Lyselilla Chapter 4: Thrown to the Fires — I, a Harry Potter + Naruto Crossover fanfic

LYSELILLA

Thrown to the Fires — I

•~᯽~•

[1982 — 1985]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This arc would be broken into shorter chunks; heads-up (and apologies) to those who expected something longer.

(February, 1993)

She had never imagined a situation wherein he would speak to her directly—never again, at least, certainly not after the years that had gone by—and so, when they meet, she is at a loss for words. For a moment, she is unable to respond, simply staring at the man before her in awe. There are many things she wants to say: questions left unheeded, regrets in the back of her mind, and declarations of anger that she keeps tamped down. None of these she knew how to express, not without lashing out.

Eventually, though, she manages to gather herself enough to find her voice.

"I've been waiting for you." Valaena greets his violet gaze with a whisper. "I didn't think you'd actually come, though."

"You are my sister's child," Rhaenar repeats her words from so long ago, "though I've yet to decide if I should refuse you."

Her lips twitch.

•⸻•

It is similar to watching a horror unfold in slow motion; to reading a story, in knowing dread, and expecting what the ending will be. There is no other description for it. Like an intuition that never missed, or perhaps an unsung melody left at the tip of the tongue, edging a sour acceptance of what would otherwise have been a happier conclusion.

(A catastrophe.)

It starts with a name.

Cried out in the heat of hate.

(Star, light, idol; sweetheart of the summer sun, how could you have fallen so far?)

"To all citizens and subjects of the realm, be it known that Esther Catelyn Martell, daughter of the noble houses Martell and Malfoy, stands condemned under the eyes of the gods. Her crimes, as attested before the court, have severed the sacred bonds that ground her to the mercy of the people." There goes a voice that Valaena does not care to put a name and face for.

Catelyn does not flinch, not at all, when she is dragged into the middle of a chamber, before a crowd of people that sneer upon her weakened form. She is dressed in stripes of black and white, beaten and bedraggled, with iron chains clamped around her wrists and ankles. They radiate some kind of suppression energy, made for the purpose of dampening a magical human's abilities. There is a distinct decline in the slope of her belly—a sign of the babe within already having been pushed out in days past; though if one were to peer closer at her person, they would note the faded and cracked streaks of blood on the cloth between her legs.

Naturally, the implications cannot be lost on anyone else. The woman stands straight, regardless of the shouts that ring in the room, and gives no indication to anything that belied her pain.

Unbowed, unbent, unbroken.

That was the way it goes.

And yet, all the same—

—her mother is made to kneel, with her hands behind her back and her head pressed forward on the floor—

—just as these strangers try to make her beg, to force her to utter a plea in defence of all that she had done.

They get nothing.

And so, she gets nothing.

It does not take long. On a grey January dawn, her mother meets her final reckoning. It is a mockery of a trial, and a disgrace of an execution. Those who preside over the process cannot even contain the mania and the bustle of those who stood in their seats. The history relates that the crimes of Esther Catelyn Martell warrant a fate just as severe. Some yell for her humiliation; some, a true torture. They do it in response to the indignity that the witch set upon them, cruel as she was in her own severities.

But they forget that they are not the ones at liberty to decide the result, something already chosen by a future that the lady knew all too well. Perhaps a certain outcome rang in that pretty head of hers, and this ugly event was the best path to achieve it. Still, no other grand speeches marked the occasion; no impassioned weeping echoed through the hall. The only sound that reverberates right after, is a shuffling cadence of measured steps and laboured breaths that heralded the condemned's ascent. And she, in the centre; once a figure of grace, now bore the weight of her transgressions in every weary step.

Her child is hidden behind one of the chairs in the back, breathless as she watches.

Valaena should not do anything.

(A wait, a wail.)

Valaena cannot do anything.

(A wish, a will.)

Valaena does not do anything.

(A want, a wonder.)

But she keeps her eyes peeled, and she keeps herself alert, surveying each face in the crowd for their pain. She finds it all: witches and wizards voicing their rawest woes—a brother, a sister, a mother, a father, a son, a daughter, a friend, a lover; clamouring alongside one another to call for a declaration that should, by all means, be rightfully announced. Unfortunately for her, those in favour of the lady in the front are far and few. Perhaps one or two of the Dark Lord's supporters. But their pride matters more than their influence—and so, they cannot do anything for their master's wife.

Distantly, Valaena wishes her father was here. He would make it right, she thinks. He would storm through these people, weak as they were; raging and roaring and maiming and mauling. She imagines it clearly: that man, running unopposed, save for his aged professor who might go toe-to-toe with him. But it would cause a show of unity, of rare affection and loyalty from the man who styled himself as Lord Voldemort; and those who would bear witness to such a scene would know it true: that Esther Catelyn Martell was in his protection, and whatever influence he had over her was pressure-tight.

Where are you, Papa?

Not that her yearnings made any difference, in the end. No, she does not bother with the legalese that is being exchanged. All of what that drawling dimwit of a speaker imprints in the collective's perception is that: yes, the witch was responsible for all the violations against life and magic and whatnot; and yes, she will not be given a way out of this ordeal. Valaena stood frozen, the question hanging in the air like a heavy shroud. She does not oppose his words, of course, but still, that childish part of her demanded her mother be brought back to her. Her cheeks are hot and her nostrils flair. That side of her wants to reach across the room and smack each person's smart mouth off their face, and another thought inside her urges her to run for the silver-crowned beauty and keep her close. But the rational half of her needs to get a hold of herself: she is a bloody babe, and she is hidden in a room filled with experienced adults.

(If she dreams hard enough, recalls far back enough, she can almost imagine it to be a group of elders surrounding her instead: set in their senility, sneering and snarling out in smarted self-esteems. They deride her for doing as she willed, despite her actions being borne out of a lack of choice and for a narrowed greater good, cornering her into an appearance of affront and addled arrogance.

"Keep her on a leash," says one of the lecherous old men, "throw her to the Hatake or the Inuzuka, if she's so set on making like a mutt on command.")

"Esther Catelyn Martell, you have been found guilty of crimes against the state. The evidence presented and the testimonies given leave no room for doubt. The sacred courts have made their stance clear. With the counsel and at the request of the British Twenty-Eight, who suffered the most under your actions, the Greater Realm hereby pronounces its judgement. For acts of treason, terrorism, and conspiring against the established order; you are sentenced to death."

Valaena does not need to elaborate on what happens next.

Nor does she want to think of it, really.

So, she hides there and she watches, keeping her red eyes open; deep and dark, daring to deem that display in definite damning.

And she holds her breath, as her mother's form crumples over, hit with a sickly green spell from behind.

(Tobirama's embrace is tight, the second time around. He is the one to have her in his arms when her last chance to live halts at its deadline. Their eyes meet, and she almost confuses his own for the moon above them. Dimly, they glimmered, like the stars she so loved to gaze upon in bitter nostalgia. And she sighs against him, warmth seeping from her body, as the world's infinite dream begins.)

The child memorises each face in the crowd, just as well as she did in the past.

(One day. She will be death itself, and she will be swift. But they will die slow; and she will be the last face they see—the only thing they see, as it happens.)

