Cancellaresca PV | E. Clark

An eye blinked, visible through the rusted lock of the door. Her breath silled, reduced to a thread of air entering and escaping her lungs, nails digging into the floor. Frost started to cover the tip of her fingers, the edge of her feet, snow particles gently landing on her skin. Flecks of dust twirled in the musty air, damp as though a swamp had taken root nearby. A tear ran down her cheek, only motion this room had witnessed. Eyes unblinking, chest unmoving — she was as still as a statue, as silent as the night stretching above her head. The eye was black. Entirely black, pupil absorbing all light available, swallowing it again and again until only time remained. A black hole, one you could not tear your gaze from. Black pupil, contrasting against a sclera made of pure white, containing the darkness held in its center. It blinked. Once. And suddenly it was gone. She let out a shaky breath, shoulders relaxing as she leaned against the wall. The wooden planks creaked under her weight. Shit.

It was there instantly, staring right through her soul. Heart missing a beat, she rose to her feet, hands shaking. A step back. Two. It lunged. She jumped. Somehow landed on dark soil, legs already running faster than she could fathom, until her breath ran out, until her heart stopped pumping, until the earth. Gave up under her feet, and she— flew. Floating, at the door between worlds.

And she fell.

"Lumos."

She woke up in a sartle, gasping for air as her heart thundered beneath her rib, hands clutching at her chest as though it threatened to escape. Pearls of sweat trailed down her temple, and she inhaled a deep breath before cursing under her breath, rubbing a hand against her tired face. Eyes were sore, as though they had remained wide opened during her entire escapade. A shiver ran down her spine and she innerly opened the pandora box where she kept all displeasing memories of her dreams — meaning, all — before shutting it closed, taking small breaths as she tried to cool down, running a hand through golden strands. A weariness had settled in her bones, an ache in her neck and she suddenly noticed she was facing an opened copy of a very detailed biography of Gellert Grindelwald. She had fallen asleep on her history homework. Great.

Disoriented, she gazed through the windows, only to be met with pure darkness. Muttering an intelligible complain, she promptly rose to her feet, clasping the book shut and propping on her shoulder the weighted leather bag resting on a nearby chair. Striding through the different rows — and basking in the sweet scent of dusty tomes in the moonlight, she froze when the distinct sound of a page being turned echoed through the empty building.

It was coming from her left, and the raven succumbed to curiosity, taking a detour. There, hidden in the shadow of a shelf, was sat a girl, deeply absorbed by a heavy book resting on her legs, wand lit. For navy eyes, still sore from the restless sleep they had endured, it was as though she was holding the sun in her hand. She stepped back, blinking a few times, looking down at the marble tiles before gazing back at her. And sapphires met emeralds.

A faded photography. One whose colors had begun to wilter, the ink that once defined them slowly dripping from the paper as time set its vengeful claws on this capture of a singular moment. The edges were ragged, smoothened by the hands of time, ripped at times by an unknown creature — a crow? Flowers bloomed around her, though not as though spring would follow blissful fairies in their joyous path. She was a nymph of an abandoned forest, one that had withered and decayed, trunks empty and soil rotten, though some lilies as white as pure snow had managed to blossom in between tossed roots. A moth, sparking its own flame, ashened Icarus climbing until its wings broke from its own hubris. Clever-eyed, emeralds lit in the dark, a gaze used to rake over a chessboard, picking pieces one by one.

I like her, the raven decided.

Odd, otherwordly creature picked from the bowels of a haunted forest and pushed into the shape of a young being, eldritch entity forced to adapt to their senseless world. The moonchild craved these abnormalities, seeked them like a starved Tantalus reaching for forbidden fruits. She, who belonged to the moon and stars, and yet who had somehow woven herself seamlessly into a crowd of humans — she found herself beloving souls who belonged elsewhere, as though their strangeness was somehow echoing the exact same frequency as her own.

