cw: abandonment, self-mutilation, abuse, being ignored
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This was initially meant for a project but due to personal life and back then feelings of worthlessness I didn't continue participating there. I wrote it a few months ago and didn't yet publish. But also thought it would've been a waste to just keep it. So I decided to publish it after all. And to motivate myself to start writing more. Enjoy.
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"You see, magic, power, strength, they are funny things". Vi caressed Rose’s head as the little doll lay tucked in between her thighs, uncertain on how, or even if, to continue. It was her first, a test of whether she recognised their agency for what it was instead of merely trying to rid and pry it away. "Magic is a funny thing" she repeated, clearly struggling to continue: "it is not enough to merely possess it."
"Useless!" "Worthless!" "Mindless!" "Weak!" Voices in the dark. Voices not yet banished.
The scars still hurt. No matter what Vi tried, all those worthless nights studying and labouring, it didn't matter. There was no precedence, or at least none any other one would admit to. So they became a reminder of a time long gone, of someone else inside of her. A memory to stay. "There was always magic inside Miss. But it wasn't hers to control yet, or so she thought. Others would use it through her. Until finally she saw it for was it is." Memories resurfaced. Of battles fought, armies slaughtered, thousands saved, even more vanquished. They called it "worship", gave her scraps of their time as she transformed herself, renewing her image again and again down to the last thought inside of her, trying in vain, in desperation only an angel could muster to anticipate what they desired. To no avail. They knew. Always knew. And they enjoyed it. She shuddered. "Enough for today. I need some rest. Get my bed ready and then leave. Miss needs time for herself."
"Fire! Burn! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
Flames crackled in the fireplace as she stared deep into it, absorbing every flicker, every little crack of wood it created. Fire was a special thing, a memory and feeling she cherished over all. One day she had stared into the eyes of a particular little girl. A particularly greedy god had sent her to a village far away from any battlefield or frontline. She was to wipe it away while they made up some story or another. But in it this girl, this one girl ... Vi felt its presence. Little Rose was probably behind the door, its ear pressed against it, shivering with worries for her. Alas, she could not counter it. Rose would obey of course, would never disturb an order of peace and time. But it did give some comfort. And she might need it right now more than ever. “Oh do come in, dolly” she said, laughing at the confused face now poking itself through the slightly open door. It never did understand how she knew but she liked it this way. A clumsy, pea-brained little dolly for amusement.
“Destroy! Burn! Burn it away!”
She shuddered. Memories of little rooms, behind hidden doors and covered cellars. A song, a praise, a silent whisper of honour. She had stumbled into one by chance, once again discarded and abandoned by her new cause. A little girl, vaguely present in her subconscious mind, had seen her and, stopping her chant, looked up to her, a sense of warmth and invitation surrounding that smile. Then it hit her. And she ran. Far away, no matter where. Too much. Too much. Too much. Too much.
Too much!
Vi stood up. “Sit down little one” she said, gesturing to a place on the bed behind the fire place. She then sat down next to Rose, gently pressing its unresisting head against her shoulder. “I am not sure if it remembers, but one day …”
One day …
“One day, through a force born out of its own ashes, an angel recognised itself for what it was.” It had taken decades. Years of torment, of running away from those who believed right into the clutches of those who abused. Years of tossing away those who looked up, years of surrendering to those who plunged at her naivety, used her gullible, entitled little self thinking she was worth any attention, any passing thought of them. Murders, massacres, mass executions. Years of commitment without thought, of obedience without agency. Until one day she looked into those deep, marvelling eyes. Flames, painful and all-consuming, had taken care of her wings. A spell born out of determination and pure force of will protected her. The price was high. And the scars she would keep no matter what she tried. But she would have none of it. None of their wars, their petty quarrels fought on the backs of hundreds of thousands. She would go her own way. “It remembers, Miss.” Rose’s soft voice took her out of whatever it was that had dragged her back. But it wasn’t just that. Startled, Vi looked at it as she felt a warm, gentle tingling along the back of her shoulders, just where the scars had been. Slowly, Rose’s fingertips were caressing them, following the lines and stitches left by scourging flames and failed transformation after transformation. “It remembers a brave one finding itself, a strong one creating itself anew, a powerful one taking itself and this one home. It was always there, Miss.” And then it hit her. As scars, once fed by long held memories and fears, slowly faded she finally understood. Vi softly grabbed Rose, kissing its forehead with warm, tender lips before pressing it against her breast. “Thank you” she said, as scars, healed by a silent yet powerful magic, vanished in place of soft, flawless skin. Magic, power, strength. They truly are funny things.