•~᯽~•

(They kiss, and kiss, and kiss some more. Their bodies meld together, moving in perfect rhythm. He touches her in places she has never been touched in so long, and it causes her to gasp in pleasure. In turn, it only drives him to take and take and take—with all the passion and love and desire of a man who had not seen his wife for a century. For them, anyways, it is true. They might as well have been bonded in immoral matrimony. And finally; when their lovemaking has reached its natural conclusion, they still. There it is again, that guilt. For a moment, her breath seems to be held in the air, as if the world itself has stopped to witness the climax of their love.

But no—it was far from that.

It had never been that, not on her end. It is not love, it is hardly even gentle affection. It is a pure impulse between her legs—a need so overwhelming, one that ate her up just as it had countless others. This is not love; it never was and it never will be, for all that her partner thinks of it that way. This is desire in all its sinful sweetness.

They are both figures long dead to history, but oh, how they feel alive once more, as they collide within this strange strand of extant limbo.)

•~᯽~•

"The princess looks as lovely as a sunset over a desert—"

"—and the lord, as bright as a silver-gold dawn."

"And the child?"

"Perihelion, I think. When this world aligns just right with that bright yellow star."

"And everything falls into place?"

"Funnily enough—yes."

•~᯽~•

Time…what a funny thing.

Everyone's always moving either too quick, or too slow.

That was what she always told herself. Or, at least, it was what she kept tricking herself to believe. But, as it is; it kept her alive after all of these years—both in a life past, in another life lived, and in one more to be had. Time was relative, and every person moved at their own pace. Depending on them, however, advantages had to be milked for all they were worth. It seemed easier to acknowledge only the things that she wanted to hear. The weight of the burden felt lighter to carry when she ignored the blur of her emotional state, when she turned a blind eye to the blatant faults in her actions.

It always caught up with her, in the end.

(Always, always, always.)

Her heart stuttered a staccato rhythm in her chest. With clammy hands and a swaying gait, she steadily lowered herself from a rickety stool, clutching a necklace closer to her chest; the yellow-white pearls in her hold. She ran her thumb on the cool engravings of the metal pendant. The magic of the portkey wore off, its use having been made for one event only. A single trip, nothing more. Memories of that day fixed themselves upon her very person. It is a distant thought, now. They are little blistering noises in her head—Catelyn, Tinsel, Thomas, Regulus, Barty, Jane, Rhaenar, Lucius, Draco, Rosy, Basin, Bin-Bon, Coral, Abraxas, Narcissa—no matter who it is; they all resided within every neuron that formed and ceased.

Perhaps, as a daughter, she could have done more for her family; but all she has now are the splinters of a name.

Black, Crouch, Gaunt, Martell, Grindelwald, she repeats again, just as she has in countless beats past, so as not to let herself forget, the sea and the stars, the orchards and their blooms, the serpents and their caves, the sun and its spear, the dragons and their steel.

Will time help her heal, she wonders; would it have her gain closure from families who did not even realise she existed, would it erase the pain of losing what she had, would it make the rest of her life any easier to bear?

The eye of the storm had already passed, and now empty showers were all to be left in the aftermath of the slaughter.

Time passes by slowly. She refuses to return to her dreams, for fear of what she should find, if she dared to explore more than what she has already been given the right to know. Valaena did not know the fate of her mother's body, and some part inside her cried for her eternal quiescence, but she resignedly accepted that there was nothing else to be done. On that day, a mere five or six minutes after she stood in place behind those benches, she woke up once more; this time, set firm between her paternal grandsire's arms as he did the laundry. The old man was keen on having her stay by his side, as if afraid of her disappearing if she left his sights.

Clara labels him overbearing for it; Tom justifies himself as paranoid. Leigh is content to hop around to help in whatever capacity she can whenever he works. Whatever the case may be, they fall into a routine. Before any of them realise it, the days drag on, and it quickly becomes apparent that the young lady who entrusted his grandchild into his care would not be returning anytime soon. Naturally, this stresses the runaway ex-priest out: he hems and haws for afternoons on end, unable to formulate a propre plan of action, unstable in his worries.

"You've been terribly quiet as of late. I can't reckon if I should be suspicious or amused. What's gotten into you? You're not normally this silent." The toy peers at her tiny owner with a glint in those beady eyes. She cannot tell if it is a reflection of the light on the glasslike material, or if it was a true shine of emotion in an otherwise inanimate thing. "I know you know something, 'Laena. And I know that you damn well understand what I'm saying."

"She's a baby, Clara."

"And I'm a dummy, you dunderhead—what's your point?"

"She's barely twenty-one months—"

"Valaena is a magical infant—"

"Do shut up," Tom sighs, rubbing his temples, "at least let her be—I'm sure she's missing her mother. Catelyn can't just do this—you know how wartime gets—"

The puppet is affronted, and proceeds to argue again. "You don't know her like I do, Whitecuffs—Jane and Catelyn both had their dreams. I've seen your son and his wife fuss over the babe. She has them, too."

Valaena continues to fiddle with a classic Paddington teddy that her grandfather bought her, a while back. He had it delivered to their house. She took it from him with a gummy smile, before proceeding to run off with the cocker spaniel to play. It was her only other toy in this sorry state, hasty as her mother had been in forgetting to bring the other gifts her godfathers gave her before.

"Quit being in denial and face the truth. The child has dreams. I know it. I've slept with her for nearly a bloody year now!" They both pause, grimacing at the wording. Clara huffs, before glaring at the man. "You know what I mean!"

"Should Catelyn be in any sort of danger, then I want Valaena to be kept away from it. That's what her mother asked for, isn't it?"

"Not like this, you filthy mu—"

"Don't you dare," Tom hisses, "I know what you're about to say. You can't seriously be using my blood as an excuse just to keep the girl safe."

"Then get her to talk," Clara frowned, "she's never been this tight-lipped before."

It was no use. Valaena did not acknowledge their words, too caught up in her mulling as she was to even bother. Her pudgy little hands wrangle the bear's neck, fingers squeezing against imaginary veins, cotton caught in friction on her skin. She turns away from the two, unwilling to speak so openly about her pain. It is different, like this, than from when she had been carelessly emotional around Barty and Regulus. Clara would not have enough self-control to keep her own derisions contained, and Tom is too much of an unknown factor for her to be comfortable around. One is at risk of doing something rash, and the other, helpless due to a non-magical nature.

(Being asleep is a curse; she is tailed by things she should be better off not knowing about. Being awake is worse; she is reminded that she can never truly do anything—not yet, not like this.)

(For a moment, time flashes before her eyes. She remembers the sound of flesh slapping against flesh; and she recalls each instance where her lovers' voices cry out, saying the words she wanted to hear, to her. This same sound rings in her ears a dozen different ways. The whore inside her shakes as the memories quietly and violently resurface; ever yearning, ever hopeless, ever stuck.)

It is not long before Tom sighs and tries to get her to speak. And again, she does not pay heed to his harried humming. He does not push her, not after she glares at him with tears in her eyes. The tension in the air is palpable, then. There is an uneasy silence between them three, each knowing that the other is aware of something, but none wanting to speak of it.

"There's your answer," Clara gripes, "she's onto something."

"Then I'll leave her be," Tom fires back, before turning to his granddaughter with a sad smile, "I won't force it out of you, love. Just know your old man's here."