A smile curved her lips as she simply tilted her head to one side, in response to the wave the other had addressed her. A peculiar silence had settled around the two of them, a thick veil that obstructed any other sources. Not uncomfortable, yet not exactly appeasing either, as it was filled with this wary curiosity the moth sat on the ground reeked of.

Instead, she took a step closer, leaving moonlight to enter the circle of pure sun the other's wand had ignited. Eyes narrowing from the blinding source of light, they darted away from it to land on the heavy tome lingering by her side. Roman war tactics. A strange reading, though fitting with what she had perceived from her as of now. A playful glimmer sparked in navy eyes as she lightly nodded towards the large volume.

"Should I worry about an eventual reenactment of The Battle of Cannae ?"

If the scene unfolding under the watchful gaze of the moon were to be a painting hung in endless galleries, if Elena were to pick up a brush and attempt to retrace every curve and grain of the still figure sat before her, the stark contrast between light and dark would be the most difficult detail to correctly capture.

Every living being has an innate amount of ambiguity lodged beneath their ribcage, a paradox crawling beneath their skin. Most are unaware of it, preferring denial and ignorance to the fear of uncovering it. Few are able to face it, and the coils and turns of their own conscience frightens them. The raven is part of the latter, painfully aware of the shadows clinging to the edges of her mind, painfully aware of their shape, their length, their scent, painfully aware of how very easy it would be to let it go. And terrified of it.

The eldritch creature tucked in a corner of a bookshelve, large doll eyes fixated, unmoving, on the moonchild, was part of another category, one which held very few members. Aware, and unafraid. Knowledge was etched on every sharp line of her face, not a harsh one but something softer, a serenity only found in knowing exactly what your heart was made of, the exact amount of light and darkness intertwined beneath the bones and skin. It was something that naturally drawn her in, fascinated by — sacramento green, opium poppies brushing the tip of her fingertips.

Hmm.

Pulling herself out of the string of associations her brain had been swirling down, she blinked twice, returning to reality. The rasp of the young girl's voice echoed throughout the library, resembling the scratch of the cartridge upon brushing the surface of a vinyle. It was soothing. One droplet of water crashing down after the other. There was something inhibiting about this stranger, the outside and inner rage of the world all silence, reduced to one simple thing — her next word. Whether it took all of eternity or a mere second, it mattered none, as long as she kept talking, speaking, long enough for Elena to sit down, for her eyes to close and for sleep to finally find its twisted way to her.

"Symmetry?" she finally mused, head tilting. "I always thought it a circle. One Sisyphus pushes uphill until it crumbles back down. Humanity destroys itself from within ; is eventually stopped ; they react, indigned, pass laws and swear to never let it occur again ; they forget ; then one day someone wakes up with the urge to sink claws into their own flesh. And the boulder rolls down again."

One who would only know her inner values would be surprised, as her view of the world is often classified as optimism, trusting what little good is left in humanity and remaining rightfully by her morals, always. It is not the case. For one so acutely aware of the turmoils of the mind, it is impossible to remain blissfully oblivious to its darker areas, realism being the only course of choice. Yet if asked, the raven would still classify herself as optimistic. True optimism is not ignoring or refusing to acknowledge the pessimistic parts of the world, that is simply naivety — it is seeing them, and choosing to believe things will turn for the better, under the condition one makes it occur.

The book clung to every imperfection etched on the stoned floor as it slid towards her, as much of an offering as the name echoing between them. Trust. Elena was fairly sure neither of them knew what in the other pushed to this unnatural gift to bestow upon a stranger, and yet. "That is good to know," she smiled, accepting both presents. "Livia Cassia Victoria Machavariani," she slowly repeated, smiling. "Thank you. I am Elena."

Her surname held little weight, and appeared unnecessary, as the only thing that truly belonged to her was her name. As moved by an unknown entity, the raven breached the frontiere between their two bodies, gently settling down beside Livia, tucking her legs beneath her. Fingers trailing across the tome's large cover, her next words escaped in a breath, breaking through the fog of her mind with no attempt to think them through before voicing them out, though her tone carried nothing but curiosity.

"What about roman war tactics do you find so fascinating?"