of thorns ● euley [day 1.5]

here stands a man
with a bullet in his clenched right hand
don't push him, son
for he's got the power to crush this land

She calls herself a red maiden; bandages left unchanged and scars worn with pride. Let them fester. The bloodbath has come to an end, ghosts have tucked themselves beneath the snow, and Euley whistles to herself as she collects the fruits of her labour. A heavy coat of black fur is shrugged over her shoulders, combat boots and gloves slipped on to check their sizing, and she's a vision. A demon in a blizzard. Blue fire rages through her veins. One day she'll burn for her sins. This is the memoir of a witch.

A giant sleigh arrives on silent blades — more treasures are claimed by herself and her alliance, but her attention is held by the creatures pulling the bounty and not by their gifts. Small, but durable, she sits with them while her allies gather their thoughts and lick their wounds. She holds her hand out to each, taking the time to greet each one just as warmly as the last. It must be telling, how quickly she can switch from huntress to nurturer, but she can't bring herself to care. She'll close the eyes of those she kills.

Aeson speaks bitterly, claiming one of the two armored vests and daring someone to challenge him. She only rolls her eyes, unamused by the display. Bravado is one thing, and it's true that she enjoys the boy's company simply for the fact that he keeps her on her toes, but that's not to say he doesn't wear on her patience. It's no matter. She wants him on her side because of his fury, for his bloodlust and his emptied chest; let him wear a crown of his own making. She'll scalp him when the time is right.

Maybe he'll beat her to the draw. That's what makes this fun, right? Euley isn't ignorant to the fact that Aeson feels nothing for her beyond simple lust, and just the same, he's aware that she won't die for him willingly. They're all hanging on the same length of rope. It's not her place to say who will fall first. An eleven is branded across her skin, fists stained by a fresh kill, but that means nothing. She's never been one for gambling, regardless of the odds that are stacked in her favour. She won't interfere with fate.

Euley is both the storm and its calm — and she thrives off the contradiction. She is an empress wearing the garb of a peasant, a warrior holding a bird gently in her hands; and she has always believed that no woman should ever feel trapped within a singular identity. Be everything, she commands. Be both the forest and the flames that swallow it. The girl is strange, a complexity that most will never understand, but at least Aeson does not submit to her. So many spines have been left broken in her wake.

The one that won't break catches her attention. "Hateful, isn't he?" she whispers to the smallest of the muttations, finger curling beneath its jaw. It doesn't understand, purring contently, but she appreciates its companionship. Remove Euley's skin, and she's still just a teenager; she doesn't want to lose her youth. She doesn't want to be a monster and nothing more. It's a small fear, one easily repressed, but genuine. Bloody and ruthless and a goddess reborn — but not purely evil. Not immortal.

Death will not evade her, but she'll run while she can. She continues her scavenging after the short break, taking the weapon of the tribute she had slain just minutes prior and strapping the spiked devices to her feet. She grins sharply. "I'll carry you, Twelve." And then they're off, a dark trio and their chariot of splendors. The wind makes its home in her hair, body perched at the center of her companions and the reins wrapped securely around her wrists. There's no discussion to be had; the hybrid plant-hedgehogs are Euley's to claim.

They end their journey in a meadow of scarlet flowers. Euley doesn't hide the look of awe that washes over her features, taking in the blossoms that are framed by miles of white and suspended in an image of quiet beauty. The silence goes undisturbed as they go about setting up their camp. A large tent is pitched at the center of the area, and after their essentials are unpacked from the sleigh, the group begins to unwind from the earlier stress. She rolls her shoulders and twists her neck, feeling her bones pop and basking in the removal of tension.

Later, she finds Aeson standing alone and greets him without words. Her spear is offered to him, still caked with dried blood, but a blade is a blade. He knows that. The gesture is friendly, nothing more than the gifting of a deadlier item than his previous, but he looks at her with uncertainty. When he takes it, he holds the point away from himself. She laughs, eyes rolling. "Calm down, Kight. You'll know when I'm coming in for the kill." She stalks away from her allies, kneeling down to harvest the various herbs and roots that grow around their base. She doesn't bother to keep watch. She has nothing to fear.

Let them stab her in the back;
let them see the teeth of a wolf.

don't you ever leave me alone
my war is over
be my shelter from the storm
my war is over