Valaena is grateful for the space. He respects it, realising then just how intelligent she truly is. Her grandfather may be curious and persistent, but not to the point of uncomfort. This is where he diverges from the doll; gentle-handed as he is, with a heart just as weak and soft.

The girl takes another needed nap in the afternoon. And yet again, she awakens before nightfall, her mind troubled by dreams. Images of broken and bloodied children flash through her mind's eye; and she sits up from her spot between the man's arms, wide awake. The child inhales and exhales, controlling her breathing; and she stares out of the large living room window, the darkness of the night beginning to obscure the sights that lie beyond the glass.

Tom sits and waits for her to come forward with whatever truths she held, still as a stone in time.

She gives nothing away. Valaena continues to sleep in pained self-admittance.

It is peaceful now, but she knows that it will not last.

•~᯽~•

(Her rest is troubled, filled with thoughts of better days. Dreams where she is loved, dreams where her father cherishes her. But when she wakes in the morning, the harsh reality greets her once again. Strangely enough, despite his abuse; he is many things to her, for her: a source of denied wishes, a display of ignored needs, a thorn in her side. It does not matter what else she thinks about him.

Red, red, red, red; she is just as real with him as she is with her loves.)

•~᯽~•

"Mine. You have been, and will always be mine."

"Unfortunately for the both of us."

•~᯽~•

Her father and her uncle have finally come to blows.

There you are.

Valaena sees them again—with both utter relief and unbound regret—though she could do nothing as she observed the divide between the two men decaying even further in the aftermath of what had happened.

(Prophet, prophet, prophet. Judas, jinx, jester. The child that she is has betrayed these two, a burden to everything they represent, like a cosmic joke that never ends.)

"You always think you're entitled to everything, don't you?"

That is the very first thing that Valaena listens to, as she witnesses the interaction between her kin. Advancing towards his fellow ally in grave offence, the silver-haired man grabs his elder by the collar and shoves him against the wall, in what appeared to be a rare show of a lack of control. Rhaenar utters his words like the insult belongs to Thomas, as if the blame is well and rightfully set upon his shoulders.

"My little sister—the one thing that should've been sacred—"

"Your sickness has never known any bounds." Thomas scoffed, sneering at his goodbrother, red eyes staring deep into those fuchsia ones with the confidence of a man daring fate itself to make a move. He barks out a derisive laugh when his junior only presses him harder against the structure. The girl has been peripherally aware of this tension: referential as Catelyn was with it, a year ago—and implicative as Clara and Abraxas were in weeks past. Seeing the two adults treating one another this way, it should come off as no surprise, then, that the familial ties that should have bound them together are more akin to chains, pulling tighter with every heated exchange; though the idea of a connection between them existed as flimsily as a string of dew between flower petals.

(And the flower itself—it has wilted.)

Their malicious song-and-dance is a prism: solid and unchanging, with light passing through in a strike of vibrant, violent colours. All at once, their mixed breaths are a battle cry, a funeral dirge, a sour vibe, a desirous howl, and an expression of agony; depending on which perspective she chose to view it in. But there goes that cataclysm; volatile, forcing the pair to teeter on their tumult. They are boxed within that issue—uncertain to what the future will now hold, given one of their faction's most significant players has been eliminated.

"What do you want out of this? An apology? To strike me down in a rage like the wild dog you are? Go ahead. Give me some reason to kill you, to relieve myself of your endless stupidity." There is a hidden history there, something she has yet to uncover about her father's story in this version of reality. "Bark on, you little mutt."

"Catelyn isn't a 'casualty of war'. The Order's stunt isn't a response to some 'misdemeanour'. And it would certainly not go unpunished." Rhaenar's tone remains coiled as he bares his teeth. "Give me justice for my sister."

"For her—or for you?" Thomas countered. "Do you take me for the lovesick fool that you are? There's a way of retaliating without resorting to a wholesale slaughter. We're approaching the end of the war—don't make this any more difficult than it already is."

"Justice or death," said the younger, on the verge of snapping the other's neck, "this fucking war is ending because she's dead. You took her from me—you took her and Mother—and now they're both gone because of you. They both trusted you—Mother loved you, Catelyn loved you—and you've went and killed them both like they were worth less than that Black slut you so favour—"

"Don't you dare—"

"You left her alone in Sunspear. Do you think that any of your reparations are going to make up for your utter incompetence?"

"I've never seen you stepping up to protect her." Her father's expression is dark and amused. "Don't you dare talk about what is or isn't rightfully mine. Your obsession has tainted everything. You've suffocated her for the entirety of her childhood. Don't come to me with the sole accusation that you're free of any blame in this."

Grindelwald makes a quick, subtle movement with his hand: a warped motion with his own wand; a silver-sheened thing with a swirled and pointed end, clenched in his grip, the veins in his neck pulsating as he levelled it at Gaunt's throat. The atmosphere crackled with the imminent threat of violence. The men shared each other's gazes like predators sizing up their prey, the room a battleground for the (seemingly) longstanding animosity that had festered between them. Valaena whimpers in her position—right by their feet, ghostly hands phasing through their forms in the manner desperate children attempt to separate fighting beloveds—like it would do anything to actually stop the conflict.

"You know nothing of justice," Thomas spat out, calm despite this compromise, "and you, of all people, have no rights to claim anything in Catelyn's name."

Strangely enough—or perhaps in good sense—Thomas does not make any mention of Valaena. Not yet. The girl herself notes that instance with a mild curiosity. But she cannot stop him, nor can she even protest; frozen in place, unable to move or speak. She is trapped in this sad, surreal universe—stuck inside this scenario, completely immersed in it. The Dark Lord's expression remains unchanged as he continues to stare at his brother-in-law, cool and unreadable.

After a long beat, he finally speaks again in his same flat tone. There is no emotion in his voice at all. "What justice would this be, Rhaenar? Do you want me to kill all of them? The Order of the Phoenix? Perhaps Dumbledore himself? He's become a nuisance, I'll admit, although the old man is hardly worth the effort."

"Hardly?" The silver-haired man repeats, curling his lip. "He was the one to chase her down. I got to the castle as soon as I could. Bagnold was already there. She was with Molina, did you know? There were talks of cessation. Your cause is failing, half-blood."

A mocking, bitter smile on the youth's mouth. "I suppose that's the one consolation her death brings about."

("Much came about, after your supposed…death," said the aged man, blowing a ring of smoke through yellowed teeth, "although many still argue that, regardless of what happened, the village would've been built regardless."

She notes the slight tightness in his manner of speech. He is wary of offending her. But she pays it little heed, merely rolling her eyes and turning to the other books on the shelves. They allowed her many leeways, though not enough so as to keep their deeper histories classified. Her fingers trace the spines of one book to another, skimming each title in quick succession.

Sometimes, she wondered that herself; if her nephew's words about her were ever enough to justify everything that came about in her lifetime, if he truly empathised with her or if it was for the sake of sentiment and misplaced formality.)

There is a flash of utter hatred on her father's face when the response comes. He shoves Rhaenar off of him, ready to brandish that bone-white weapon of his. But he stills his hand, and despite its twitches, he keeps it willed under control.

