; the fire has been put out, and the lionskin rug was slapped onto the hearth's pointed metal guards—indents forming underneath the pelt as droplets fell from the fur. The green-gold music box rolled into the middle from a random corner, and its tinkles rang, a rum sound in the midst of the chaos.

The fairy's head is broken, a crack having removed half of its face.

The walls trembled with the force of her mistake, the bits of the stone cracking as if age had set in, in that instant. Squares in the marble split apart, and the ceiling bowed inward, as though the weight of the world had crashed down upon it. Her disaster had turned the room into a scene of utter damage. There was a beauty to it, though—the ravage having made way for the view of a placid sea outside, the distant horizon visible through the broken walls.

The place was near-transformed, as though she had peeled back a layer of reality—revealing something eldritch beneath.

"She's barely six months." Regulus croaks out. "What have you been feeding her?"

"She dreams." Her mother holds her close, trembling. "It—it has to be the dreams."

"…fuck." Barty clears his throat. "Well. Well. You've been holding back quite a lot, haven't you, Ellie?"

"I didn't—"

"What were you thinking—your husband won't refuse her after this—"

"And yet, he sets me aside for that wild-haired cousin of yours—"

She sniffles, and the three pause. The girl shakes in her sorrow once more, and the woman clicks her tongue in aggravation. Her grip tightens—but it does not feel angry, no; it only seems protective.

(Children, they are still children, just like her. So, so, so young…so, so, so jaded.)

"Tinsel." Lady Seika says quietly. The elf appears in a pop. "I…you know what to do."

He nods somberly, needing no instruction, before starting to replace all the broken items and thingamabobs.

"Catelyn." Regulus implores the woman.

Oh…so, now, we have another name. Catelyn. Hm…that's not so bad. Lady Catelyn. An uncommon name, but it sounds beautiful.

Still, though, her dread does not abate. And soon after her outburst—the excitement that the two young men had showcased turned into…

It—

She turns in her crib when they visit, too afraid to look them in the eyes; unwilling to see what it is that they find in her.

The change is not subtle.

Regulus was the one more hesitant to hold her, less inclined to be inflicted the brunt of her sudden bouts of unexplained tantrums. He would pout and glout when he was teased about it, affronted when it had been implied that a babe could instil so much reticence in him, but he complied regardless. She flinched away from him—only ever glimpsing the vision of him drowning; gasping, gasping, gasping—as his elven friend held onto a locket. But it stood to fact: this man was cautious because he feared her.

Barty indulged her more often, even despite her clear apprehensions when he attempted to come near—but his countenance betrayed a small wariness when he kept her in his embrace. He would grin and make jokes, happy when everyone got along, but he also looked after her with a sad gleam in his eyes. She would twist her lips into little imitations of his own emotions—but she feels as though she is only paralleling the deceptive adult he becomes. In contrast to Regulus, though, this man was cautious because he feared for her.

Out of spite, out of pettiness, she committed to the best of her agitations—and inflicted the pain onto the members of her family. She did not want to think upon the possibilities that this life has brought before her. As Lady Seika—Lady Catelyn—brushed her hair and sang her lullabies in the evenings, the babe stared off into the sea outside the windows; downcast.

See how you like me now.

(The stars gleam. They always do—there is not a single night where they flicker out of existence. But she likes to imagine a world where she cannot see them, anyways; some sepulchral hell that poets and philosophers of the past pondered upon when they could not finish their ramblings. The red moon that she gazes up to when she dies is similar, in this regard. She is cradled in her lover's arms, searching for any sign of life within the black sky—but there is none. There are no stars, and there are no lights. There are only the dreams that she sacrifices, and there is only the quietus of a life unlived.)

Yet…despite her best efforts to turn the two away, the young men continued on with a determined set in their jaws.

Barty and Regulus braved her fits of rejection and defiance, loved her even in the face of blatant refusal. These two…boys, clearly unknowing of what they were meant to do with a babe constantly biting and squalling—not even double-guessing their actions, especially after their first confluence—persisted; even despite the tiny pink scratches on their arms and wrists when she lashed out, the torn pieces of their clothing when her magic went wild, or the destroyed materials they dodged when she tested their endurance.

She could respect that.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(Her cousin-turned-lover is behind her, hands locked onto her shoulder blades in a tight squeeze. He hisses something out, a complaint or the other, and she directs a rude gesture at him. The two of them glide into a cramped corner of a secluded alleyway—far from the surveillance of other busybodies—and he shoves her into a wall. She grunts from the impact, but makes no move to push him away.

This is an unspoken craving between the two of them, she knows.

He levels a small blade at her throat, right above her pulse point; and she presses her wrist to his chest, on the spot where his heart could be pierced. She has the higher ground. The bones inside her body would protrude faster than he can even shift his black eyes red. And so, the two of them regard one another in the dim cast of the noontime sun in that corner; predator against predator—intelligent animals baring their inhumanity against their opponent.

Finally, after thirteen tense seconds pass, he speaks.

"I want…you." He grits out. "I'm not settling for anything less."

"Me." She barks out a disbelieving sound, torn between a laugh and a scoff. It is high and mad. "After everything that we've done to each other?")

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"It wasn't your fault. You did nothing."

"Exactly. I did nothing."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

She knows that the colour of her eyes are red.

It is repeated to her—every time she goes to sleep, whispered between her elf nannies and her own family when they think she is not paying them any attention. But she has heard them discussing it, and she mourns the loss of her violent violet. When she first laid her sights upon her mother, this Lady Catelyn, she assumed she would have inherited the same shade she had in her previous life.

There is a chant that rings in the back of her consciousness—a tradition from their clan to welcome those outside of their blood.

(Kaguya, Kaguya, Kaguya, they shiver, wild war children.

Uchiha, Uchiha, Uchiha, the voice in her head responds, madness twice over.)

Catelyn tells her that she takes after her father.

Lord Voldemort.

Her father is Lord Voldemort.

Good gods.

Or, well—Thomas Marvolo Gaunt, as her mother so sweetly crooned.

There's no one else to be named in such a manner—and no one will have the audacity to even claim that surname, for all that its deadened legacies were left to rot.

(Riddle, Riddle, Riddle, a few memories clear, born from a meretricious curse.)

How glum is she, that she does not even question the presence of this triad that hovers so closely behind him? That he has a wife and a child, or that he even went out of his way to have both at all?

Her family offers her all sorts of silly metaphors. Regulus recounts the setting sun, with the last of its light beaming down as it hides from the world, glimmering above a silver-blue sea and casting everything in violet tones; Barty suggests the numerous roses in his family's orchards, spread across acres of land, blooming and reaching into the winds as they twisted open and flushed; Tinsel thinks of the wine in the cellars, old and dormant and all sorts of rich, tasting of little grapes pinched and crushed underneath the foot of time.

But her child is all that and more, is what Catelyn states proudly; and soon, she hears the shuffling of footsteps right outside the new chambers. They moved her room to another in the castle, after she had so thoroughly wrecked the previous one. The babe slumps and flails around as she toys with the presents given to her; imagining her old missions and pretending she is having an adventure with them.

The room was filled with a warmth and joy that radiated from her like a beacon—a light in the palace, her countenance polar to her attitude in the previous weeks.

And that is when she hears it.

Him.

"My daughter."

His voice was a rich thing, and she brooded on how many have fallen drunk on it alone. Not even counting the lust or the intrigue that it implied, it carried edge and majesty.

"Quite the marvel already, aren't you? I've heard tell many things from your mother and your godfathers. Accidental magic before you even hit a year. Not to mention how well you're responding to stimuli."

The child looked up, and immediately, she felt as if she stared into a mirror—Are you looking into my eyes? Are you seeing yourself as I do, with my own reflection?—and she was reminded once again of another man with similar features and emotions, with his duplicity and his rage. Her mother's previous antipathy tumbles away into nothing, then, when she and her father both regard each other; and it is as if the fury had never even existed to begin with, it is as if the words she exchanged with her friends did not come to be before her hysteria.

And so.

There is this.

(There is a hand upon the small of her back, and she leans into the touch, teasing him. Her kimono falls down, dark blue silk revealing pale skin underneath, and he watches as she is bathed in the moonglow. He pulls her towards him with a growl in his throat, and a moan escapes her when his fingers wrap like angry vines around her neck. It will have shades of violet come dawn, she knows. She tosses the jewels in her grasp away, stolen from some merchant or the other, and sweetly begs for a necklace only he can give her.

"Oh, Izuna." She grins coyly.)

Instead of obsessive cruelty, she finds cruel obsession.

(It is not pain for the mere reason of pain; it is a daydream taken too far.)

(There is a mimicry, here. This pair follows the theme of how she had been with her cousin. Untamed, unbound, and undaunted. All sorts of wrong, but they pursue the relationship, anyway.)

"Red eyes." He mused, voice soft. "It's quite surprising, I'll admit."

"…like spider lilies." Catelyn replied quietly.

He cocked an eyebrow, a small snort betraying his amusement. "Not blood? Not rubies? Not even fire?"

Her mother looked at her, the corners of her lips going up ever so gently as she caressed her daughter's face.

The girl cooed at the action.

"Your eyes…they're blood, running in her veins and in her smile. Spilled across the marble floors." Her father snaked a hand on her mother's waist, pulling her closer to his body. She did not seem to mind the sudden action. "But her eyes…they're flowers, beautiful and poisonous. Petals in the wind, and death in the air."

A chuckle slipped past the man's lips. He gazed at them with those red eyes—

—filled with—

—with—

—so much—

Love and madness.

"Born of the serpents indeed."

This is not what she had anticipated to find in the so-said antagonist of this story.

She stared into those two sinister pools—so painfully familiar—and the phantom that had once called itself Uchiha Kyō shuddered in the back of her mind. That part of her bent forward, with its hands covering its ears and clawing at its hair; snarling and unseeing inside a void. But clad with the weight of her current skin, she could only light abuzz at the promise of obsession in her father's smile. She grasped at him, moving to indulge that look of want. Funnily enough, it did not seem as malicious as she often dreamed it to be—and for all that she avoided looking at it, it was not an alien display.

(Both of her lovers weep for her in that same manner.)

She held out a hand to his person, reaching for an embrace. Her laughter broke the two adults out of their shared moment, surprised by the suddenness of it.

Lord Voldemort.

(Flight from death.)

(How ironic it seems, that it is his own daughter who surpasses what he has long since sought to overcome. Will he tear that secret out of her, as she grows? She wonders. Her father, before; he did not shy from enacting the basest crimes to serve the clan as he had.

She supposes he is whom she learned to be cruel from—or, perhaps, cruel-er. The urge to hurt and take has always existed, deep within, even from her first life. But it is that second sire of hers that directs her hands into the right channels, showing her what it meant to truly stain them, to soak them in immoral filth.)

"She's very intelligent for an infant." He remarked, extending his hand to her gestures, and letting a curious glee grace his lips. "How endearing."

She gripped his finger; a smooth and slender digit that she held onto. He does not heed her like she is a thing to bore or entertain himself with, not akin to how she did moments ago with her own dolls. There is a…a desire in him—some kind of yearning that she cannot quite begin to comprehend. The gleam in his eyes would not let her dismiss the thought. The humming in her ear responds to this with a roused, aborted shift; pulsing in a manner that hinted at repose.

The babe let a warble pass. "Gah? Gah-hah? A-gah?"

What is this feeling? Why does it seem so…comforting? And why do I feel it with you, of all people?

"She's all yours, my Lord." The woman demurred.

Her husband chuckled. "Give yourself credit. You've raised her exceptionally well, so far. Bar the crying you tell me about, she seems incredibly put-together—both physically and mentally. Have you gone over what Lucius sent you? Narcissa's due soon, if I recall correctly."

The middle-aged man turned away from her, then—she still had his finger in her grasp, but they paid her no thought. Their dialogue washed over her, and she is unable to concentrate on the two—instead mulling over the established facts and connotations of this relationship. It must have been a marriage that left tongues wagging—a match that defied convention and tradition. She would protest otherwise.

Her mother—this princess with silver-gold hair and lilac eyes, likely sixteen to eighteen; parading herself with the grace and dignity of someone double or triple her age. Perhaps her perception caused her to become unreliable in this; but she would presume many might have fought and bled for the girl's favour. A beauty beyond starlight, is what she labels Catelyn in her mental planes; and surely, that must go past the physical face. No, there must be iron underneath that façade; just like those worlds in the sky, and all their burning deaths.

(That she is her mother already makes her greater than those weak-willed noble ladies from her past. But it is that secretive steel in her resolve that truly beckons her attraction and fixation.)

And her father—age at a forty or fifty-something that she did not bother to count; he had likely seen and done more than most in his lifetime. Gazing up at him now, she sees him filled with a fire and a vigour that belied his age. This is someone who has raised himself into influence, into an affect of ardency and ambition; yet was somehow drawn to the other one as though she is the sun and he is a planet in orbit around her.

