After centuries locked in her draconic form—where taste was strange, touch was dulled through scale and claw, an her loneliness knew no end in her solitude—she had finally stood before the Dark Wizard himself, a fearsome dragon that begged for her humanity back.
And Zeref, in his naivity and brilliance, had granted her wish, but with every magic that worked against the laws of nature their was always a cost to pay, and she had paid it unknowingly.
She remembered the moment vividly—her towering dragon body unraveling like mist under his magic, reshaping itself into the woman she once was. Skin returned where scales had ruled, silken and pale. Red hair tumbled down her back like liquid fire. Fingers instead of talons. A voice instead of a roar. A heart that beat, not thundered. She had wept, then laughed—mad with joy—as she touched her face, her arms, her chest. She was back.
At first, it was everything she dreamed of. She rushed into the world like a woman reborn. She drank fine wine in lavish taverns, ate fruits she had almost forgotten the names of, and bedded the first charming man who looked at her with desire.
But none of it mattered.
The wine was tasteless. The fruit—dirt. The sex—empty. Her body moved through the motions, but her nerves didn't sing. Her soul didn't stir. She couldn't even sleep. Nights passed in silence, her eyes wide open, haunted by the absence of dreams.
No matter the potion, the drug, the spell—rest eluded her.
And slowly, Irene began to crack.
This body… this shell that Zeref had given her—was it truly human? Or some cruel facsimile? A mockery of her former self dressed in flawless skin and hollow sensations? She had spent centuries as a dragon but now in human form she felt her suffering increased so close to being normal yet so far.
However one miracle did occur her belly grew large over the year after she had met Zeref, and when her water broke, she hadn't even felt it happen, she had given birth without pain, without effort. Throughout her time pregnant she thought she wouldn't feel anything when she saw the baby, she thought she might react with anger;after all they were THAT despicable men's children! The one that had faked his love for her the one who grew jealous of her and betrayed her when she began to turn into a half dragon, the one who locked her away and tortured her until she finally had to kill him, her former husband. She should hate his spawn…
And yet, the sensation struck her like lightning—sharp, jarring, and alive.
Not in her body,but In her soul when she looked down to what she held in her arms.
Two red-haired infants lay in her trembling hands—a boy and a girl, tiny and perfect, their fragile chests rising with the shallow, rhythmic breath of new life. They were beautiful. Too beautiful.
She stared at them, caught between awe and horror.
How could something so pure have come from her?
A creature cloaked in human skin.
A monster pretending to be a woman.
She had no right to create life—especially not something this whole. This innocent. This… untainted.
Her grip tightened as she watched their small bodies move with each breath. The warmth of them seeped into her fingers, awakening maternal instincts she thought to be impossible. She could take care of them, no no no what's she thinking, she should take over one of them end her suffering.
Ideally her daughter's body would be the perfect vessel—a flawless shell for her soul. She could imprint her consciousness, bury the child's undeveloped mind deep within, and she would feel, Taste, Sleep, Breathe, Love, Live again!
The temptation clawed at her, savage and seductive.
But she couldn't.
Even now, with the power and opportunity in her hands—she couldn't do it.
Her lips trembled. Her heart, if it could still be called that, ached with a grief too ancient for tears.
And so, in the blink of an eye, she vanished using ancient magic that glowed red—and reappeared outside a quiet village she had passed in her travels long ago. A modest place. Peaceful. Stable. In another life, she had imagined growing old here. Maybe with a family. Maybe with a lover. She walked through the sleepy village no one was awake at these hours and if they were they paid her no mind, she walked until she came upon a large house one would consider a small mansion.
In front of the house her eyes landed on a worn wooden sign: Rosemary Orphanage.
She stepped forward, gently placing the swaddled twins—Erza and Nagato—on the cold stone steps of the front door. With a soft incantation, she etched their names onto the cloth in warm, glowing script, her magic curling like firelight in the night air.
But she did not give them her last name.
Belserion was a name soaked in ruin, tainted by war, betrayal, madness, and blood. It was better they never knew it—better they never knew her.
They would survive. Thrive.
They had gestated in her womb for over 400 years while she was a dragon—they would be strong.
They would protect each other.
Love each other.
And maybe, just maybe, live a life free of the torment she had endured.
She looked down one last time, memorizing every delicate detail of their faces, every faint flutter of breath. For the briefest moment, she allowed herself to imagine the impossible—what kind of mother she might've been, had fate been kinder to her.
Then solemnly, she raised her hand.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp raps against the wooden door—loud enough to rouse the caretakers if the annoyed groans of an older man and woman getting out of bed, were heard by Irene's enhanced hearing.
By the time the couple opened the door, she was gone back to Alvarez, back to finding a cure for herself by any means possible.