Valaena weeps at their feet. She knows that neither of them will hear. But she lets loose her tears, even if she is only a spectre in this dream, because this is the only way that she can be with either. She cannot quite admit to herself why she hesitates in telling Tom or Clara about these visions. They meant well—they did; just as Barty and Regulus had done so before them, stuck with her in that sunny castle as they were. But she cannot deny the disconnect that exists: her godfathers held her out of love for her mother; but she has yet to discern what her grandfather's motivations are, and what her manikin's true emotions implied for her.

(So, she resigns herself to silence, like the coward she has always been.)

That familiar feeling of anxiety is beginning to return. The witchling grows nervous again; palms clammy, throat constricted, form trembling; the thought that she would have to someday confront each fear sending a jolt through her body. A chill slivers down her spine.

(So many promises that she has made. And yet, she was powerless to keep the very person she cherished the most.)

As Valaena looks up, she glimpses a small, accusatory smile creeping across Thomas' lips—but she can tell that it is a false and cruel expression. It is only to disguise the pain and humiliation that he might be feeling. She is certain about this because she has seen it before—she has given herself that very same disgust in a bronze looking glass, scornful and deprecating.

The dark lord sighs. "We're already close to victory."

"And now, you're seven steps back," the prince retorts coldly, "so much for the end."

Rhaenar voices his intent to go after Dumbledore, and Valaena's heartbeat quickened. The prospect of vengeance hung in the balance, and she understood the stakes. Even Thomas did—she could see it in his face. That urge to hurt and destroy; from one breath to the other, he puts his dark thoughts up well, even in his quiet, and she finds herself relating to him. The old man was a figure of both fear and fascination, looming large in the back of their minds. Er, well—at least, hers. She had never really given him much attention, too absorbed in her own flights and declarations of grandiosity in her home.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

(Silly, silly, silly girl.)

The child senses a weariness in her father, and an acknowledgment of the fragility of their situation. The two men are in Rhaenar's solar, seemingly in Dragonstone. Thomas appears out of place here; too vibrant a green for the deep reds, too sharp a silver for the blacks and greys; not necessarily weak, no—rather, his power is of a different sort, clashing wildly with the influence to be witnessed in this fortress. It would not seem too far off from Malfoy Manor in terms of dreariness, she thinks, but the dragon's lair is mediæval where the snake pit was baroque. And…at least the man in the black robes had allies there.

She has no idea on what the relationship between the pair was. Rivals? Enemies? Business partners? They shared all those roles, in her view; unwilling participants forced to shake hands for the sake of survival. Then again, Valaena does not even know much of her own mother's backstory, despite the hints that she could infer from months past. So, she stays by her father's legs in this mental realm, desperate for the one whose warmth is familiar and dead-set.

They are interrupted when a third presence enters the fray.

Another aged lord. Just as imposing as her uncle is, perhaps even more. Half the height, but double the intimidation. The new person is dressed similarly to Rhaenar: in black and red, with faint depictions of fire-breathing creatures threaded into his doublet and his robes, a crown of white curls stark atop his head. He stands proud despite his frame—mildly hunched forward, though supported with the help of a cane. Its shaft was that of a black wood, with pure gold on its collar and handle. His face is severe as he walks in, taking heed of the younger men's dilemma with a click of his tongue.

He had Jane's face. Or, more accurately, Jane had his face. He is handsome and distinguished, she would give him that. This greybeard's deep violet eyes burned with a dangerous fervour—with some sort of zeal to avenge the perceived wrongs and continue a cause that now seemed as fragile as the desert winds. Valaena shuddered at the intensity in his gaze, recognising a perilous determination that brooked no dissent.

"Lord Ignaz," greeted her father.

"Grandfather," said her uncle, in a similar tone.

The said man's exterior remained stoic, but there was a minute turmoil tremor of his hands. She is tall enough to see it. Ever perceptive, she can feel a current of…regret, along with exhaustion, swirling beneath his controlled façade.

"I expected better of you both." He—Lord Ignaz—says softly. Too softly…much akin to a predator in wait, timing his attack just right. Valaena watches him, and she sees just the tiniest bit of unease in him. Indignity, irritation; guardedness, grief, gloom. There is no fear in her father's countenance when the words are spoken—but in those scant seconds, she can spy a near-nervousness on him. Lord Ignaz (Grindelwald?) stares Lord Thomas Gaunt down like a stranger begging for an answer, and the air is taken out of her lungs.

"Jane sent word. We're relocating most of the portraits, although she refused to part with the castle. The elves recount similar tales about Molina taking over. They're going to be working with the muggle prime minister—González, that boy—if Dumbledore doesn't immediately do anything about the raid on Sunspear. The Spanish ministry's open to shaking hands with their torques if it meant catching a pest of an international terrorist."

"They're recruiting muggles?" Rhaenar raised a brow, emitting a sound of disgust. He casts a side-eye at Thomas, as if considering something, but ultimately decided to shake his head and huff away. "That's not the point. What are we going to do about Catelyn?"

The old man takes a turn and goes to pour himself a glass of wine, from a pitcher placed on a side table. The languidness of the gesture is not lost on her. Ignaz takes three servings—his, his grandson's, and his in-law's. The man trades a glance with the two others, giving them their portions; having a sip of that ambery liquid before he speaks again. "Well, be done with it. What would you do, Dark Lord and Silver Prince?"

It is a taunt. A reminder of the power dynamic.

("You'll stay here for the meantime. I'm sure you need no explanations." The Hokage gestures to her new temporary lodgings. She is to stay surrounded by some of his most elite guards, deep within the heart of the village. A watch, to keep her sealed in. A leash, to keep her at bay. Or so that is what they want to see. It is not an offer—it is a command…not that she has been particularly great at processing those sorts of orders, especially from men like him.

She snorts. "Well, be done with it.")

Both Thomas and Rhaenar sport impressions of snideness, exasperation, and spite. A glare here, a half-uttered word there.

"This is happening because you've been arrogant," the aged wizard says to the serpent, before turning to the dragon, "and nothing is going to happen because of your mooning. You two squabble over justice and betrayal as if you understand it. As if you lot haven't gone on to be quite the traitors yourselves, just a few years ago. Abraxas certainly didn't forget."

"What would you counsel, then?" Asked Thomas. "We can't openly make a move on Dumbledore—not while he still has the backing of the Spanish ministry. If anything, I won't have a fight break out if we could still prevent it."

"That's exactly why we should do it," hissed Rhaenar, "they're itching for blood."

"And you'd give it to them?"

"Rhaenar. Clear your mind." Ignaz pinched the bridge of his nose. The heavy silver rings on his finger clink against his glass as he sets it down on the desk. "Go speak with your mother, if you're so willing."

"I am of rational bearing—"

"Go outside," the grandfather repeated—this time, more harshly, "I'll not have you come back to this conversation until you can give me a sufficient solution to the problem that isn't chasing the Supreme Mugwump down. Get out."

Valaena's uncle lets out a noise of aggro—even pacing around, akin to a dog about to bite, as his grandsire practically rebukes him. There is a crackle of magic in the air; sparks of silver phosphenes trickling into her vision, floating from corner to corner as a rush of heavy energy passes through the room. It is as biting as a late chill in autumn. Instantly, she recalls that night: the nocturnal atmosphere, the stars in the night sky, the efforts of one that have never been quite enough.