(There is a conflict that still brews within her, of course. She assumes there will always be a side of her own person that would yearn for a sire's approval, for his acknowledgement. A fucking male validation, for all the times that she had been denied the love of a father.)

Gods above.

She puzzled upon this relationship between them.

Did Catelyn walk down an aisle, fain? Did Thomas receive her with mercy?

(The three of them are locked into an inevitable position. There is no way at all to remove herself from this—there are no reversals, there are no do-overs, there are no leniencies. That damned alien creature has puppeteered everything in such a fashion where sacrifice is imminent. She cannot let her cousin be the catalyst for the wars; and try as she does to resent what he represents, a part of her heart will always belong to him.

And so, when the white-haired man throws the seal-bound kunai—armoured in blue-painted metal, with a bluer lightning coating his blade—she overpowers her technique, appearing right as he flashes in between both of them. She meets his strike by blocking it entirely. The cutting edge slashes through the cavity of her chest and her armour plates cave in, screeching an ugly scream when both brand and element pierce through her.

It rings in her ears.

"Tobi…rama." She chokes, wide-eyed, leaning forward in a slump; breathing stuttering as her lips barely graze his with a red smear. His arm is halfway-buried through her heart—and the pain is so unbearable that she can only mither softly. "Tobira…"

"Kyō—"

"NO!" Izuna wails from behind her. "No, no, no!")

Catelyn was a jewel, a treasure to be protected and treasured, and the thought of her being married to…to such a troublesome character gnawed at her conscience.

(Mother, Mother, Mother, she whimpers, whose warm womb was my first home.)

Had either stood before an altar, arms clasped together, with a sense of inevitability about the whole affair? Looking at them now, it was as though they were destined to be together, two souls who had been meant to be one. It is…difficult to believe. Her own paranoia notwithstanding, this entire matter could not have stood to be more absurd than it has to be. Or perhaps she had been peering too deeply into it—and the only thing that truly made a wave of value was that the both of them stuck together at all.

Blessed be those who find themselves in contentment before they die, or so her maternal grandmother used to say; whatever it meant.

She should be happy.

The girl sighed.

And so.

Fine.

Happy she will be.

("You're alive, so live." The dark-eyed youth helps her untangle a pin from her hair. He slips the following ones into his mouth, and she snorts at the ridiculous show. "If you die, then you die. What matters is that you make do with what you have now. Trust in what leaves, and trust in what's to come."

"Perhaps." She hides a blush as she turns back to the looking glass. Her cousin runs his thumb on the base of her neck, where a small sun tattoo is inked upon her pale flesh, and she conceals a shiver of pleasure at the feeling.)

"Fa…"

Her parents still.

"Fa…" She tried again.

Her mother gasped, a shocked smile adorning her face. She beckoned her daughter with a small nod.

"Her—her first word! Go on, ashling. Say it!" She sighed dreamily.

"Fath…" The man in question was staring at her with a startled expression—unseen to the unknowing eye, indiscernible especially with a face that only ever shows a smug jouissance—but she had guessed enough to disregard the raised eyebrow. "—er."

"…Father?" He smirked.

"Fah-thah!" She larked, with all the innocence only the resigned could feign. "Papa! Papa!"

If nothing else, she knew she could rely on the man's mania to keep them by his side.

It has to work.

Catelyn let out a noise of delight and took her from the crib, then placed a few kisses upon her face, all the while muttering about how perfect their daughter was. The babe squealed, and then made to grab for her sire once again. He obliged, carefully supporting her head when she was passed into his arms. Like her mother, he was a blanket of safety; and she leaned into him, snug, savouring a skip of the heartbeat that pulses when she places her ear on his chest.

"My daughter." He repeated, low; and she thinks it is as if he still could not fully believe that she was here with him, that she is his. Her mother leans her head on his shoulder. "My daughter."

Yours, the girl keens, gazing at them both, yours.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(She is an outlier on all fronts. She cannot be a person on either side, always having to forge her own path; teetering between both her bloodlines the way the Emperor's whims switched back and forth. She is scorned by civilians, by those of the mundane world—deemed ill-boding and unnatural; and she is rejected by those who wielded the same powers she does—who bled to and remembered the legacies of her more distant ancestors, as well as her own.

In the end, the grave that she gets is barely even an honourary thing.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"You are born to two of the greatest families to ever live. Why waste away the chance to reclaim what is rightfully yours?"

"Because what point is there in doing so, when my own blood is not there with me to share it?"

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Despite her initial efforts at distance, she still clung to this uncanny family of hers.

To Barty and Regulus, to Tinsel, to Thomas and Catelyn.

Most of all, to her new parents.

(She does not complain. After all, this is the reprieve that she had long since searched for, but buried.)

She did not notice it, at first—still reeling and hesitant to accept their affections so freely, still unaccustomed to this new reality, still in denial that she had woken up from eternal sleep once more. But she could not ignore her environment for long, and soon, hints of a newfound neediness made themselves known. She resigned herself to the idea that perhaps madness haunted her no matter where she went—in her love and her bloodlust.

There was something simmering under her skin, slowly amalgamating, lying in wait as she progressed with her days.

On some nights, she woke up gasping in her crib, with half-remembered dreams of red eyes and a red moon; then, on other days, she clutched at her new mother's form, hungrily, obsessively—like her reckoning was to come the very moment they separated from one another. Then, whenever he came around, she latched onto her father—wondering what price would be given to make him stay, and if everything would be worth it in the end.

But, she supposed it hardly mattered—especially when she still had them, and all was right in the world.

For now, the comfort of knowing that the both of them held onto her just as tightly sufficed.

Though, sometimes, when the image of her lovers made themselves present in her dreams—sharp, angry, brittle, and poisonous—their faces bled into a singular nightmare. Then, she glanced at a night sky—and it made like a mirror, reflecting her own heady sighs and smiles. The stars glittered; then, dawn rose from the East. A pale pearl tempest unfurled before her, dotted with the occasional saxe and perse, and she heard the crackle of a coruscation in the distance.

The energy that buzzes in her ears flows with her, pushing and pulling, but the world rights itself when she wakes to Thomas and Catelyn by her side. She still heard a dead man's voice echoing in her mind, humming his taunts and cackling in the whoosh of a summer wind long gone; but given time, it all became bearable.

It is peaceful.

And by then, she also learns her own name.

She tasted it on her tongue, and her parents laughed to themselves as she attempted to babble out its syllables. It was a familiar thing, that. One from another tale she knew, from so very long ago; and she thought it odd to hear it—here, of all places. It once belonged to the mother of three renowned conquerors in a story, did it not? To another woman with silver hair, blue-violet eyes, and dragons at her children's beck and call…

Valaena.

Catelyn quotes it to be something she acquired from an old book in the library—from a history that pertained to their noble house, their ancestry.

There was a witch who set half of a town aflame after she discovered her bethrothed's affairs. As a child, she commanded flames so hot they turned blue—and after learning of her fiancé's infidelity, they turned white. She burnt a townhouse in reckless anger, with a magic so raw that the resulting fire blast extended and made a crater around the town's perimeter. None knew what happened to the woman after; but there had been a sighting, four days after, of an ugly humanoid figure roaming around the edges of the pit. Its skin looked like mud and ash turned into goo, and it appeared as if it was being peeled off the very skeleton; a mess of red, yellow, and grey; the colour of fat, muscle, ash, and piss.

Valaena of the Ash Pit, or so that book had labelled the witch.

Catelyn loved the tale.

Ashling, ashling, ashling, the humming energy seems to say, born to the fires.

And so, there she was—little Valaena, babbling and giggling, causing storms of her own inside her sleeping quarters.

Valaena… The girl paused. Just who are you?

(That should have been the first tell.)

It goes like this: soon after her enlightenments, she develops an appreciation for this world as quickly as she had spurned the last one. Like the hundreds of hills and mountains that she climbed, like the fields she littered with vomit and viscera, like the silks and gems that she thieved; her regard surmounts, and with it, an attachment that she can never rid of.

(This is how the insanity restarts.)

"Esther Valaena Martell." Thomas presses her face into the collar of his sleeping robes one night, on a rare occasion where he decides to sleep with Catelyn and reside in the castle. He is gone most of the time—doing gods-know-what when he politicks with other lords and ladies of the courts; but this once, he spares a moment for the both of them. "That's your name. That is who you are."

Her father's perfume is strong against her nose, less sweet than her mother's; some kind of musk. But there is a subtle hint of vanilla, there; and it is a funny but calming scent that leaves her satisfied. They are on the azotea again, standing underneath the umbra. Thomas wandlessly casts a charm—there is no chill to be felt, now, and she hums; then, they recline on the stone bench where Catelyn had sat herself to show her the sea.

It is a black depth; and she is astounded at the change of the scenery. The waters still shine, of course. But here, where she expected the brilliance of thousands of diamonds to appear, there is instead a grand obsidian cast.

"There's much to be seen, isn't there?" He grins down at her…uncharacteristically soft. For a second, she thinks she glimpses the boy he used to be—bright-eyed and idealistic, attired in a uniform with green and silver—and then, the whimsey disappears. "A world beyond us. Natures undiscovered, galaxies out of our bounds."

Valaena breathed out a sigh.

"Your mother tells me you dream, just as she does. I trust her. If you, too, have that same ability…well." He tutted, touch firm as he held her. "But that's a matter for another time, my sweet girl."

She falls asleep on his shoulder, and her rest is consumed by phantoms.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(Bone-deep weariness tears at her. She follows the sun all day, and only returns to where she begins.

She is tired, so tired, even with all the mad grins and the shrill laughs.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Even knowing everything he did, you'd still choose to support your father in this?"

"Is that what you tell yourself every night, as you dream of my great-grandfather? Is that what you delude yourself with, when Gellert fucking Grindelwald appears in your fantasies?"

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

They were fighting a war.

(She nearly forgets.)

It should have been fine.

(She will not do so again.)

Because Uchiha Kyō knew war.

Uchiha Kyō was a killer, stuck in the cycle of hatred just as well as anyone else had been.

She knew violence, pain, and death. She breathed it in like an addict; high on the poison, on the numbness and routine it brought. She fought to keep her hands steady, to control the near-primal need for action. She had seen bodies mangled and mutated, families broken, and homes abandoned. She was the product of idle acceptance and of manic apathy. She favoured cold daggers and silk sandals, harsh waters and dead flowers, sky-tinted infernos and violent violet eyes.

She was feral and unhinged. A force of a little girl—with eyes that shifted to illusions bleeding crimson and bending reality, with bones that pierced through and from her body like pins in a doll; commanding and controlling; having orchestrated massacres and assassinations, a feared name throughout the land. Laughing as lightning coated her blade, and blood coloured her braids.

Child of the Dead, many called her, Witch of the Blue Fires.

(Whore, whore, whore!)

But Esther Valaena Martell was a child.

Esther Valaena Martell was born only seven or so months ago.

Still barely out of her mother's womb, small enough to be coddled, with only her silence and the sharpness in her eyes to betray her intelligence and experience. She was a babe, crying for her mother's scent and warmth every night. She drooled in her sleep, nibbled on enchanted teaspoons, and made merry do with her long-eared nannies. She lived in a large castle that gleamed under the sun, in a bubble of happiness that fleeted through sands and seas, with her family of magic and with the creatures of fairytales.

A mature-ish little thing, if for nothing else; but with not any more to speak of or spare.

Uchiha Kyō was a killer. She slept with soldiers in cradles of blood and dirt, with the elements on her fingertips and steel in her dreams.

Esther Valaena Martell was a child. She knew nothing of grief.

So, the girl smiled and laughed, and chose to ignore the stress swimming in her parents and uncles' eyes. She held out her arms to embrace them, beguiled by their easy affections. The killer slept and the child awoke, and the disparateness between them both had never been more evident.

And for a while, it was fine.

It was perfect.

Just for her.

(She dreams, she sobs, and there is a gasp on her lips when she sits up from the slumber; but then, the mirage disappears—and everything from the past is left to the wisps of her mind.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(The best way to go about things, she thinks, is to ask herself this: Will I regret this in the morning?

When the answer is no, then she will commit to the act—she is going to change something, regardless.

When the answer is yes, she lays in a fœtal position underneath her blankets, staring off into nothing as the early hours of the morning start to fall.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"You could be better…you could have it all—but you never change."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Often, she mooned over what it was that made Catelyn so sure of her love—of her devotion to her husband.

It should not have only been Tom Marvolo Riddle's simple charms. There is more to the story there, a version of reality she so hoped to uncover. When she unveils what it is, she will do so with a tilt of her head and a mien of doubt. She does not like the thought of sharing.

Funny.

But still, she digressed.

This world has her stay by the side of parents who bore a startling resemblance to Uchiha Kyō and Uchiha Izuna—of a lust that was, and also a love that could have been, both in looks and in actions. The couple basked in genuine affection for each other, that much was clear to her. To the untrained eye, the man might have appeared to be a tyrant, cruel and unbending—and perhaps he is, to those who never cared to see past the exterior.

