cursed legacies — eurydice. & ridley.
Feb 20, 2021 21:47:51 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 20, 2021 21:47:51 GMT -5
One is built on legacies. It always had, and it always would.
Legacies are less family heirlooms and houses left behind after the parents died, but more the reputations and the stories of your ancestor etched onto your skin like invisible tattoos. The Frays are a legacy, and their tattoos are of beautiful marble children, crushed to dust. The Lumieres are a legacy, and their tattoos depict gold and silver children, two sides of the same coin. The Lerouxes are a legacy, and their tattoos are golden lions, all glory and gore.
But, Eurydice believes her bloodline has a legacy of its own: death. Hauntingly beautiful death, the kind shown in operas and plays, where the heroes and the heroines die in a grandiose narrative. They saved the day, they defeated the evil. In the face of darkness, they shone bright enough to keep it at bay for a moment. But the darkness sweeps over them the same. But they all die the same.
It is a cursed legacy. Therefore, she seeks the only girl she knows with a similar one.
“You,” she greets as she strides into the room, the train of her gold-beaded dress whispering behind her. Eurydice’s features come steeled, showing nothing but determination, yet they soften the slightest as they see Ridley Le Roux in her entirety, golden hand and all. Here was the Le Roux who won. Here was the Le Roux who survived. Even if both her brothers deem her a false Le Roux, Eurydice could at least acknowledge the fact that Ridley has the damned grit and perseverance of one. But, she wasn’t born a Le Roux. And maybe that is the very reason she lived. Maybe all lions and lionesses are made out to be martyrs like that stupid Malachi she’s been told countless stories about.
Eurydice isn’t interested in more of her children being martyrs. Not again, not ever.
She closes the door behind her. “Take care of her,” she begins, without preamble, training her sharp gaze upon her. “She’ll need your help. She has been born for this and she is ready for it, I made sure of that, but she’ll need your help.” Because I can’t give mine. Because Eurydice would never understand what it is like to walk through that kind of hell and crawl back out. Emmett didn’t. And she still hasn’t mourned that fully. She never would.
Eurydice loosens a quivering breath as gently as she can and starts to fiddle with the gold bangles around her wrist, already feeling another headache come on. “What are her chances?” she asks. “What are the odds she walks out of that hellhole alive and at least mentally intact?”
Legacies are less family heirlooms and houses left behind after the parents died, but more the reputations and the stories of your ancestor etched onto your skin like invisible tattoos. The Frays are a legacy, and their tattoos are of beautiful marble children, crushed to dust. The Lumieres are a legacy, and their tattoos depict gold and silver children, two sides of the same coin. The Lerouxes are a legacy, and their tattoos are golden lions, all glory and gore.
But, Eurydice believes her bloodline has a legacy of its own: death. Hauntingly beautiful death, the kind shown in operas and plays, where the heroes and the heroines die in a grandiose narrative. They saved the day, they defeated the evil. In the face of darkness, they shone bright enough to keep it at bay for a moment. But the darkness sweeps over them the same. But they all die the same.
It is a cursed legacy. Therefore, she seeks the only girl she knows with a similar one.
“You,” she greets as she strides into the room, the train of her gold-beaded dress whispering behind her. Eurydice’s features come steeled, showing nothing but determination, yet they soften the slightest as they see Ridley Le Roux in her entirety, golden hand and all. Here was the Le Roux who won. Here was the Le Roux who survived. Even if both her brothers deem her a false Le Roux, Eurydice could at least acknowledge the fact that Ridley has the damned grit and perseverance of one. But, she wasn’t born a Le Roux. And maybe that is the very reason she lived. Maybe all lions and lionesses are made out to be martyrs like that stupid Malachi she’s been told countless stories about.
Eurydice isn’t interested in more of her children being martyrs. Not again, not ever.
She closes the door behind her. “Take care of her,” she begins, without preamble, training her sharp gaze upon her. “She’ll need your help. She has been born for this and she is ready for it, I made sure of that, but she’ll need your help.” Because I can’t give mine. Because Eurydice would never understand what it is like to walk through that kind of hell and crawl back out. Emmett didn’t. And she still hasn’t mourned that fully. She never would.
Eurydice loosens a quivering breath as gently as she can and starts to fiddle with the gold bangles around her wrist, already feeling another headache come on. “What are her chances?” she asks. “What are the odds she walks out of that hellhole alive and at least mentally intact?”