Had she not known any better, she would say that Rhaenar was throwing a fit. Amusingly enough, in some twisted sense, he is. Clara once recounted to her the depths of the man's infatuation with his sister. There she laid, messing up the miniatures in a dollhouse that Tom ordered at a quick snap; listening as she assigned names to the wooden figures inside. Her statuette told her that the siblings' turmoil began even before Catelyn herself was born—while she was still growing in Jane's womb: a fœtus given so much meaning to, despite the prophecies yet to be sung.

He's always fancied himself in love with her, did you know? Jane was a terrible mother to him, at the start. Barely recovering from her father's war, and all that. Couldn't tend to her own son due to…well, trauma, Clara mentioned, and if it wasn't for Abraxas keeping her in check, she might've just actually killed the boy in his crib. Suppose Rhae's got ahold of that knowledge, somehow—considering he'd transferred his delusions to his younger sister.

Scolded, Rhaenar made another gesture of ire. His hand had gotten a hold of the neck of a crystal candleholder—almost levelling it at his goodbrother—but visibly forces himself to see sense, and slams it back down on the dark wood before he strides out with heavy steps.

"Out of his own solar," Thomas barely hid the irony in his voice, as he took a taste of his wine, "I was content to go back and forth with him."

"Enough of this," Ignaz sighed, "nothing brings your wife back. Rhaenar has a right to be suspicious of your intentions. Give him that much. You know how he's been throughout this whole show. The Spanish ministry is treading carefully, and the muggle involvement adds a layer of complexity we can't ignore."

Valaena is still by her father's legs, wiping her tears with a pudgy hand. The said man casts his gaze elsewhere, reflective; a brief flicker of defiance present in him. "We're not actors on a stage. I've finished my political posturing. I'd been speaking with Dolohov when the attack happened. We were just about to launch one of our own on the Potter couple. This isn't about the prophecy—but Dumbledore keeps them close. Either them or the Longbottoms. Dolohov and I were just about to make our move, but Pettigrew bailed out."

His relative-by-marriage fixed him with a stern look, the lines on his face deepening with the weight of his experience. There is a nod of recognition there, but it is still clouded with criticism. "A decisive action—but you've been distracted with it. We've made it clear that Trelawney's words hold no water. Catelyn ascertained this. You played into the hands of our enemies—Dumbledore has orchestrated his move cleverly. Sunspear is vulnerable, and they know it. It's unlikely that you and I will take it back. We need a strategy that doesn't involve rash confrontations."

The dark lord pursed his lips, but he paid his respect to the elder. "I'm aware. Your grandson and I want the same thing. It'd be easier if he were to simply set aside our differences for once, and admit it to himself."

A long-suffering huff. "So be it. What will it be, Gaunt? Rhaenar is right about one thing—there's a thirst for blood, and I'll be damned before I have a repeat of Jane's legacy."

"The next ICW conference will be in seven days." Another opportunity, then. "Would it be too much to ask to have your grandson there?"

"What use do those of the Greater Court have for petty little middle-class meetings?"

"They run your nations," Thomas rolls his eyes at the jab, "in any case, it's another gathering of witches and wizards."

"Do you plan to bomb them all as well?"

"Depending on how the talks go."

"Bold words, boy, and in my own castle no less."

"It isn't meant as an offence." The dark lord deadpanned, then looked away. "And you know what I've offered you from the beginning of this entire thing. Catelyn is…my wife is a regret I'll never take back. I know what you think of me, I know what you think our relationship was. But it was real. If the ICW conference goes south—then I'm going to do as she and I have already intended to do from the start."

"I wasn't aware my granddaughter was allowed any autonomy," Ignaz's implications are dark, "forget that. Remember who holds the cards, Gaunt. Rhaenar may get as deluded as anyone from this cursed family goes…but he was right. Your cause is failing, half-blood."

Lord Voldemort's stare is icy. "Rest assured…something will come out of this."

(She puts on the kimono as best she can. Never had she paid too much attention to her appearance beforehand—at least not outside of wearing disguises for people that never knew better—but there is something inside her that tells her that she should look presentable for this man, the prince. It is nothing new for her, of course, to come across someone as powerful as he is. Once, she would have stood in awe before him. Or perhaps in derision by his feet. Regardless, the pig has done nothing but care for her this entire time, discounting his ulterior motives.

And it is in these moments that she does not know what to do with herself. All these weeks, wasted laying around, doing nothing but act as an emissary between politicking lords—it irritates her, it causes an itch in her hands. This is a part of the job, yes. But it is not what she wants for herself, it is not something just for herself, regardless of the silver plate that it came to her in.)

•~᯽~•

(His face darkens, gaze burning with fury as he manhandles her against a wall. His jaw tightens, one of his fists clench around her throat, and his body trembles with the need to act. But he remains in place. She sees that thought running in his head, rotating in repeat: he will not act rashly. He will not act rashly, he will not act rashly, he will not act rashly.

"Apologies are useless now," Izuna snarls, grabbing her arm tighter, "you little whore."

She only swallows her bile, and gives him a wan smile.)

•~᯽~•

"I can't help but hope that this child dies. And that I die along with it. Anything's better than suffering you."

•~᯽~•

He spoke those words with conviction, but nothing came out of his statements. Something will come out of this. That is what he promised. Valaena does not deal with her father's dalliances when he falls. She cannot bear to watch it. It does not matter then, either, on how his defeat came about—because her fears from a year past have come true, only grounding themselves into reality some months later, when she least expects them to.

Valaena lay in her crib (graciously provided by one of Tom's friendly neighbours), surrounded by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her tiny chest rose and fell in the rhythm of restless sleep, plagued by the spectre of dread that haunted her dreams. In the silence of the night, she tossed and turned, brow furrowed with the weight of her fears. Images of her father never fail to flash through her mind—memories of his imposing figure, with a voice of silk and eyes of a red dawn.

(Her guards station themselves within the slopes of her roof gables, peering down at her with idle curiosity every time she looks outside the windows. They are there, sitting in wait, just as silent and serious as she used to be during her own missions. She sighs again. A momentary scorn escapes her. But there is one of them in particular that is an enigma to her, a riddle wrapped in an even righter roun. A mystery tangled within a secret, which she would like to unwrap.

Him—he with the currents of lighting within his core, chained beneath black cloth and metal plates, who sees the world in a polychromatic more cutting than tamahagane steel; this young man named for an endurance in spite of low odds, in honour of the god that perched upon a wooden post and saw the world for that it was.)

(Scarecrow, scarecrow, scarecrow. She calls him Kuebiko within her mind, if only for the sake of being iconic and ironically unironic. His energy draws her in, reminding her of another who possessed the same amount of intensity within his heart. And when they formally meet, one day as she strolls through the village, she is possessed by a desire she found herself incapable of understanding. The questions she had about him only multiplied when he opened his mouth: he spoke bluntly, but not without a certain hesitation, and there is a shame in his frame that nearly goes undetected. So, she speaks confidently, with no signs of suspicion; and there is a gleam in that lone grey eye that she does not miss.)

("Something's come out of your affair," the one who calls himself Hatake Kakashi mutters, "you're one of the reasons Konohagakure no Sato was able to be built. Or so others say. That Lord Madara and Lord Hashirama's dream long existed, but it wouldn't've been finalised if not for you."