It is startling to see Lord Voldemort so…human.

(One half of her hopes she would find a version of Senju Tobirama, here.)

She wondered how they would react, if anyone at all from her past lives could see her now. Would they have screamed at her, called it unfair and unjust that she was owed this much in death? Deemed her existence unnatural and illogical? Then, she pondered on how her own parents in this life would act, if they knew that they are carrying an impostor for a child. Would they cast her off, seen her being alive as a curse? Killed her for taking another's place?

Over the months that went by, she progressed with her own physical abilities, greeting her milestones with a fervour she did not assume would burn so strong within her. Perhaps this was the result of her idleness. She is tired of merely laying around all day. And so—she crawls, she walks, she runs. Whatever inch of her room she can explore, she stuffs herself inside of, to Tinsel's franticness.

Thomas and Catelyn have been disappearing together more often, as of late. There is no black tattoo on her mother's arm, she knew. The skin was pale and smooth, free from any marks, but that did not stop her from assuming the worst.

Is she a Death Eater? Barty and Regulus are. It's…what's the word? Canon. But what about Catelyn?

(Seika, Seika, Seika. Oh, sweet, sweet flower.)

During the day, she is left to the care of the creatures in the castle, who do their best to keep her occupied. Tinsel has since then introduced her to the other house-elves, led her through a series of empty halls, and showed her more of the place. There are portraits who sing to her whom she parries back tunes with, there are twisting snakes engraved in the walls that she hisses out to, there are staircases that she has considered sliding down the rails off of.

Barty spends time with her, then. He likes to practise his spellcasting in a courtyard or a wide balcony by the west wing, experimenting on the plantlife as the sun shone above them. Valaena is put into a high chair or a cot, or left to tumble around on a pile of rugs and pillows. When he finishes, he would eat with her; and they shared several fruits and juices as he recounted stories from his time from before, during, and after Hogwarts.

"You scare us a bit, sometimes." He drawled as he munched on an apple, pensive. "Even your mother, for all that she's plastered herself to your side. It seems as if you're the only one who could actually get through to your father. He's gone a lot of the time, but I can see a major difference. The Dark Lord has gone soft."

He scoffed, then sighed. "Who would've assumed?"

"'Mi-us, 'Mi-us!" She grabs at him, wanting a bite of the fruit. He summons a plate of the light pink slices, and feeds her with care.

He is talkative. Their interactions are always paired with a tale or three, and it is with glee that she listens to them. Most of Barty's words are often made of praise and adoration when he speaks of her mother, and begrudging pride when he tells her of her father. He has never seen her as happy as she is, by the side of a man thrice her senior and with thrice the madness and experience, or so her godfather claims. It is tranquil to hear these, for her.

When Regulus comes around, things are more chaotic. She especially likes to disrupt his musings; most often when he thinks too hard on one thing or the other. He sits with her in a study that overlooks the sea, muttering about some family or the other while he browses through boxes and bookshelves. She is allowed the freedom of roaming the room, and when he becomes distracted by his work, Valaena tries to mimic him. Her bootie-covered feet would patter over to him, and she paws at his legs, demanding his concentration.

"'Eu-lie, 'Eu-lie!" Her voice is high-pitched, lisping, but adorable in the way all babes are. "Book! Book!"

He chokes on a snicker. Her godfather bends down, setting aside the papers in his hand with a wave. They travelled through the air, then landed on one of the side tables.

"You've already gone through several of the picture pamphlets. We can ask Tinsel to bring you more of them, if you want. I'm busy, 'Laena. Don't you want to play with your—wait, what—sweetheart, no—"

The sight of an innocent child so absorbed in a piece of propaganda must be unnerving, she is sure. There, in her hands, was a leaflet she had snatched from her godfather's pocket. Its words proclaimed glory, victory, power, prestige, and honour; and there, in black and white and silver and green, a grinning skull was printed onto the glossy finish. She held it close to her chest like a treasured prize, and then made off with it. Her gladness rings, and he groans.

"Valaena!"

Like a bolt of lightning, she darted through the furniture in the room, dodging the young man's attempts to corral her.

(Father, Father, Father, her heart aches, mine, mine, mine.)

(A violaceous crack in the midnight sky, the whistling wind; her long twin braids flying around in wild swings as she ran across every ocean wave. She does not know where she is going—she is only moving forward. She runs, and runs, and runs—lungs burning and muscles tightening; the sprays of seawater nearly blind her, but she goes on. She does not stop until she comes across an eddy—and by then, she realises the surrounding enemies are close.

"Kaguya."

She hears the vitriol in the soldiers' tones, and their killing intent spikes. The currents of the whirlpools grow stronger around them.

"The Witch has come to Uzushio at last."

She smirks, eyes bleeding into that eerie carmine—and the world is sharper, laggier. The water stills before her—a secondary lack of motion—and all hell breaks loose. The sea swirls into a vast, infinite red canvas—a painting of death; and it is as though the very waters themselves turn against the men who sail across them. She goes through the motions of the katas she perfected, and they all lose the autonomy in their bodies as she uses their blood to feed the abyss.)

It is not the same, she thinks—even as her godfathers shower her with their affections—if her parents are not there to be with her.

It irritates Valaena.

That one night ends with Regulus sighing in aggravation as he tucks her into her crib, and she snorts at his state of disarray. Come the next morning, the entire family has convened together, and her mother and father once again have to go off to wherever it was that they needed to be.

"Mama, Mama," she warbled, reaching up and clutching at the skirts of the woman's gown so neither of them would leave; then calling out to her other parent as he retrieved Floo powder, "Papa, Papa!"

"No, ashling." Catelyn reprimanded, but she briefly noted a speck of apprehension in her eyes. "We can't attend to you today. I—I can't, my love. Your father and I must be with the court."

"Your godfathers will take care of you." The man crouched and picked her up. Valaena kicked her legs, pouting. "Don't be like this, sweet girl."

("Don't leave me." Izuna whispers from behind, close to her ear. His hands snake around her waist, fingers digging into her sides. She bites her bottom lip. "Don't leave. Please.")

"No! No!"

But they did not relent. She had then been passed to the two men, and her parents left in a flurry of green from inside the fireplace.

Days turn into weeks.

They do not return, not for a while.

She dreams again.

This time, her sleep is filled with fire.

Streets are filled with the chaos and turmoil of war; and from afar, inside the grand, towering walls of a keep, an atmosphere of calculating silence seeps into every crevice. It was as though the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable to pass, stuck in one moment before everything was torn apart.

One word rings in her mind: soon.

Soon, soon, soon, the humming whispers, it will come.

A silhouette is proud atop a long, winding staircase—turned to the horizon. It is a vision in red and bronze, clad in flowing silks that shimmered with the kiss of the sun. And suddenly, the silence the person basks in is shattered by a deafening roar—as a flash of blue paints the world. A structure falls, something grand reduced to rubble in an instant. The figure watches as smoke billows from a ruin.

Then, they turned and descended the stairs, heels clacking through an empty hall.

Soon, soon, soon, that disembodied voice repeats, it will end, ashling.

A city burns.

("The prince wishes to court you." Hikaku mutters, emitting a sound of disgust. He dumps a stack of papers on her low desk. "He's been sending many more missives, as of late."

A shocked chuckle slips past her lips. She swivels around, shoulders shaking. "He wants to what, now?"

"You'd sooner raze the royal palace to the ground, I know. But you could marry up. He's very interested. It'd be a good opportunity—not just for you, but for the whole clan.")

She wakes, and the cackles that have been building up, instead slip out in manic little titters. Then, they shifted into growls and wails again, going through a reiteration of what had occurred before. Catelyn, who looked like she once had and cradled her close, is gone—and Thomas, whom she takes after now and tempers her bitterness, is away; and with them both, the control over her own normalcy falters. Without them, her urges are unsatiated; the need for that parental closeness gone unattended.

Her magic becomes savage, unrelenting.

And so.

Here we are.

Her behaviour terrified Barty and Regulus; this much she knew.

Both saw something wrong in her—and she had yet to decide how to feel about that. They had sent Catelyn a look of yearning when she and her husband departed. Valaena, protesting and on the verge of throwing another fit, was too caught up in trading nonsensical garbles with Thomas to notice. But when their absence loomed over them and the castle lacked life; she discovered it—their terror and unease.

She wonders if the two ever suspected an interplay between a present existence and a former self—if ever they have considered a thought beyond the boundaries that formed the notion of a genius child. Her pride smarts at that, but it is true. What held her far was her creativity and spontaneity, which had more than made up for whatever she might have lacked in intellect. Surely, they saw some kind of madness apparent in her form.

("All the best people are crazy," she sings to herself, as she wipes a special oil onto the ornamented daggers a royal had sent her, "all the best people are.")

"Did you put the elves up to it?"

"The elves have done their best." Regulus poured wax onto a parchment. Valaena watched, transfixed at the colours in the cooling liquid. She sat atop the table—a mahogany thing with heavy carves and gold lining on its legs—and clapped at the picture it made, engrossed as the substance glittered and melted into one small puddle.

Silver, gold, silver, green. Silver, silver, silver, black.

"But with Bellatrix around, I wouldn't trust a bed I hadn't made."

Barty snorted.

"Nor would I. But I'm not talking about your cousin, 'Eulus—" he rolled his eyes, gesturing wildly with a hand, and she turned to him in amusement, "this is about—well."

Regulus side-eyed him.

"Did Ellie say anything about it?"

Sensing her curious gaze on him, Barty poked her cheek. Valaena caught his finger in a wavy grip, immediately distracted by this action. She smiled up at the man, grinning wider when he returned it with just as much energy. The other person in the room sighed, pressing his ring onto the wax. She and Barty watched as Regulus tied three of the parchments together, fiddling with the twine with a dextrous ease.

He fixed the knot on the papers, and then set them aside on the table.

"Ellie…she's getting worse, 'Mius. I tried to talk her out of it—that one meeting before Lord Gaunt portkeyed to Belarus—and she gives me this look, like I dropped 'Laena into a well." He reached out and put a hand on her hair. "She's not planning to kill Bellatrix, especially not so soon after what happened with the trial, but the alternative would just be as bad."

There is one thing that she knows about this situation. Her mother is head-over-heels, heart-over-mind obsessed with her father; just as much as she herself is the same with Catelyn. She cannot quite decipher all the details of her godfathers' conversation, but what little she does end up comprehending paints a pretty scene in her head. Somehow, Valaena is elated at hearing their words. There was no dread forming in the pit of her stomach, no. Perhaps a bit of worry, but not much of it.

She had seen the ebullience in her mother's eyes and witnessed it in action—and while she acknowledges that she could use it in her favour, it is also with a pleasured warmth in her gut that she mirrored the intensity of her emotions. Valaena cooed, begging for the promise of more, and she loved every bit of it.

Her mother's name is Esther Catelyn Martell—or so her father mumbled to her, one night as he tucked her into his arms when he climbed into the bed—after her mother, the late Esther Jane. Valaena is the third of this name—Esther, that is—and when she learns about this information, she squeals, daring to feel happiness at something so intimate. To hear about this concern regarding the close ties of…of inherited instability, gives her a cause for…well, not pride, but more a satisfaction in that she has something in common with her.

("It's alright to ask for help, you know. And moreso than that—it's alright to suffer." Hikaku whispers as he wipes an ointment onto her shin. She had just come back from another beating. He knew about it, but as a son from a lower line within the main family, he possessed no power to stop any of her father's abuse. "Just don't suffer alone."

"I'd rather suffer alone than suffer well. It's utter filth, is what it is." She grits out as his fingers press a bit too hard on her bruises. Her tone is scathing. Quiet, but hissed. "And moreso than that—I'd rather not suffer at all."

"Shoganai, Kyō. That's the way of the world."

"I wish it was better."

A sigh. "…me too.")

Catelyn does not make Thomas be more human, no, not…not objectively. For all that he acted like any mortal would, he still possessed a degree of greatness that no one else could replicate. And, if anything, if going by the things that these two youths before her spill; her presence, along with her mother's, only pulled the Dark Lord's infamy to greater heights.

But Valaena has been so starved of this ardour in the past, that she cares about none of it.

Esther Catelyn would burn the world, even her family and friends, even herself—if it meant she and her daughter had a place by her husband's side; because to the woman, Thomas Gaunt meant protection and retribution, he meant familiarity and comradery, he meant home—he meant Valaena.

The love makes her dizzy, sometimes.

But she does not refuse it.

(Never, never, never.)

"Sometimes, I really want to bludgeon some sense into her head. I love her, I really do, but gods, this is madness."

Barty stayed quiet at the other's statement, leaning on the table. She patted his cheek and giggled. They both smiled at her, though she ignored their attentions. Then, in an act of pure silliness and only for the sake of lightening the mood, she leaned over and rolled on the table like the stupid babe that she was—laughing when Regulus yelped and hurried to get the parchments away from her. The other man snickered.

