ADELAIDE // DISTRICT TEN

She does not take shit from anyone. They walk like they own the land- because they do. They breathe like the air is meant for their lungs- because it is. They were not born royals, they were not born into a kingdom for them to rule. No, their blood turned royal when they made the land theirs with a click and a bang and seized the kingdom for themselves.

They are one.

She keeps a pistol beneath the skirt of her dress. Always anticipating, always prepared. Who knew one could kick ass in a dress- though sometimes, most of the time, she does not exactly look appealing when she has grime and blood smeared across her face and her hair is all tangled and matted from the whip of the wind and the beads of sweat trickling down her scalp and face from the beat of the sun.

Chaos is a great love of hers. She loves how it caresses her skin and sends chills down her spine as adrenaline begins to make its way through her veins- she loves the way it burns. She relishes their heists all across District Ten and the thrill of firing a bullet into the sky just to cause a ruckus. But she loves to sink into tranquility, too, after her bones and her heart ache from all of the day's action. She loves to light campfires and watch the flames dance until they die and gaze at the stars above them. The smoke will billow into the hair like the clouds in the heavens, but the light of the stars can bleed through even them.

When they return to the Barlow ranch from one of their journeys, she will tumble into the arms of those she loves and lie back into a bed of soft grass beside one of the old hound dogs, Bay, and make up her own stories in the stars. She will hang up her black cowboy hat, dusty from veils of sand carried by the wind, and play normal for a few days.

Rather than riding her horse, Little Iron (or just Little), into exhaustion, she will lead her out into the pasture. She will climb into the trees and pick apples from high, high up, and bring them down to feed to Little. It is anything but chaotic at the ranch, but the tranquility never disappoints her. It is soothing, though unfamiliar, to have a heartbeat steady as a metronome all throughout the day and the night.

Her eyes are the color of dark, dark copper. They do not constantly with flame nor do they pierce with coldness. There is a twinkle in their endless fathoms, alike to the stars. Not a fire, not ice. Just stars. They are full of undying mischief, like a child swiping candy off of the shelves in a shop.

Every few hours she spends drenched in daylight are marked on her skin like tallies. Copper is sprayed across her fair skin, forming entire constellations of freckles. They seem to stretch out forever. Endless.

She does not share many features of her parents, though she is nearly a spitting image of her grandmother. Right down to the wild hair, red and bloody as a District Ten sunset, and freckles. There are ghosts of the rest of her family in her, like the narrowness of her nose and the shape of her face and the fullness of her lips. But it all ends there.

Sometimes she will try to pick out the similarities between herself and Queen Scarlett, ruler of the wild. All throughout her childhood to the present, Scarlett has been named golden in her eyes- she is the epitome of what an outlaw should be. The same bravery and boldness and cold hard courage has been woven into her very being, but the student does not often surpass their teacher. She is steely and full of fire and passion and loves a good heist like Scarlett, but she is much softer, much more gentle.

Who would have thought that the same hands that grip a pistol so fiercely, finger bearing down on the trigger, are also capable of gentleness.

She has grown up in Scarlett's shadow, but she does not mind the darkness. The heavy crown is one she yearns to wear. It is too heavy, too large for her head. If she were to try and rest it atop the vibrant copper mane sprouting from her scalp, it would slip

and fall

and shatter.

She was taught to be brave, not stupid.