"Really, now?" She is amused. "How frightfully flattering.")

In her fitful sleep, she pads across streets worn by skirmishes. She would catch the utterances of eloquent grievers raming in their rancour, each to their own argot; strewn about in the waning remnants of a cold war. The echoes of spells and incantations mingled with the cries of the fallen. There is an inarguable sense of relief amongst them, though. A joy after a period of turmoil. Tainted by bitterness, yes, but still just as valid.

When she finds Thomas, he is fulfilling the future that she frustrated herself over to forfend: in a bleak mindset, approaching a cottage in that small wintery village, covered by the dark of the night as he pursues another last-ditch attempt at an offensive. The magic in Godric's Hollow tingles at her perceptions the way phosphenes flutter in her eyes: like soft little needles pricking at the white flesh, seen but not supposed.

Celebration.

Then, defiance.

Valaena chokes on a sob as he raises his wand at the bespectacled man at the entrance of the house.

There it is, there they go.

Time stills as she follows him in. Despite her efforts and her exasperations, it seems that some things were simply bound to take place.

And then, the moment she dreaded most arrives—

No, no, no. Not yet. He spares the couple. By the request of a follower, he does so for the red-haired woman. What surprises her is that he keeps the pureblood lord alive, despite his openly Light status; and perhaps by his own cruelty and contrariety, he forces them to watch as he points that bone-white weapon at their son.

Harry James Potter sniffles as he looks up at the man that is meant to be his bane.

"A power I know not…a world in which neither of us lives while the other survives." Tom Marvolo Riddle says softly.

"A null statement. Did Dumbledore assume me to be so dull?" Thomas Marvolo Gaunt has lost all semblance of kindness. "I know what a mother's love is like. The proof rested within my arms for months on end. Madness twice over. One as my wife, and one as my child. And now, they've outpaced me in death."

Lord Voldemort curls his lip. "Goodbye, little boy."

And there is that killing spell.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

(Esther Valaena Martell shakes her head in denial.)

Harry James Potter sniffles as he looks up at the man that is meant to be his bane.

"A power I know not…a world in which neither of us lives while the other survives." Tom Marvolo Riddle says softly.

Lord Voldemort curls his lip. "Goodbye, little boy."

And there is that killing spell.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Six.

Seven.

Valaena seethes.

An explosion of red and blue.

(Violet once more.)

(No, no, no. Not purely that. This is it: this must be the lavender haze Catelyn so often harried herself about. Lord Voldemort's spell is cyan where Lily Potter's protection charms are carmine, and they create a colour that carters off into clear purple. Then, blinding white—and it burns into her vision: a strike of lilac before the whiff of smoke, and the smell of burnt skin.)

She is silent in her horror as her father fell, his once mighty form reduced to nothing but a lifeless husk. Or perhaps not entirely that—knowing the conclusion of this defeat—but the scene is all the same to her. Poof. His body hit the ground. The anguish that gripped her in those moments was almost unbearable. She cried out, then, crying as she never did even when her parents left her; screaming and screaming and screaming as she relived the nightmare again and again and again and again.

Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps. As dawn broke and the first light of morning seeped into her grandfather's room, Valaena woke with a start. Her eyes flew open, wide with terror, and she clutched at the bars of her crib as if seeking refuge from the horrors of her dreams. She shrieks, she thrashes; she goes feral and unhinged. But even as she stood there, her tiny frame racked with sobs, a sense of foreboding lingered. The plot has altered itself, yes, but the resignation remains: it still follows a pattern—and it is a shadow that follows her, even in the waking world.

And as she gazed up at the ceiling, tears still glistening on her cheeks, she knew that the ordeal was far from over.

•~᯽~•

(She lays with him for a while, watching him sleep. His soft breathing fills the room. The expression on his face is calm and tranquil, at peace with the world; like they have not just found each other after another series of sallies and suicides on both ends of their families' feud. Perhaps this is how she always wanted to be: in the arms of someone who she believed loved her. She can indulge in the delusion for now.

There was so much she needed to unlearn and relearn, so much of what she thought she had to do was actually unnecessary. Perhaps, with time, she would come to understand this. But until then, before that moment comes, she is content to be here; wondering if the priests, poets, princes, and prophets of old were as paralysed as she is no—stuck in inaction, frozen in firtling flirts, unable to bear the weight of a world that refuses to understand bathetic regard.)

•~᯽~•

"We were just starting a new life…a better life."

•~᯽~•

In a sense, Tom and Clara are the last physical memories she has of her parents.

She does not quite think of Barty, these days. Not since he had chased her down, or tried to, and returned to her home months after that attempt. She cannot, she does not, and she will not do so anytime soon—her chest aching and straining at even the mere thought of him—already aware of the future in store for him. It is at this point that the child theorises that perhaps it is because she is that: a babe; that she is incapable of causing long-lasting changes. Jane and Catelyn had done well to alter the story. Yet Valaena's truth still stood: her reverie was short-lived as it was happy.

(Always set up for failure, as the failures set her up.)

So when she looks at herself in the mirror—as more seconds, hours, days, weeks, and finally, months go by—and she grows—

Valaena sees nothing save for what has already been repeated to her.

Aberration, aberration, aberration.

You shouldn't be here, you shouldn't be here—

She looks at herself in the mirror and she is searching for a jagged edge, gasping for air—

(Drowning, drowning, drowning—)

You.

Should.

Not.

Be.

Here.

The child turns to her doll and sees something that should not be alive, despite the presence of magic; she takes her place by the side of an object that had no business being so lifelike as it is. The child turns to her grandfather and she sees something that should not have lived, despite the well intentions of another; she comforts herself within the arms of a man that has too much mystery to hold in his heavy heart. The child turns to the glass surface, hanging on the wall by the first floor staircase; and her magic makes it crack.

The child turns to her own appearance, and she sees all of her at once: killer, liar, whore.

(Killer for all the blood she shed as that silver-haired soldier, killer for the ones who deserved better in this new existence; liar for her selfishness as she preserved what she could, liar for the greed and gluttony she possessed to keep her beloveds close; whore for being torn between two, whore for never settling in a single course of action.)

She looked everything like her father, in truth. None of her family had been wrong when they told her this. Valaena grows into it—that cherubic face; and she can almost imagine it, how little Tom Marvolo Riddle might have been: eye candy for parent hopefuls and predatory harassers alike, devil-child to the religious and the reckless—a fever to those in lust with the exterior. The delicately sharp jawline, the curve in the nose and the cheeks, the height, the pale complexion, the locks of hair that curled just right; she shared even the shape of the browbone and the way he smiled, the pattern of the blue veins on his wrists, the small beauty mark on his right temple. But where he had been a vibrance of silver, green, and black—she presented a lustreless mockery of what he was.

It is not quite similar to her grandfather's mien and visage, no. Thomas Charles Riddle, Esquire (gods, how pompous) was bred to be the best of the best in his league, eerily alike to his own son, though with several notable differences. Junior was cruel by will, Senior is cruel through ignorance; Marvolo was cunningly direct, where Charles is hesitantly judgemental; Gaunt was murderous, and Riddle is the victim himself. Old Tom is what Kyō used to be, before her condemnation: rich in romance, beggared in belonging.