"Twice over. Madness twice over." Regulus muttered again, biting his lip. "I'll…admit that I'm afraid. Ellie alone brings a fallout that involves three families. Martell, Grindelwald, Malfoy. Her marriage brings Gaunt to the table. Valaena brings all four together."

Hm? Grindelwald? Are they truly a prominent family? And…who are the Martells? What a coincidence—the names Catelyn and Valaena, House Martell…

"Two of them are Greater Court families, mind you—and the two others boast Greater Court blood. Now, Black and Crouch are getting involved. You and I are being dragged into it. That's six families. Tell me you aren't at least intimidated."

What is this…Greater Court?

"No wonder you're so scared of little baby Valaena."

"I'm serious."

"No, you're Regu—okay, okay!" Barty chortled when the said youth levelled his wand at him, then forced himself into a sobered expression. The man scratched his chin, considering, and then lowered his eyes onto the table. He sighed, gaze hard. "So, Ellie's slipping. What then? I made a promise, 'Eulus. I'd rather get flayed by Alastor fucking Moody. You and I promised Aunt Jane. I'm not going back on that."

There it is again, that mention of Esther Jane.

Just what is this family? And where does Lady Catelyn place, in all of this?

Regulus paused at those words, and Valaena pondered upon their significance. He grimaced, stood, then neatly tucked the parchments away on a nearby shelf. She felt herself being lifted, and in a blink, she was soon in the middle of an embrace between the two men.

"That's exactly the problem. We promised her. We have to win, Barty. We need to." He whispered shakily. "This isn't like the last war. This is something more. If we lose—it'll be worse than the wedding, it'll be worse than the walk. You've seen what they're both willing to do. I love her, I love Ellie, I do—but this is too much. It's becoming too much. It's Esther and Aelerys all over again—and I keep seeing her severed fucking head—what if it happens to Catelyn—and I don't—I can't—"

"…I know." The blonde cut him off, pressing his forehead against his. His voice was wet as he whispered. "I know."

Even despite her godfathers' words, she managed to forget for a while. But the knowledge always came seeping back into her mind whenever she saw the two of them lounging by the hearth, curled up against one another, with resignation in every movement and teartracks on their cheeks. It should not have come off as a surprise when she eventually realised the situation her family was in, but still, she hoped.

What is this, truly? Who's Aelerys? Why does any of this matter? And…whose side are you both on?

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

("Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing." Her father sneers. "That is the way of the world."

I wish it was better, she sniffles softly—gingerly cradling the hands he had crushed with his heel to her chest, gritting her teeth as she feels the metacarpals under her skin sliding and snapping—trembling, I don't want to live like this.

And yet, she does.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Please, my dear, do not repeat their mistakes."

"I'm not. This is where it ends. So…move aside."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Valaena can hear everything, and she thinks this is the problem.

The humming noise that pervaded her senses never seemed to end. No matter where she went or what she did, it was there. It surrounds her like a living organism; as though the very elements of every thing to conceive around her is singing along, an eternal melody that she cannot quite describe. With a note of hilarity, she poses herself like a radio receiver, attuned to a secret frequency that others do not even notice.

She is a conduit for the magic of this world, and its presence is both massive and wondrous to her. She is both drawn to it and repelled by it, like a butterfly to a flame; and when she bothers to centre her focus on it—whether it be through the rays of the sun, the power of lightning, or the raw force of the ocean—she is awed, frightened. She does not know whether or not to label it a gift or a curse.

It is likely a connection.

But she does not want the reminder.

This is the dilemma: she is bombarded with visions of things that have been and things that are.

This is her conundrum: she is apathetic to her muddlements, but those with her wish to deduce and analyse what it is that she can see. Regulus had talked to Barty about it and the babe overheard; Catelyn's gift differs. She sees the world as it will be, rather than as it is, and her brain is filled with tragedies and disasters that have yet to come; the future. But Valaena's ability surveys the now of it all—giving them the chance to realise what others may be doing at that very moment, what plots are being schemed. There is a terrible, ghastly silence that befalls her room as their exchange flows over her.

She goes through her days, and she keeps waking up from the dreams.

That is the first of many mistakes.

Valaena hears everything inside her mind and outside her ears; in the walls, in the winds, in the flowers, in the friendship, in the tinkling of precious stones on the chandeliers, in the crash of the waves against the base of the fortress, in the swaying of the drapes on the marble floors, in the reverberation of her own laughter through the chambers. It is nothing and everything all at once; a capricious violet daze of her own psyche. If she could draw sound, she would. There is no other way to even conceive it.

But there is that, and it is a nuisance that she cannot rid herself of.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(Everything is faint, far, like she is faded watercolour paint slathered onto washi paper. Her vision is bleary and her chest is on fire. There are voices around her—her cousins, she realises, with slight resignation. They talk over her then-cooling body, and she wishes she could find the strength to even open her mouth to speak.

"Little Brother." Madara warns.

"I know." Izuna hisses back, but she feels he is keeping his eyes trained on her still form. The last signs of life are leaving her. A sob escapes his throat. She is shifted around, her upper half cradled closer to a warm chest. "I hate it. She deserves more than darkness. She deserves the world, and all its ashes. She deserves so much more."

It's alright, she wanted to see him one last time, to return the embrace and provide him a modicum of comfort, but she could not even lift a finger, it'll be alright.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"You've been quiet. You're not plotting something against those three again, are you?"

"…no, Professor."

"…"

"…"

"There is a jar of the crystals in the storeroom. I assume you already know what they're used for."

"…yes, Professor."

"…do it well."

"Of course, Sir."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Reincarnation, apropos; her being here reminded her of both lives before this one.

In her first, she was something of a pariah amongst the people she circled, even in her own family and friends: a bitter little girl with ambitions too high to reach and too little commitment to spare; and in the end, she let it all go with a dream, in sleep. That little girl woke up to music and violence, to a life of fame and attention; but if she dreamed for even longer, she could ignore the scathing whispers of liar and whore, of curse and monster—until she leapt off the golden bridge of her own so-proclaimed love, and its golden light.

Sometimes, when the time was wrong, she catches different glimpses of Thomas' relationship with Catelyn in her dreams—in alternate universes where everything is upside-down, where the sky has a limit, and the earth is stuck as only a glass space; in those other realities, the pair is something possessive and abusive, and her father treats her mother like a pet in a gilded cage, with her revering him in the way only slaves can. It is not real, of course. That is a paranoia her mind creates. But a part of her whispered that her new mania is a reflex, a response to the trauma of Before.

Perhaps that was why Valaena demanded their sum and substance, twistedly fond of the idea of the woman being reminiscent of another who had fallen to the will of a red-eyed charmer.

(Izuna, Tobirama, Izuna, Tobirama, Izuna, Tobirama—)

(She cannot choose, nor does she even wish to do so. If she does, she fears that she might break.)

She wanted to feel something angry about it, something bitter, or perhaps even jealous. And she is, to an extent; envious of how perfectly Thomas and Catelyn seemed to gravitate to one another and how smoothly everyone else accepted it as truth—where, before, she needed to hide many things.

Even still, it became easier to pretend. She supposed it had been one thing that never failed to carry over from all of her lives, an indefinite constant; the challenge did not lie in her words and actions, in the deceit that is bitten and swallowed, but rather in maintaining enough energy to pursue the pretence. She was seventeen when she first died, she was seventeen once more in the second cycle—and she sighs, worried if she would be seventeen again in this life when she passes.

(Locked in a circle of youth.)

Amaranthine, amaranthine, amaranthine, the humming sings.

Valaena's moments with her family are tender. It is nice, it is kind; they do their best. But it is not enough to satiate the growing beast inside her—it is not the sort of release that would give her true freedom. Her chest aches even more when she sees Regulus lean into Barty's embrace and bury his face in his neck; when the two of them are idling in one of the many lobbies in the castle. What she witnesses is not only the touch of a comrade, nor is it the touch of a mere friend. They insist on kissing, oblivious to her presence behind several large porcelain vases.

"Let me help." Regulus' voice is faint. "Let me share the burden."

"…we're doing this in the lobby?"

"Oh, shut up. No one's watching."

No one but her—not that they were aware of it.

She knows love, she does, even if it has fled from her. It had taught her how to open her eyes to the beauty in the world, beyond the crisp crimson-tinted shades of her own optical abilities; awakened in her a desire for companionship so fierce, that it led her to her own death. It was the only solace she could find, the only escape she could reach, safe from the abomination that named itself her father.

("Junichiro."

Tajima growls into an empty space. It is a keen, it is a plea; it is pure desperation. His voice is pained, near-animalistic; repining and livid all the same, like it does not know whether or not to shift into wrath or sorrow. It is more beast than human, it is more irrationality than sapience. She stills by the doorway, masking her chakra, listening in as her uncle rages and cries.

"Why, Little Brother, why?")

Love is a ruthless construct.

(Love is not anything at all—it has never been any person's, alone, to begin with. It will take the most convenient forms, and it will destroy in the most convenient manners, as people demand it to do.)

It had found her lacking, it had torn her to pieces, it had put her to tatters. And so, the girl recoils into the shadows, loathe to be in a place where she faces that pain again. Valaena retreats as silently as she can, and pitter-patters back to her mother's chambers; into a place where she could only watch and dream from a distance, into a corner where she could lay warm even in her inner chill.

She wants Catelyn again.

"Mama, Mama."

How pitiful is this tiny life?

The sound of her sobs cuts through the quiet of the room, echoing with a pain deep and raw; and there they go again: the weight of her own mortality, the burden of the world that lays ahead of her. She feels her chest heave, and it is almost as if each breath is a prayer begging to be heard, to be held and protected. An invocation for what or whom, she does not know. But she stayed there for minutes, half an hour, one more, perhaps even longer. She cried and cried and cried, as she never had before, until she exhausted herself.

She does not notice Tinsel appear with a pop by her side, nor does she even realise her godfathers have rushed back to her.

Catelyn, Catelyn, Catelyn—

(Kyō, Kyō, Kyō—)

Valaena can barely get any words out, too overwhelmed by her own memories and her current source of joy and contentment. For her, this…this was never supposed to happen, this went against all of what she grew up learning. It seems as if the very fabrics of reality have conspired to bring her to this moment—in her misery, in her yearning. Distantly, she can perceive what goes on, like wearing a second skin or peering into a television screen; but she cannot truly grasp it, she cannot wholly accept it.

And so, she lets her mind and body do what they demanded…and what they called for was this: her mother.

Catelyn is off with Thomas in gods-know-where. Her attachment has grown too much and too quickly in a short span of time, and now she eludes her own babe's grasp. Valaena grows louder and more desperate, until her throat is raw and hoarse—until her voice is a rebound into the very core of her universe. This is a hunger born not of pain, but of existence, of the sheer fact of being. It is her desideratum, screaming at the very soul of the world; clamouring for the right to be acknowledged.

Tonight, nothing holds comfort for her.

She is reminded of the future, and then the image of love had come to taunt.

Everything binds together in a union of whammy, of desolation, when she cannot reach for her creator.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

("I don't believe in gods." She traces his collarbone as he pulls her on top of him, laying her head on his chest. His body is still flushed, but they have both wiped away their mess and cleaned up any remains of their earlier scramble. He hums into her scalp, running a finger down her own silver-white locks. "I've always hated every creation story."

And she—

Her paradise is gone to her, before she can even build upon it.

She is Eden in all her glory: greatness reduced to ash, innocence tainted by the judgements of lesser fools. Her mind is filled with mythologies from cultures gone to her, and it moans in agony; Cassandra, Tiresias, Job, Isaiah—it does not matter, then. Prophets will always behold the unluck of the gods' wills. And those select few, those who have finally had their so-said enlightenments appear before them; they are only the mouthpieces that the divine beings will chew upon and spit out.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"There are no gods here. You will find no solace or forgiveness in this place."

"I'm not looking for closure—I'm here for a mere vindication."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Thomas and Catelyn do return, eventually.

There, Valaena had laid—draped over her own pillows and blankets for day after day, week after week; as her godfathers came and went, holding her and watching over her in turns. They told her stories of their adventures, of their childhoods, of the creatures they had met; and they did make her laugh and smile with their antics and their play, but her joy felt empty, incomplete, without the last two members of their group to partake in the small moments together.

But there is something…almost guilty, to them, when they greet her again; a sort of weight that strained on everyone when they reunited. Her mother's lilac eyes were darker, somehow—just a shade down from where their original brightness had shone; and her father had a hard set in his jaw as they came back, a practised ease that belied nothing when her uncles made to receive them. Still, a tension befell all—and it is only the babe's desires to be put back to her parent's breasts that snaps the four off from the lingering uncertainty.

And so, it continues. Catelyn cannot spare her any time, fleeing the room with abandon when Valaena reaches for her. Barty and Regulus share grimaces, flinching when their female companion even so much as turns to them. Thomas would click his tongue in annoyance—at whom, she cannot tell—but he does not stop his wife from ignoring her child as she pleases.

It smarts, very much so.

"Hello, my love." Her father was instead the one who collected her after their first evening meal together in several weeks. "We've been away for quite some time, no?"

And where have you two been?

"Papa, Papa!" She only grins stupidly, near deliriously, pressing a wet kiss to his jaw. His lips twitch at the action. "Here! Me! Here! Mama, why?"

"Clever girl." His expression softens, and then he sighs. "Your mother isn't well at the moment. Much had…gone by. She's—"

He swallows, then shakes his head. "Nevermind, darling, not now. She'll return to you in time, but not now. She needs space."

He is most gentle when she is in his arms, smiling down at her as they rock on a nursery chair. The fierceness in his gaze subsided, and was replaced by a glow as they regarded one another—red and red, blood and lilies—and she wonders if she is the lone thing in the world that makes him feel even the tiniest little bit like other people, in their mortality. Does that mean that Catelyn is not enough, then, even if she is the closest to him? Valaena blinked up at Thomas, glimpsing the way she was reflected in the sparkle of his eyes.

(A child, a child, a child; that is what she was before as she died, that is what she is again right now.)

The girl thinks of him, then her mother, and then him again.

She has no idea about the date, of how far or how close they are to the year nineteen-eighty-one.

That…that's how the story goes, isn't it? I could only remember the barest details. But I know for a fact that my father is defeated by Lily Potter. But Barty and Regulus are here. Aren't they…didn't Regulus…

Thomas chuckles when she suddenly grips at the lapels of his robes. "So needy…but I suppose you do take after Catelyn, in some ways."

He allows her this clinginess, clearly gladdened by it.

There's nothing to be afraid of—you won't have to go any farther, Potter won't have to use that damned mother's-love-magic-or-whatever-it-is on you, she wants to tell him, she longs to plead—but something keeps her back, something tells her that he would not understand, just stay with us. Stay here with me.

The man spends his days planning his next moves. They must be in the final stages of implementing this grand plan, then; and soon, her father would be ruling Magical Britain, and no one will be able to stand against him. At night, he goes back to the nursery to be with her, when her mother cannot yet fully do so.

It is endearing: that, just because he is evil, just because he is vile—it does not mean that he is a terrible father.

He might be cruel to most of those who crossed his path, but to her?

Oh, her?

Valaena can sense nothing save for his love.

Whole and unrestricted.

("Do better." The man makes a sound of frustration. She flinches when the flat bamboo stick in his hands meets her side—in that junction where her hip and her waist connect—but she does not cry. The skin is blue and violet underneath the fabric of her kimono, and it is starting to numb from all the times that he has hit her there. "I am not raising a lame child.")

She falls into the habit of singing for him, when he is around. It is a sweet melody that she remembers her cousin used to whistle. Thomas thinks this is amusing. To divert her attentions from the constant energy buzzing in her ears, she makes her own noise—eager to, for once, turn to reality and get out of her own head. Sometimes, she also recalls the tunes of songs from her first life, written by her favourite artists. He hummed along, once he caught on.

His voice was much akin to one in a symphony of angels, each note circling its own arch of music. He sings her songs from his own childhood, too—from that era of widespread war—and it soothes her; it is a privilege for her to converse with and fall asleep to. Thomas dedicates it to her, uttering her name in the same manner one beheld sacred objects; and she is a lucky little girl to have captured these memories with him.

The conflict goes on, but when she reaches her first year in this world, the four adults are finally together again. They do it, just for her; and Valaena assumes that they are all abreast to the knowledge that she resents being parted from any of them—but most especially her parents. So, when they arrange an affair for her—just them, exiguous to their family, and perhaps to the other creatures in the castle—she is fuelled with the desire to give back for what they have done.

She speaks in short sentences, still halved by the limitations of her infantile body, but they are full in thought.

"I love you!" Valaena declared, grinning. They all turned to her as one, surprised and elated. "Mama, Papa, 'Mi-us, 'Eu-lie, Tinsel! I love you!"

"…oh." Catelyn finally chokes out, after beats of silence, then walks over to where she was placed into a high chair, and kneels before her. Thomas stands behind her, with a hand on the young woman's shoulder, and her godfathers soon join them as well. "Oh, ashling."

The castle comes alive with celebration. Their magics flow freely, then, a cacophony of every wonderful scenery that she has ever dreamt rising up from the nooks of the palace. There comes the light of the moon, then the scent of a forest, and finally, the sound of the ocean; the night wears on, their little party reaches its culmination, and they immortalise the event with the snap of a magical camera. Tinsel raises it up, levelling the lens and framing everyone inside an image; preserving a time of pure bliss in an otherwise tumultuous period.

From a distance, the melodies of a harp and flute entwine, weaving a sonorous tapestry of enchanting notes. The figures in the portraits—clad in iridescent garments—prance and laugh about in harmonious unison, parroting their well-wishes for the star of the experience. And in the middle of this mesmerising spectacle, in this heart-rending love she basks in; Valaena is drowned in the sheer gaiety, eclipsed by this happiness.

"Perfect." Thomas smiles at them; Barty, Regulus, Catelyn, Valaena. "Just for us."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(She returns in a torrent of lightning, clawing her way up from the ground; undead where she should have rotted away, with a functioning pair of lungs that allowed her air where they should have long since been eaten off by maggots and humidity. The village panics, and they send their best soldiers to deal with her. It is not sufficient to keep her at bay. Her rage spreads, killing intent enough to rival the Ichibi's power; weaker than what she knows the Kyūbi's influence to be, but far stronger than any man's.

An old friend appears, and after a scuffle that destroys the landscapes, they talk. Her resurrection is a surprise to all, even her. It is not a reanimation, nor is it an illusion. When they settle and she contents herself to being idle, she visits the district where the former compound used to be. Then, she passes through the village library, strictly under watch.

The leader—the son of that irritating monkey contract wielder, aged and deceitfully indulgent—talks with her. He leads her to a section where she finds the history of the Nations, and she grits her teeth when she sees what the Prince—the one that lusted after her—has written for her.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

'Wild, wilful, wistful;

witch with the mad violet eyes,

dead in the high.

Vengeful little victor,

enemy with the thousand lies,

gone in a scarlet light.

Dear child, beautiful child,

dead child—

gone to ash and time.'

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

The first major alteration—one that she hurts from, anyways—is abrupt.

Esther Valaena Martell is one year and four months old, and what she knows is this.

As all good things go, so, too, do they end—and the haven she is familiarising herself with is tainted by the pain of the war. Piece by piece, person by person, everything falls apart. Her birthday is one of the last few good memories she gets, before her life comes crumbling down.

(Just like before.)

(It starts with a name, and it will end with the same.)

Esther Valaena Martell is a year and four months old, and what she knows is this.

She is the daughter of a Dark Lord and a princess, and an honourary one to two young men; a magical infant too smart and mobile for her own good, making heaps of progress against her own odds, surpassing the initial expectations that her family had for a babe. Her uncles shower her with care and passion, despite the demands that she tears from them; and her parents are proud of their genius little girl, despite the troubles that she is sure that are plaguing their persons.

She takes after her sire, in most of her appearance. They say her face is a direct copy of his. The only difference is that her hair is a silver-white—not the sun and snow-tinted hue that her mother has, a blonde with a few pale gold streaks—more akin to soft steel come alive, like metal wires as they glinted in an underbush; but her eyes are red—sharp and knowing, with too much to hide and even more to never tell; and her skin is a shade paler than her father's—pallid, perhaps a near-ashy rendition of what Thomas' complexion is. His wife did not share his family name, upholding her maiden title; for all intents and purposes, her mother's maternal blood opted for her to keep the line—and it held on for her, as well.

Kaguya, Uchiha, Gaunt, Martell, she tells herself, bones and blood, fire and lightning, snakes and poison, and…suns and seas?

Esther Valaena Martell is a year and four months old, and what she knows is this.

For a moment, she was transported to a place far removed from the worries and stresses of heavy life. The girl had woken up screaming and raging as she slid out of her mother's womb, but it was the killer who rationalised everything that happened, then—and it is only the union of the past and present incarnations that stills her hands when her magic assails everyone around, even her.

Uchiha Kyō is a corpse twice over; once buried seven feet deep beneath an awning of stars, once let go beneath the mercy of a red moon. The two men who love her are also the two men to kill her, in both times; with the first having buried his hand and his sword inside her heart, and the second seeping away at the last of her energies as they fought. She is dead, dead, dead—greatness reduced to a single moment, a godling of beauty and violence demeaned by the mortality that has long since tried to catch her by the heel.

Esther Valaena Martell is a year and four months old, and what she knows is this.

The babe has dreams. They are not quite prophetic, no. Her only foretellings come from a story another version of her has read—and she, along with those books, have been slotted into a canal long before her current problems even made themselves apparent. These mental images come to her in bursts, tearing at her sanity bit by bit with a declivity that will terrorise her in the future. She thrills in the decline, but she does not quite grasp its depths just yet. There is a weird humming in her ears. It is an insistent buzzing—much akin to flies upon fruits, or a companion inserting themselves into where they are undesired; laden with some sort of chilling vorfreude that she cannot even begin to clarify.

Only curiosity keeps her from diving too deep into pressing about it, ever so sceptical as to what it might be despite the annoyances and the headaches that it brings her. She refrained from digging a ditch inside the matter, knowing better than to delve further into this.

Esther Valaena Martell is a year and four months old, and what happens is this: it all starts with a name.

"Riddle." Regulus hissed as he stared hard at a set of papers in his hold.

"Tom Riddle. Marvolo. Marvolo. The Gaunt wretch—Marvolo Gaunt. That muggle affair…half-blood. Thomas Gaunt is a fucking half-blood—the Dark Lord is a half-blood, and none of us were wiser for it. He tricked us, he tricked her. Or did he? Does Catelyn know? She has to. She has to. There isn't a way that she hasn't already dreamed about it. But that means she—she let him prance about like that? He fooled us, and she let him?"

Valaena pretended not to realise the gravity in his tone, continuing to fiddle with the dulled Snidget feather quill Thomas handed her a few days ago—a gold little thing meant as a child's practise toy; and she does not miss how it seems very similar to the wings of a Golden Snitch—only babbling out something like a question in response to the adolescent's words.

And—oh, oh.

There it is.

There is that so-said family madness there, something she idly remembers from the original narrative; there is a ruinous indignation that sparked dangerously in his silver-grey eyes. The girl stares at him with a widened gaze, both afraid and elated at this development. She can see the pain clawing at him, seeking to break free and take control; he would have felt it in his veins, in his heart, in his very soul—and she knew that it was a battle that he might not be able to win.

Within the depths of her visions, she witnesses a familiar heart-wrenching scene unfold. Her beloved uncle—a short, if cherished presence in her life, stands at the crossroads of this journey; preparing to embark on a path that will ultimately lead to his untimely demise. Dread tugs at her stomach; each fibre of it twisting in helpless remorse upon the realisation that there is nothing that she can truly do. She is a babe—and truly, all that she can move to even initiate for herself is to watch as he fades into a distance, with that sense of impending tragedy upon her infant heart.

She lacks the power to alter the course of events, to intervene in this damned progression of time. Her dreams are only the silent witness.

("My bane, my misfortune—my greatest pride and my worst failure—")

"What? 'Eu-lie, wrong?" Valaena pouted innocently. Surely, he would not enforce this anger on a child. "Mama, Papa? Wrong, 'Eu-lie?"

The man jerks in surprise, colour draining from his face as he regards his goddaughter. She swung her feet back and forth on the high chair, giggling, waving the item in her hand around as he composed himself; ignoring the minute trembling and cooling of her fingers as her fear surmounted.

"Whoosh, whoosh! 'Eu-lie, wrong!" She threw the quill in his direction, cackling nonsense when he cleared his throat and bowed his head. The soft sprig falls gently down by his shoes, near-scintillating against the glossy black leather. "Mama, Papa, 'Eu-lie! 'Eu-lie, 'Eu-lie, 'Eu-lie!"

"No, 'Laena." Regulus kneels in front of her with a sigh. "It's—gods, how much of what we say do you even understand? How much of your life are you actually aware of?"

Everything, you foolish boy.

"'Eu-lie, 'Eu-lie," she continued in a sing-song, slapping her hands against his cheeks, "Mama, Papa!"

(The haint that calls itself Uchiha Kyō writhes, baring her teeth in a desperate show of intimidation; a killer betrayed time and time again. There is an itch in her hand, to force this man's head onto the floor and make him bend like that—as an act of submission, as a gesture of control—for an extended period of time.)

("Stay like that, Tobirama." She growls, even throwing a kunai to pin his kimono's sleeve onto the ground. The weapon is embedded into the surface, thumping as it tears through cloth and wood. He grunts, annoyed. "Don't move. You're right where you need to be. Don't leave, don't leave, don't you dare—")

Esther Valaena Martell notes a touch of melancholy in her godfather's gaze, witnessing the exact moment that he makes a decision; and at that, she realises she will be dreaming of him for quite a while.