All she saw of her mother was her silver-white hair and the shape of her eyes: and even then, her own short locks were two shades too dark, too muddled, too tainted; and her gaze was just as sad as her birth-giver's, yes, just like Abraxas said them to be—but she is harsher, she is rabider, she is viler. She had none of her soft edges, nor her gentle palette, none of the meekness and fragility associated with the woman's appearance. Her parents were there, at least physically, but only barely.

(All wrong, all wrong, all wrong. Valaena is a mess of Kyō and Catelyn. Violet and purple, amethyst and lilac; vicious to pleading, angry to lonely.)

Clara is not that helpful, in that regard. She is a tiny mannequin, dipping right into the middle of the uncanny valley, perhaps as unsettling as a man akin to an alien struggling to survive; straddling disconcerting realism. Often, the babe herself is indecisive on how to refer to her companion: if she is an it, or if it is a she; and at the end of the day, Valaena gives up, stomaching the concept of that unnatural beauty. Just an inch away from properly eldritch. Perhaps it was the way its lips seemed to twitch ever so slightly, as if on the verge of breaking into a grin; or maybe it was the way its fingers curled into fists, as if poised to reach out and grasp at something just beyond its reach. Whatever the reason, there was no denying the palpable sense of unease that radiated from the model, like a silent warning to those who dared to draw near.

But if she stared even deeper into her reflection, she knew she would find no trace of personality either. Nothing of Thomas' ambition and bloodthirstiness, no sign at all of Catelyn's lenience and felicity; none even of Regulus' desire for upheaval, nor Barty's discontent at idleness. Just exhaustion, and the phantom that dared to call itself the result of all others' actions and behaviours.

She remembered something someone from before told her, once. Perhaps they had been right—the addition of two extremes always resulted in a freak; and she should know, because she and her dead siblings lived as proof of that. Arata, that sweet boy she used to crawl with; he was never as good enough for Junichiro as she was, even if she herself was their father's preferred tool of war. And that unnamed child with Catelyn's womb…so casually ripped from the stomach—just as she had to countless babes in years past—dead before he even breathed.

The other children her precious mothers bore had been…too weak, too painfully average. Add two hundreds together and all a person got was a pickpocket; add two millions together and a person received a red line on their throat. Or something along that line, or however the statement went.

And now, here she is: once again a mockery of two beautiful people, like her own body could not determine who to favour.

But what a pity, she thought, because when she stared at herself, for all that she tried searching for them on her body, she did not recall anything of Thomas nor Catelyn. The child is not there, for all that she labels herself as such; her parents' daughter is not there. The girl who lived and loved in that seaside castle is gone, replaced by the essence of the beast that she has long attempted to suppress.

All that she sees is Izuna and Tobirama's dead lover once more, all that she meets is Kyō—the monster, the evil, the parasite.

"Little 'Laena, you're crying again." Clara mourns. Its green eyes blink softly up at her, and clings to her neck in awkward comfort. The nickname makes the girl sniffle. Valaena hiccups. "Come, come. Here, have a kerchief. Found it in Whitecuffs' old knicker drawer. Have those wretched dreams of yours touched you again?"

It is difficult, but not impossible, to acclimate herself to this new life. She sits in her grandfather's room, clutching the model to her chest. Over the months they have spent together, her cully has enlightened her more and more on what she is and how they relate. She is a Dellie Darling, a novelty brand of toys sold only to the pureblood elite, enchanted to act as her friend. It had all the intelligence and independence of a human being, only that it was not human to begin with, though it still harnessed that mortal aspect of one.

She had been Catelyn's favourite toy during her childhood. Jane's gift, discarded when the girl grew out of her fondness for bedroom make-believe ball dances. Rhaenar kept the thing in memory of his sister, before again making the move to try and reunite. It makes the situation all the more heartbreaking. Clara narrates all this as bedtime stories, once she gets the hint that no, her previous owner will not be returning.

(The glass beads of brilliant green twinkle and flicker with what she assumes is benumbed gloom; gone be her cynicism, and in flies a great baseness of beckoning greed: an excitement to have her new partner with her, never to leave evermore.)

Valaena did not need to respond to the question, because the answer was clear. The girl simply sobbed as she rubbed at her face. After another moment of silence, she muttered a 'Yes' in a voice too low for anyone else to hear. She was, in fact, frightened—no, terrified, to go to bed. She knew very well what would happen if she did, just like it had happened in so many instances in the past.

("As it's always been.")

( "…as it always does.")

Damned if she stayed conscious, damned if she let the shadows behind her lids take over. Her headscape is more scrambled than ever: breaking, breaking, breaking. Some bit of her tenses when the query is posed, regardless—she did not want anyone to realise it, this irrationality of hers, for expectation of what they would say or do.

Tears of resentment and rage—as well as the silent desperation of her own helplessness—fell and stained her cheeks. She stared up at the ceiling of the room. Sorrow and shame. Clara simply regarded her with those faux organs in her porcelain skull, gazing in nerveless sympathy. No words were necessary. Her cribmate never weeps—and the young girl wonders if she could even do that—but she herself is yet to determine if she can even have that privilege here.

"Would…would you like to hear a story about your parents, 'Laena?" Clara offered. The poppet is spiteful, but she was not unkind. Years have gone by since Catelyn's departure. Tom grew depressed, and he did what he could to support a child in his care—and Valaena appreciates him. It is not love, not yet, at least not as easy as it came when it was her own sire. So, for the while, it is her poppet that kept her grounded. She nodded at her playmate, eager to listen to a memory; even the most minute distraction would be more than welcome.

"Lynnie liked to play in the gardens with the snakes as a child. It usually drove your grandmother mad." Clara tittered, settling under the covers with her. She stroked her hair, in the same way Valaena remembered Catelyn doing to her as an infant. "Gaunt encouraged it whenever he came to visit Sunspear. That's how he befriended your mother, who was around…six or seven, at the time. Could you believe it? Lord fucking Voldemort, giggling like an idiot with a little girl over snakes."

"Snakes?" Valaena asked. She could not imagine her mother ever playing with reptiles. In her mind, the woman was always regal and elegant, emotional but graceful. But she does recall hissing to those slithering carvings in the stone and the wood—something her father had once smiled at, as he idled with her. "What else?"

"Sun emblems—she loved 'em. Pretty gold things that dazzled and glimmered. Catelyn was a Martell, after all. She liked rose gold best, with the occasional pearl or diamond. That gown she had—the pink one? With the teardrop earrings. Those were courting gifts from Tommy. He had your Mama swooning like a groupie from those muggle band stories Barty used to share."

A snort. "Catelyn was the innocent red-gold to Thomas' cunning green-silver. Or—that's how Jane saw it anyway, the freak. It's one of the strangest, yet most perfect dynamics I've ever seen. I hate him, 'Laena. I hate him and your grandmother both. I hate them for what they did to Lyn and Rhae. But the two of them—Thomas and Catelyn, the Dark Lord and his Lady—they were beautiful."

"And you, 'Lara?" She intoned. Valaena had not asked the doll anything about herself before.