Regulus Arcturus Black has lived past his due.

The boy from the narrative should have died exactly one year ago.

And so, death comes to collect.

(She has nearly forgotten this part of the story.)

He presses a kiss to her forehead and she whines, hands clawing at him. The bastard only snorted and laughed—perhaps a bit wetly—whispering sweet nothings as he so lovingly regarded her. Valaena has not known Regulus long enough to claim whether or not he is a good person. It has not even been a year and a half since she came to this world. To add to it, she supposes the same would apply to Barty and Catelyn, for all that they plastered themselves to her side. And to Thomas, most of all. She does not get a right, or even an opinion, to decide on whether or not they should be revered or disdained.

But what she does have for herself is the blessing of their presences.

And what Esther Valaena Martell, the child, can acknowledge, is this: they are hers.

To love and loathe, to pine for and scorn, to call—

Mine, mine, mine.

(She cannot forget again.)

"Valaena Riddle? No, that's too…it sounds rather…ugly. Disoriented. But…hm—Valaena Gaunt and Valaena Martell do have a certain ring to them."

He smiles sadly. In the quiet embrace of a moonlit chamber, where the flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows upon them, her godfather is resolute. Many unspoken regrets will come to pass—and here, now, they caress the sharp contours of his face. She imprints upon her memories every detail, as if to preserve this for all eternity; tracing upon every curve and slope, every line and shade. Flecks of monochrome dot the space between his irises and his pupils; twin mirrors that reflected something near-unearthly.

Silver, grey; silver, silver, silver, black.

It reminds her of an overcast sky.

A mild thunder cracks outside.

"You'll do good, 'Laena. There's…" He sighs. "There are many things wrong with the world. But never forget who you are, or where you stand. Most of all, never forget where you belong, hm? That's with us. You'll always be with us."

Esther Valaena Martell has not known loss—not until now.

When night falls and her family reconvenes inside the castle, she screams and wails—to the surprise of all—even as Thomas does his hardest to calm her down. Barty goes off to run an errand, while the other two walk off to discuss something private together. The girl reaches for them—but the man holding her gives her a firm denial, shaking his head and murmuring that her mother and godfather needed to talk about something. About what, he cared little to realise, letting the three youths amuse themselves with whatever inanities they got up to when he was not there to supervise them.

That is a mistake.

You don't understand, Valaena soughs, the—the horcrux, the elf—Kreacher—'Eulie—he—the inferi—your—

"Shh, my love, what's wrong?" Her father clicks his tongue, casting a diagnosis spell to ascertain what it was that inconvenienced her. He sighs when nothing is amiss with her body, then gently rubs her temples with his thumbs when he takes a minute to think. "I…I can't help much with your dreams, if it's that. The Gaunt and Martell blood won't allow any sorts of potions to take effect on your body. This—"

He makes another frustrated sound, swearing under his breath, and Valaena hiccups.

Regulus is gone the next day.

(It ends with a name.)

"'Eu-lie, 'Eu-lie…" She croaks as her father tries to rock her to sleep, after he spends his afternoon with her on the balcony. There is a sigh, and then a grumble. "…Reg-u-lus."

"Have you seen something?" The man with her cradles her even closer. From such a close angle, she can see the tick in his neck, a small twitch beside a vein. A swallow, a hitched breath. Then, "I…I can't use legilimency on you. I can't. I refuse. But—"

He cuts himself off, alternating between pursing his lips and curling them upwards in his agitation. He suspects something must have happened between his daughter and her other godfather, and is tempted to discover what—but for his own peace of mind, he does not wish to intrude upon the lines of hers. "Regulus must've told you a terror, hm? Or perhaps you've dreamed of him doing something else."

And so, that night, when she stares up at the stars in her room—those softly-shining dots that spread across a spelled ceiling, twinkling like glitter upon a dark-tinted velvet—she reaches up, trying to find the lion amongst the constellations; searching, searching, searching. It is an irrational irritation, when she curses herself for being stupid—for being so useless—once she cannot do so. Lion-star, whereby the summer season peaks; brave, noble, fiery.

Valaena lets her fingers claw at her chamber's enchanted awning, instead—pretending that what she needs is within her grasp, that the heat of the dying star in that damned cave is right by the curving tip of her palms.

Thomas is not aware of the betrayal. She does not think he even cares much for what her uncle might have revealed, only that she stopped crying—that the tears finished, that she is done with her distress.

Come the following day, he is unphased; more pleased that his daughter has ceased driving herself into hyperventilation, casting little spells here and there to relieve her of the pink rim underneath her eyes and the dusty flush of her cheeks. He takes her again, this time speaking in low tones with her mother—who, hour by hour, has finally regained the energy to come near her once more, after that brief and confusing episode—asking for an update or so with whatever court they visited.

There is a slight hesitance in the woman's gaze when they talk, and her husband cares enough to express concern.

"What's wrong?" He tucks a stray lock of that pale gold curtain and tucked it behind her ear. "Is it the tremors?"

"No." Came the immediate reply, hissed as a soft denial. "But something feels…off."

"How so?"

"It burns, right here. Just as it had all those years ago, with Mother. Piercing—an ache begging to leave. Like the scratching of a knife on a plate, or the silver scraping my gums." Catelyn frowns, pointing down at her chest, right above the spot where her heart was supposed to be…hm, it seems as if these two do not even require any full cues so as to tell the other what they felt. "And I can't breathe."

How curious.

Valaena nuzzles her face into her father's neck, sighing. She closes her eyes, willing the image of the stars to reappear behind the darkness.

The humming buzzes louder.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(It feels like the birth of a machine, the birth of an artificial life—much akin to the intimacy within the act of creation; she is both the madman and the mother, the sick criminal and the doting parent, the fool and the enlightened. She kneels on her futon and stares out to the winter outside of her house's shoji screens, and she questions her purpose for being there.

Should she intervene, and play the role of the prophet? Or would functioning along with the concinnity of this chaos be better; would her posing as a being of acceptance change the way she sees herself?

And so.

Today, she is flesh—weeping in her cotton blanket.

Tomorrow, she will be a mechanism, moving with contrived grace.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Mother, I had screamed into the void. Aberration, it calls back to me."

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

Barty, after hearing tell about his lover's disappearance, has gone feral.

"It's unfair." He had sobbed. "You don't understand—"

"Understand what?" Her mother replied; desperate but defensive, trying so hard to be darling with her friend but desolate at the loss of the other all the same.

"You have your husband and your child, your bloody house and name. What do I have? What do I have, Catelyn? The one person I called mine—"

"You don't get to say that. Not after everything that's happened. Not after what I tried to give." Catelyn scoffed, shaking her head with disbelief. "How…how dare you."

The pair's back-and-forth is tainted by Valaena's own incomprehension of their relationship, not having near enough information to truly surmise the depths in this connection. Only months ago, everything was fine.

The one thing that will never leave her, the one thing that she will always remember about living, is the idea of how painful dying is; that even despite the kindest transitions, even despite the sweetest mercies, there is an echo of loss to be dealt with. Fortunate are those who label themselves unfeeling—but when something of theirs is taken away, the grief becomes real. And, like a muse that stirs a vortex in the sea, she is caught inside its torrents now; her version of paradise slashed by a storm.

No matter that her family hides it from her, Valaena still dreams of what happens between them.

Such as now.

("Stop, please, I can't do it." She begs. "Father, it's too much—I can't go on for much longer, please—"

"Silence.")

"What do you mean you can't see, Catelyn?! Where is he?!"

"I don't know! There isn't—there's nothing—I can't—"

"Like hells you can't! You spoke with him seven days ago! What did he say—"

"He went north. That's it. That's it. I don't know where 'Eulus could be, I—what are you doing? 'Mius, you cannot be seriously doing this. Don't you dare! She's one—legilimency would break her mind—BARTY! Don't you fucking dare!"

Tinsel pops beside her crib in an instant, and Valaena stirs from her slumber. He snaps his spindly fingers and she goes flying into his arms; the elf cradles her close as she squirms and yelps. The creature squeaks out something she did not catch—a vague plea—at the exact same time that the doors to her chambers swing open with a bang. Immediately, they apparate away; and the babe shrieks as everything twists and turns.

"Tinsel! Bring her back!" Is Barty's faded, angry shout. "Let go of me—Catelyn!"

"Tinsel! Keep her away!"

Valaena sees and hears everything, and this is the problem. There are many visions that she dearly wishes to unlearn; events in the present time that she has no desires or intentions to even be aware of. They all nauseate her, in some manner or another, no matter that she does her best to smile through it and let herself stay in ignorance; and they would not leave her be, not for anything. Knowing what she does, as per the insights that Barty and Regulus have discussed; she regards the entire world before her as a twilight of desolate shadows, where existence wove an intricate tapestry.

Sometimes, there is the conflict—sickly-coloured spells bursting from the wands of those dressed in black robes, the flesh and blood and bone of the helpless melting into one, determined cries from those who oppose her family and follow the orders of a man who has won a previous war. Sometimes, there are the ruling governments—lords and ladies assembling into grand and spacious halls, legislations being debated over with bland tones, crimes and clandestine tales hidden from the public.

Sometimes, there is the general populace; fear and gossip mongers scaring the occasional civilian, newspaper articles of the most recent developments, families wary of letting their young out even in the barest of spaces outside of their homes. Sometimes, there are the creatures of magic; whispering in hushed voices amidst the chaos and tempestuous winds that engulf their realms, with faces that scrunch up in disgust and resignation as their human counterparts come through with a path of self-destruction once more.

(One beat, then two, and then three; and a fourth. Her heart pulses for those scant few seconds, and she crumples down. The man with a sword and his arm in her chest gasps softly as she falls, and the one whom she pushed out of the way sends a jet of fire towards him. She chokes as the appendages are forcefully pulled out of her, coughing when she rolls onto her side. Her lovers engage each other in a stream of blue and red—water and flame—and she can only look on, strengthless, as her breathing saps.)

The pace of it all is what baffles her.

How did it devolve so quickly? Valaena sniffles when she and Tinsel reappear in another spacious chamber—one she has never been in before. Everything only feels like yesterday.

But she supposes that she should not be so surprised at this eventuality.

(Stupid, stupid, stupid child.)

They are in another person's room, the girl notes. She and the elf are illuminated by the soft glow of intricately designed lanterns hung by the heavy doors; delicate frames casting enchanting patterns of light and shadow across the chamber. These reflect off the polished marble floors, creating a warm and ethereal ambiance that reminded her of sunlight in the early morning. She babbles as she is placed onto a large bed—velvet in red and bronze, framed by a dark and heavy wood.

"Tinsel! Tinsel? What? Where?"

"We is in you's grandmother's room, Little Miss. Oh, Master Barty won't catch you here!"

"Indeed, he won't." A silky voice rings out. She swivels her head around, startled. There, affixed on the wall, was an ornate gold frame; and inside it, a woman emerged, ethereal and enigmatic, her presence resonating with both intrigue and trepidation. She laughs softly—a haunting melody that left a distinct sense of foreboding in her gut. "This is the most heavily-warded chamber in the castle."

Valaena's first thought is, Mama?

"Hello, little one. It's…a pleasure to see you."

It is akin to witnessing a living poem, she mused, to see this young lady appear in the animated portrait; all curly silver-white hair cascading in wild abandon—an enchanting crown of spun moonlight, with bright violet eyes to match—another otherworldly allure, much as she embodied what her own birth-giver presented.

This must be her, then—that Esther Jane Martell that her parents and godfathers have only mentioned in passing; the grandmother that her mother is so sad at speaking about.

The woman paraded a dawn-crimson gown, set with a low-shouldered neckline that those who lived during the Victorian era would have considered near-scandalous, along with a tight bodice that sent a shiver of unease down the girl's spine as she looked at it. On her neck sat thick bands of gold, with rubies inlaid at the centre. She is everything that Catelyn is—only…only more vibrant; like the girl-woman-child that Catelyn is, was a poor rendition of the one that came before her.

If she could assign a face to the words wealth and beauty, it would be this—it would be the sort of opulence and unrealness that none would have believed, if they never saw it for themselves.

Uncanny, unnerving.

(Another version of Lady Seika to admire.)

"No one ever visits my rooms, not even that daughter I've heard the other portraits tease me about. I could only get so far as the frame by the staircase with the sun-catchers. I hate it. I hate it all."

"What?" Valaena gets up on all fours, crawling on the sheets. Her body sinks somewhat into the soft material, and she swallows back her anxiety. "What?"

"Hello again, you silly babe." The woman giggles. Her voice is deeper than Catelyn's—richer, sultrier—with an edge darker than her mother's summer-airy brightness, more winter than anything. She tilts her head. "What's her name, Tinsel?"

"Esther Valaena Martell, Lady Jane." The said elf replied. He scutters around in the room, sliding the curtains open to allow the sun's rays to trickle in. "An April child. Born on a high noon, just as the sun climbed its peak."

"…oh. A third, then? Quite redundant, if you asked me." And at that, Valaena is filled with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. The woman captured within the canvas appeared timeless, her youthful visage frozen in a moment long gone. Her red eyes traced the details of the portrait, searching for a connection between the image and what meagre stories she heard before; attempting to reconcile anything at all to this person before her.

"Gran-na," her own lips slow her down, "Gran-na!"

Should she address her as the woman she was told of, with reverence and respect—or should she treat her as a stranger, deferential but distant?

"…you look awfully a lot like…Riddle." Martell the Elder frowned, then snorted with light humour. It is not a sardonic tone, though she acts as if there was a joke to be told. "Don't tell me he's made off with my own brood? That conniving bastard."

"…she—she is, my Lady. You's granddaughter." Tinsel said, awkward. "Lord Thomas' first and only child. He has married Lady Catelyn."

Valaena gets another flash of her uncle raging at her mother.

His voice had never sounded so cold as it did then, in that moment. Striking, damning; angry, accusatory. It is very similar to that one time Catelyn made her complaint about her husband—but where her desperation leaked in little clawing bursts, Barty's wildness came out as full swipes and snarls of mercilessness. There is…more than just the philippic that he sobs out. He looks at her mother with a ferine glare—and then, he carps a weeping cry, released with all the rashness and despondency that only a lost and searching lover can give.

Distantly, she hears the elf and the woman talking, but she cannot pay enough attention to keep track.

A soft ocean breeze flows in from the open window, ruffling what little hair she has; and a deep sorrow fills her as she tries to think. Her breathing is heavy, and tears roll softly down her cheeks. She cannot focus, she cannot centre herself enough as her mind pitter-patters and shimmies into disarray. Everything is too distracting—too overstimulating; and it is with a kick and a whine that she rolled on the bed, crawling away and tucking herself into the covers when the nagging, non-existent noise grates on her ears.

"—well, then, if what I heard was true, then the girl would carry my name and my burden." Lady Jane went on, as if she took no notice of Valaena's growing unease.

There is another fight happening within the very same walls that she, in only weeks past, had been so blissful residing in. It is now tainted by a reminder of grief, of the world that existed right outside—like a piece of infinity marred by mortal dirt.

"And, if all that yelling outside my chambers is any indication—then she'd be shouldering her father's face and rage."

"We is not certain, Lady Jane." Tinsel shook his head. "But Lady Catelyn is doing her best to find Master Regulus."

"Has she spoken to that other elf? Kreacher, was it?"

Valaena buries her face into a velvet cushion, groaning and growling—clawing at the soft material as the buzzing grows louder, and louder, and louder. A heave pushes its way up her throat—bile rising—but she tempers it down with a forced swallow. She lays on her side, hot underneath the blanket, until a dizziness takes over, and she is shaking. There is nothing to be done when she has these fits, truth be told; Thomas ascertained that. He waved his wand at her as he concluded with the idea of potions being rendered useless against her body's system—a mutation or bloodline-related ability that was both a blessing and a curse in his eyes.

Poisons, and all other brewed liquids will never work on you. You'll taste and feel them in your mouth, but they'll never bring you substance or sustenance, he said, with a very minute jerk in his bottom right eyelid and a pursing of his lips, and so, there's many things needed to be done by hand. No sleeping draughts for you, my love.

"Little Miss!"

She verges unconsciousness once more, dearly wishing there was something out there that could relieve her of this damned headache.

("You've weaponised every single fibre of your body. Flesh, blood, and bone—you're the deadliest person there is to exist in these ranks. You're far stronger than even my brother and your cousin combined." A teenage boy with two-toned hair tells her, one day, as they lounge on the river where they once played as oblivious children. He flicks a pebble onto the water, watching as its momentary lack of inertia makes it skid across the stream. "It makes Father furious."

"Of course it does." She rolls her eyes, tossing a stone of her own. It joins his as both rocks jump like grasshoppers in idle movement, and then plops into the creek as fish rise up to leap and dive. "Should I be concerned? Should I expect there to be some attack on our compound?"

"Just the usual—though he might send more third parties your way. You know how it goes."

The girl hums. "…as it always does.")

"Mm…dragon dreams?"

"Not quite, my Lady. The Little Miss sees all as they happen, not as they are to be. She doesn't get much rest because of such a thing. Oh, my poor Little Miss!" She vaguely recognises the elf's soft wrinkly hands waving around in front of her, performing some spell or the other. In an instant, the pounding in her temples eases by a considerable amount. "But, as my Lady knows, we must make do."

"As it's always been." A mournful sigh.

"Still a form of the Sight, then. Shame. I've only ever seen fire and ash in my past. Such is the way of this cursed line." She continued. The elder princess' cadence danced between bitter and amused; the kind where one could infer that a smile is present, despite not being able to view it otherwise. There is a tinkling of metal, likely her heavy gold jewellery hitting each other as she gestured or so. "Oh…you poor, poor child. Much is to come, isn't there? The mess in the hall is getting worse, Tinsel."

As soon as that statement left those lips, a resounding rumbling shook the room with an unsettling vibration. It is much akin to the time when her own magic had torn free from her willpower alone, all those months ago. There was a shout outside, though it was muffled due to the thick doors. Jane, Tinsel, and Valaena all turn to the source of the noise; a vague tilt of her head towards the direction as the floor keeps being destroyed.

Her grandmother sighs, pursing her lips and clicking her tongue in both sadness and annoyance as Barty and Catelyn appear to be duelling it out. The little girl sniffles again, loathing the fact that her mother and her godfather's relationship seems to be tearing at the seams the longer time goes on.

"WHERE IS REGULUS, CATELYN?!"

"LEAVE MY DAUGHTER ALONE!"

"Those little apes." The lady groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Cast a sleeping spell on the child. And bring another frame into the hall. Let me out of this damned portrait—I think it's time this so-said Catelyn of mine and I had a chat."

Ah, of course. This particular remnant of Esther Jane was still just a character inside a magical photograph, at the end of the day. Captured in motion to imitate the person she had once been, with enough essence to trick every viewer that she yet lived on. But there is no mistaking that she is only that—an essence, and no more than the qualities that she had been allowed to possess in pale film. There is no actual sense of mortality to her, now—and this is what makes all the difference, Valaena distantly thinks. The woman in the photograph has not aged a single day past her…however old she is when it was taken.

There must be more history to Catelyn and to the mother she grew up with; and the babe already surmised that, should the portrait decide to speak with the pair outside, she would only worsen things.

She recalls the words from earlier: No one ever visits my rooms, not even that daughter I've heard the other portraits tease me about.

She ruminates on the stories Thomas told her, the regalements Regulus repeated.

Valaena is not stupid. There is a reason why.

(She and Hikaku are out scouting the perimeters of a dead zone, having been informed that there was a plague that swept through the entire population in one week. They acted on Tajima's orders to raid the curio that might still exist in the place. After all, it used to be where the famed Chinoike Clan used to reside. Those illusion users have fled to the gods-know-where as their settlement was ravaged by disease.

"You know, I'm starting to think Uncle is doing this on purpose." She says to her elder cousin as they tread along a beaten path. Her braids have come undone, and she reaches back to re-tie the silver and the steel. "I think he's trying to kill me."

"Tajima isn't trying to kill you." He rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "He's just…"

"Bitter about the rumours regarding Izuna and I?"

"The second heir has priorities, as we all know. Try imagining this as Uncle looking out for you. Even he can see Izuna's…condition." Hikaku mutters the last statement, eyes darting around as if he was afraid someone else would hear. A ghost, a wind, a flower. She curls her lip. The two of them were the only ones there. "You're the strongest in the clan. Uncle is arrogant, but not enough to be blind. He won't risk your safety."

"I don't believe it." She deadpanned, then laughed as the man just swatted the back of her head. "I will never believe it."

After all, she was the reason Tajima's beloved little brother was lost to another's blade. Her father, for all his faults, has always been a sick and twisted fancy for the clan head. Oh, madness all over indeed.

They immediately take their positions as several other soldiers circle them, their eyes swirling in red and black as they meet their fellow mirage-makers in a myriad of murderous tumbles.)

She wonders what it is that Esther Jane had done to warrant this sort of…emotional neglect, from those who still reside in the castle. So far; there were only her parents and her godfathers who have roamed around with her. Valaena turns on her side as the hisses of sparks resound, sniffling. Another hit on the chamber doors. In an instant, all the joy she has felt in the past months sour into something bleak and doleful.

"Tinsel, get me out now."

(Stupid, silly, summer child.)

The elf is silent, but he complies to his former mistress' command. He snaps his fingers, and Valaena knows no more of that afternoon.

But even still, she sees the aftermath in her dreams. Barty and Catelyn devolved into a physical altercation—and it took Jane telling Tinsel to call for Thomas as it happened, as she could do nothing save to berate the two youngsters as she prowled in her gold-framed photograph.

It is then that she is reminded that the pair were still of the age where they are hot-blooded and impulsive—that, despite their so-seeming maturities and their countenances, they were still children. Lost and lashing, forlorn and fanatic; as insecure and unstable as the veins on a butterfly's wings, ready to break on the first touch. On any other occasion, it would have been a hilarious sight to observe. But here, there is no true rest for Valaena, in all honesty—only this vacillating existence, pushed and pulled between the states of waking lament and slumbering incapacity. For all intents and purposes, she is a bystander, unable to do anything but watch as everything passes her by.

Thomas arrived a few minutes later. He stared at Barty and Catelyn with disappointment. The boy stood still in his place, bent and ashamed, murmuring near-hearted apologies that flew past her father's head. The girl was who the middle-aged man centred on—tilting her chin up and speaking in a soft modulation as his free hand stroked her waist. Her uncle did his best not to fidget as the tension in the room surmounted, and even as the portrait of her grandmother began insulting the Dark Lord.

"Oi, Gaunt. Or whatever it is that you call yourself these days." Jane hissed, crossing her arms, bracelets jingling. "You're defiling my halls."

"All that gold was rather blinding. Some silver ruin would look nice on the decór, I'd say. The sea outside is beautiful. Perhaps the castle could do with some more holes in the walls." Thomas snarks back. His manner of speaking is not unkind, but there is an edge to it.

"This is my ancestral home, you twit. You are a consort—" the lady's sneer shifts to Catelyn, who turns away from it, "and you need to grow out of your passivity. I do hope I didn't raise you to be a coward."

The man's gaze flits over to his other follower for a mere second, as if assessing his worth. Barty freezes completely underneath his surveyance; in this moment, he was not the amicable man that his best friend married—he was his leader once again. Valaena wonders why her father has not struck him down in that instant. Though, all the same, she is glad he does nothing about the scuffle, save for reminding them with a few notes of scold.

"I've informed Winky about another certain artefact I was interested in acquiring. It's not so difficult a retrieval." As if joining a jest, he looks over to Jane again—an unholy gleam in those crimson red eyes of his signalling something that her grandmother might have known. "Another mission in Sopron."

"I've no idea what you're on about." The lady in the picture drawled, then laid her eyes on Barty, whose breath hitched at being scrutinised by the woman he said he made a promise to. "I'm guessing I played a role in the damned war?"

And at that, Lord Voldemort laughed.

"Go, Barty." He commanded. The youth followed immediately, sending her mother one last glance—filled with many, many unspoken emotions—before he bowed, and turned on his heel. Valaena did not miss that brief flash of utter hatred and devastation. Tinsel trailed after him, making light conversation as they discussed the details of the new mission.

The one of the past stared down at the ones in the future, brow raised as the last man left in the hall takes her mother into his arms, keeping her close and whispering sweet nothings into her ear. Catelyn leaned into her husband's embrace, wrapping her arms around his midsection; returning his affections with just as much fervour. Jane displayed her disgust at such a thing, her lovely face scrunched up as the man continued to nibble and bite on his wife's pale neck.

"Gods. Get your spawn out of my room and make off in the one you own—you shameless little beasts."

"I seem to recall your own advances with Abraxas leaning towards such a manner." Thomas rolled his eyes, but complied with her wishes. He stepped aside the rubble in the hall, Catelyn's hand intertwined with his. She seemed to be ignoring her mother entirely, only ever focused on the ornate entrance to the chambers as the married couple then performed some spell or the other to verify their approach inside. "You were a brazen dame."

"The boldest of them all." Jane cackled. "Get out of my sight."

(Seika, Seika, Seika; pure flower—one summer, and a sun.)

Her parents open the doors, and she wakes as the two come to take her.

Just a little more, ashling, says the humming, only a bit more time left.

She remembers Barty and Regulus once more, and Valaena…seethes.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(If she could portray this sort of existence into a poem—or into any sort of linguistic nuance, really—if she could pen it down with the simplicity that brushstrokes offered to immortalise, she would not line it with the words that any literature presented itself with pretension to pretend. No one would believe it. Or perhaps some will, but they might take it as the empiric yearning that only those who feel too much try to express.