"…I love Catelyn for her heart. She was good—the kindest child I've ever known." Clara murmured, reminiscing as well. She repeats what Tom said to her mother, in that short dinner before she left; and what she snarked to Jane, all those weeks before. "Damn the world for taking her away."

"Is there anything you don't like?"

How strange it was, to hear a doll speak like that; of all the things she could see in it, she never presumed…some measure of humanity.

"She was…too pure for the world, so to speak. I feared for her all the time, thinking she'd get herself into trouble with those who'd've taken advantage of her innocence. And look where that went. You never tell Whitecuffs and I anything—but we know enough to realise what happened." Clara replied. She leaned her head against Valaena's, green eyes clashing with red. "It's not so much that I didn't like that about her, but more that I didn't like how everything else was affected by it—in return affecting her."

Don't I know it, Valaena thought darkly.

"How come you stayed, 'Lara?" She finally spoke the words aloud, genuinely wanting to understand why it was doing what it is doing.

"I owe it to Catelyn for making my existence have meaning."

("I am forever grateful to God—or whoever might be listening—that I lived to meet you, both of you. That I haven't gone to waste. That my life still makes sense.")

("There is so much more I wish to give you—but this is what I can do. Thank you for making my life better. Thank you for existing. Thank you. Thank you all for making my life worth it.")

"I'm but a doll. But Lynnie…I suppose she made me feel human. And you, sweet summer child—you are one of those I was made for, to protect."

The girl smiled.

It feels nice.

"Thank you," she held in a shaking sigh, "thank you."

(She still saw the aberrations in all of them, the irony in their existences: the man who died in nineteen-forty-five, the figurine that was made up for narrative purpose, and the reincarnated soul that ate the space of a womb. But just for now, she can learn to breathe, if only for a begging to have the strength to continue.)

•~᯽~•

('There is a young woman there, with a beauty I have never seen on this side of the world. She is unlike any other I've seen; bright, singular, and most of all, ethereal. Unnatural. Her head is adorned with braids of silver-white silk, disguising the wires threaded beneath; her eyes are brighter than any gemstone I possess. She smiles with the wild side of the moon, like a rabbit forced to ferality, barely controlled while she glided on a stage. I came across this strange lady in a tavern. The patrons called her a songbird. Drawn in by the promise of music, I took a seat as I hid myself in a corner, feasting myself on cheap foods and expensive voices.

She sings the most haunting of tunes. Everyone, including myself, is struck dumb and speechless by her melodies—some of the hardest men in the group of mercenaries beside me even shedding a tear or two as they stared at her. We fall into a collective silence as the performer's song ends. Then, there is the applause, followed by a buzz of chatter and the clattering of glass and crockery. In my corner, I notice the beauty's grip on her instrument, clenched tight on its neck, and I watch her for a moment as I finish my pipe of kizami. Something about her makes me wary. But I cannot look away, I cannot bear to—and I cannot pretend as if there is not a stirring heat within the deepest parts of my body.')

•~᯽~•

The war is over.

(Falling, falling, falling—)

Everything is joyous.

(Flying, flying, flying—)

Uchiha Kyō knew nothing but war.

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

And Uchiha Kyō is dead.

("There's no point in fighting it. There's no point in fighting this."

She tells it to herself like the emphasis will change anything.

But it is true. She was too far gone, then, and there was no going back. She only had to see it all to the end.)

(Fleeing, fleeing, fleeing—)

That is the end that she wanted.

That is the end that will be.

That is the end that has been.

That is the end that already is.

(Freeing, freeing, freeing—)

Esther Valaena Martell knows nothing of war.

Esther Valaena Martell is a toddler too trouble-ridden, too tantrum-driven, too terror-stricken.

(Lie. She is a wide-eyed mistake; a disgusting, mixed-up thing: a monster birthed in lust, something unholy that should never have been. Whispering so she cannot hear her own ruin, crying for the odd chance that her innate sin might be removed.)

Coping from losses well-deserved, coddled into lingering heartbreaks; with a privilege she never was worthy of, wailing like the stupid little creature she is. The mind of a child is fascinating, often much too bizarre to explain; even more so when the mind is warped and shattered. That is what she convinces herself of, at least, when she forgets to act her age and tilts out of character.

She had never been the forgiving sort, not even in her first life.

(She had always been a monster.)

(So she plays the part of a monster.)

(After all…that is what she could only ever be.)

Uchiha Kyō is dead, dead, dead.

Esther Valaena Martell is smiling, smiling, smiling.

(Monster and nymphet: abuser and seductress. Eldritch and muse.)

Yes, she thinks, this is insanity.

The war is over.

Reality is not.

•~᯽~•

(Her body is breaking, her 'love' is killing her.)

•~᯽~•

"Eight billion individual lives, and you're never sure about what goes on in people's heads. Or how they end up because of it. Isn't that so fascinating?"

"Your point is?"

"It makes me question why I have to end up with you."

"Eight billion individual minds, and you're as dense as the rest of them. It's called statistics and probability, you fool."

•~᯽~•

(February, 1993)

He was visiting Hogwarts. Never did he think he would be back here, muddled as his last memory he has of this place was.

Rhaenar sat patiently in the Great Hall, eating lunch as most other visiting families did while they waited for the students to arrive. Then, soon, the children filtered in, greeting their loved ones with varying degrees of joy as they came. Valaena, the miserable little chit, mutters a quiet 'Good afternoon, Uncle.' to him when she reaches his side. He raises an eyebrow at her lack of energy. Oh, he knew damn well that neither of the two of them wanted to interact.

But he cannot deny that he…felt a certain pull towards her, a petty desire to hurt her, the way the girl's father had hurt him in the past.

His violet eyes turn towards his niece, and he can feel a certain urge rising within him.

("My baby, my only one," Catelyn cried to him, clutching at her stomach as she awoke from a dream; thirteen, manic, haunted by a motherhood that should have rightfully been his to cause, "Rhae, my baby.")

"Ah, Valaena. Glad you've finally decided to join me for lunch." He speaks in a sharp, clipped tone. The prince takes a second to breathe and compose himself. There was something about the girl which was beginning to vex him today, and he cannot exactly tell what. "How is Hogwarts treating you now, young lady?"

"Life is being lived, as always." She muttered, taking a seat beside him and reaching for a plate. But the girl barely even ate, only taking small bites of a few fruits and drinking some watered-down wine for the most part as they conversed. "Not that you'd know much of it."

"Don't be cruel. It's barely thirty minutes past noon." He replies. "You'll ruin your appetite."

"I'll vomit on you, then. Maybe you'd finally leave. I'm nauseous, even just looking at you." Valaena snaps, threatening him with a sneer. "Why are you here? I thought I told you not to bother me on the weekends. Or have you forgotten already? Has your madness finally made you senile?"

(And there it is, and it is there. There he is, ever so present in his daughter's face: defensive, delirious, demanding.)

"Peace, you brat," Rhaenar shot her a glunch, "and keep your voice down. It's unbecoming."

"I'm in no mood. What the hell do you want?"

To rip off your face and drag you by the hair. To gouge out your eyes and bash your head against the wall. To pin you down on a hot metal surface and tie your wrists and ankles. To tear off your clothes and have you left to the mercy of vultures.

"To lunch in peace," he says simply, to that crimson-eyed glare.

Lunch, and perhaps a game.