Either way, unless and until it becomes an accepted truth—pure of any doubt and question, beyond scientific in its nature but taken as a statement of reality regardless of its seeming rave-gyredness; she must content herself to lie in silence.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"I don't believe the finer details change anything. But I suppose it makes many things easier to understand."

"You're sick."

"Oh, well—I've never claimed to be a good person, have I?"

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

There is a certain fascination that befalls her whenever she sees her parents making love in her dreams.

Over and over and over again, she witnesses this dynamic—left to discern on what truly made the two unite. From a stranger's perspective, she would say that they dance upon the edge of societal acceptance. Had she been a lesser person, perhaps she might let a whisper of her disbelief and cynicism lace the air; but having gone through the motions herself, clouded by her own romantic judgements—or whatever might have passed for it—she can easily grasp the complexities of their bond.

It is wrong, yes—Valaena does not deny that much.

("Take me." She pleads, when he successfully pushes her body underneath his in aggravation. "Take me."

His red eyes are filled with a sudden uncertainty—but he loses all his instincts to pull away as she hooks her legs behind his own, the sudden movement of their knees intertwining making him crash his lips onto hers. Their tongues swirl in lustful abandon, and she rolls their positions over, straddling his hips as she claws and paws to remove his kimono from his body.

"I want to be yours.")

But the emotions do not abate.

(Not for anything.)

The Tom Marvolo Riddle that the child is familiar with from the narrative of so long ago would have ensnared Catelyn, easily dismissing her as mere unsuspecting prey. And yet, it seems, that here and now, he has created a clandestine heaven for himself—away from prying eyes, rooted deep into a tender blossom, transcending the expectations that she has set upon herself.

"My Lord," Catelyn moaned as Thomas pinned her down onto the bed, fingers tangling in his hair while his hands moved to unlace her gown, "my Lord."

Sunlight cascades upon their forms, and the babe feels as if the vision was forbidden to her—like it is not something she is meant to see. But she becomes compelled, regardless, her own eagerness to discover more about the couple taking over the unwillingness to obtrude.

Does she ever see herself reflected in his eyes, as I do my own face?

Scarlet and lilac, red and violet.

(Rage and magic, sex and power.

Wild, wild, wild; warm, warm, warm.)

Catelyn gazes into the abyss of her husband's fractured soul, seeking whatever flickering remnant of the person he used to be in him. In that stolen moment, Valaena's heart pounds in her chest as the Dark Lord sheds his shadowed veil and allows himself another vulnerability. A ray of sun hitting his pale skin, a soft glow on his face. Yellow meets red—and the carmine is mellower, gentler, kinder. The girl-woman lets her delicate fingers brush on his jaw, then has her words brush against his soul.

"I love you." She murmurs, allowing him to pull her to the edge of their shared bed and lift her legs up.

His hand travels south, stroking every smooth fold in the skin beneath, stimulating her for the passion that was about to occur. He hums, and in that single note of his voice, there is a rekindled yearning—something that resembles compassion and acceptance. The slender digits go back and forth; first toying with and teasing the nub right on her mound, then spreading the labia open. Catelyn bites her lip, smiling with a slight blush as he begins to pump in and out of her, burying her face in his neck as he continues his administrations.

"A-ah…"

Valaena would condemn herself for being a voyeur, if she was not so wiled by the display of clear…whatever this was.

(If it was even love to begin with.)

It was not just intercourse for the sake of intimate appearances, not just coitus for the hell of a thrill, nor was it just sex for self-gratification. He truly did want her, as she was, in his arms. Revelation after revelation comes to the babe, when she lets herself analyse the fantasy. It goes beyond the bounds of reason for him to lay with a woman, truth be told; in the canonical text that she remembers, he had taken no lovers at all, though there were many who were fond of writing up their own alternate worlds to cope.

Perhaps this little bubble in time was her version of trying to rationalise the already-irrational.

It is then, in the middle of her parents' sensualities, that another gods-damned realisation hits her.

For fuck's sake.

The memory of her grandmother's words is a random thought, as she watched. Valaena can actually move around in the dreams, though she can only truly spectate like a ghost—phasing through obstacles as if her own atoms did not exist. And in this realm, perhaps it is so. When she crawls around in her infant body, observing from the spare crib that Thomas requested they have in the chambers, she recalls a certain term mentioned.

("Mm…dragon dreams?"

"Not quite, my Lady. The Little Miss sees all as they happen, not as they are to be. She doesn't get much rest because of such a thing.")

It made sense.

The names they possessed, the castle where she lived, the utter fear that Regulus had displayed whenever he talked to Barty.

Catelyn and Valaena Martell. Greater Courts. Is this…is this Sunspear? House Martell? Gods, it has to be. The suns and the swirls. All this bronze and gold. But what…how? How is this even possible? We're living in…it can't be. We're not in the United Kingdoms. I refuse to believe it. The climate doesn't seem to align. Not to mention the dreams…no, no, no—dragon dreams don't work like this. I can't bring to mind much about Harry Potter, save for the basest things. But I still have a bit of knowledge on Game of Thrones. Or am I living in the book version? A Song of Ice and Fire, then?

It is all sorts of unfair.

How does everything about this even work?!

"My flower…blooming in the summer rage, swaying to a tune in the winds." The man murmurs, gently guiding his wife into her orgasm. "Mine."

"Yours." She gasped, shuddering. "Yours, yours, yours."

Valaena had to take several calming breaths so as not to let herself fall into another panic. It is not that these people around her have become less of separate entities and more of human beings to her, that surprised and troubled her; it is the worry of how they fit into this. Suddenly, the room is more hot than warm; suddenly, her cot is more a cage than a cradle. Several different theories worm their way into her conscience and her consciousness—and as she keeps on with her ogling, the babe only pays them idle attention as she tries to fathom everything she had known thus far.

Thomas positions himself at the end of the mattress and slowly eases himself into Catelyn, both of them groaning at the intrusion. Valaena lets herself magnify in on every detail. The little gasps and whimpers that slip from her parents' mouths—barely anything to create conversation, but still enough to be coherent sentences—are laden with depth and an unspoken understanding that leaves her begging for a reveal of the true interplay.

Why, why, why? And, most of all, how?

Her father buries his length in that intimate organ, and the girl wishes the factualism is just as straightforward as the act itself—that the skein of it all can be presented to her in one fell swoop of a blow, and that the more that she pounds it into her head, the easier it was to understand.

The lord and his lady let their love blossom, and it becomes a lightning rod for Valaena's existential crisis. There is a traitorous thought in her mind—one that whispered to her about manipulation and exploitation, about unsettling parallels to the men who have taken advantage of girls like the wife in worlds past and present, about narratives that cast heavy clouds of doubt upon the liaison.

But she cannot get rid of the nuance that lingers.

Destiny is reshaped.

(The plot is damned—the plot be damned.)

Valaena sighs as she continues to watch, feeling more akin to a scientist and her laboratory pets rather than a pervert with his lascivious shite—and that is the delusion that she tries to convince herself of: that she stays within the dream to spy and collect information, rather than the reasoning that whatever remnants of Kyō are living through Catelyn, or that she is thinking of Izuna as she looks at Thomas.

(Ego at its finest.)

(Fate grins.)

She does her best to be comfortable. The sheets inside, behind the bars, remind her of clouds; and she is the angel smiling down upon two mortals, Cupid chortling as a pair connected again and again. Catelyn's hair flutters beautifully as she leans back on the bed, skin being highlighted by the sun just as much as Thomas glowed with satisfaction. The soft lips of the handsome man touches hers, sending shivers down the woman's spine as he kisses her throat.

Wonderful, isn't it? The humming suggests, at the back of her mind. Look at the bond your family shares.

And yet, it seems to be the one that drove Barty and Catelyn apart, she thought, I am not without my own little kindnesses. We are not complete without the presence of black and blonde, of silver-green and blue-bronze.

Your mother's red-gold is the only thing that matters.

Is it?

(It is.)

But this interlude is what made way for the tumultuous storm that slashed through her mother and her uncle's relationship.

She sees her godfather in her sleep just as much as she does her parents, though with less frequency. He is on a hunt in Hungary, hungry himself for the taste of catharsis, free from the hollowness of his own heart. She cannot blame him. On other nights—when she is not riddled by the visions of ash and blood and the war, or troubled by her own reservations as she witnesses the simple humaneness that even the villains of the world display—she trails after Barty in the dreams. He would glance over his shoulder, as if aware of a presence, but he never realises she is there in her own right.

It pains her to the point of exhaustion.

When, as her mother and father reach their third or fourth climax together, the beacon that once beamed down hope and happiness on Valaena pulls her back; she forces herself to reminisce on the small frame of time that she had shared with her godfathers. The sky and the sea, the flowers and the shores; the snake and the raven; the stars that shone and the waters that winked. Unravelling the unconventional becomes the underlying undertaking—for now, she defies the constraint of her own emotions and tries to be as content as she can be, even while the rift within her family grows.

Catelyn sighs like a maiden taken 'round her love once again, as Thomas speaks.

"I think we could try for another child." He mumbled, pulling out, and the babe got a peek of that hot white liquid dripping down between her mother's thighs. The woman was still trembling. "Valaena could do with a sibling, no? I'm sure it gets lonely in the palace."

"Just promise me that you'll never have another. That you will never be with anyone else the way you are with me." The girl-woman replies, caressing his jaw; staring into his eyes—sick with her steadfastness and servility, finished with a soft near-sob. "That I remain your one true darling."

"Oh, but there is no one else like you."

"The courts disagree. That wild-haired woman you've long since taken into your service—"

"Remains at my feet, and nothing else." Thomas cuts her off with a tender kiss, then shifts their positions. Catelyn is sitting atop him this time, and the young lady leans both hands beside his head to steady herself. Her hair falls in a smooth fanning motion, and he moves a tress to get a better view of her face. "Bellatrix is my servant, not my wife. My Death Eaters dance beneath my palms, but you are the only one who spins with me."

(A boy's pleading eyes, telling his friend to keep the secret safe; pulled underwater by dozens of dead hands, air leaving his lungs as he sinks.)

"You are the one I bonded with. Sweetheart of the sun, of the serpents, of the summer winds." The middle-aged man holds her hips, slotting himself within her other side. Her mother lilted out a cry as she moved up and down atop him. "There are none who come close to you—and all those who know us will agree. In this, my body is yours just as much as yours is mine."

(Another's red-rimmed blues, clutching at his chest as he fought off his bitterness and went on with his task; paranoid, yet perpetual still.)

Valaena swallows her bile.

(The time she develops an affection for the man is a strange one. When she realises it, she had slipped into a fit of denial—horrified that she had gone so far into her desperation to end up in such a situation. At first, she thinks it is only a butterfly in her stomach, a minute fancy that she indulges. Then, it turns into a heartache—but it is pleasant, nonetheless, especially when the one who was supposed to be her enemy regards her in such a way.

"And so…this must be love, hm?" She chuckles with a wry expression, as she brushes her hair in front of her looking glass. "This must be it."

After that, she does her best to cock up an answer that would not leave him unhappy—and to her relief, she finds it. She could do it for him, after all.)

"I…" Catelyn clears her throat, and appears as if she was trying her best to seem confident. Though, her words were constantly interrupted by her own sounds of pleasure.

"I—my Lord, ah—then, this…this heaven is ours." She finally says, as he digs his thumbs into the dip of flesh where the hip bones begin. "Ours, ours, ours."

"Mm…just us."

Valaena endures the rest of the fantasy, wishing to redeem any form of negativity that might thorn around her parents' bodies; but her sheer desire for romance—or whatever gullible and misconstrued kind of it that she follows—does not leave, nor does she wish for it to.

And here, she becomes an attestant to a testament. It nags at her; and she keeps asking herself the same questions when she wakes and ponders upon the other, greater problems of the world—not really expecting any true reply, but doing so all the same for the sake of her idle insanity.

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

(At five years old; she has played with dolls and tea sets and made up the most delirious plots to entertain herself, and she has lived through each story in her head as she then killed her first man and spilled the blood she long since wanted to taste. At ten; she has cried over her infatuation with a group of singers and all their pretty faces, and she has ripped off that same beauty off of the victims that she is assigned to eliminate. At fifteen; she has yearned for a glory-filled life, and she has regretted ever thinking of pursuing such a thing.

And at seventeen; she has one last smile that graces her lips, the blood in her grin an ever-present pasquinade to distract from the pain.)

──•~❉᯽❉~•──

"Quit being a sore loser about it."

"Do I look upset over the loss?"

"Rosy, roused, and—"

"Roaringly satisfied."

"Resolutely rueful."

•⸻•

•⸻•

Abraxas was a close confidant, yes.

Oh. So—you've met my grandmother, then?

I don't suppose you're referring to Esther Jane Martell?

The one and only.

Well, I do have many stories of her during our youth. Tell me—how is she? She had been a dear friend of mine, you see.

Oh, but he does not even know half of it. After all, much has gone by since this damned little diary was created. She wonders if this piece of his soul would get angry or agitated with her, when she tells him the full truth of everything that has happened since.