「 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒! 」ᴍɪᴄʜᴇ ᴢᴀᴄʜᴀʀɪᴜꜱ

₀₀┊𝑇𝐴𝑅𝑅𝐴𝐺𝑂𝑁.

𖥻 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝑅𝐴𝐺𝑂𝑁 - 18 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑔𝑜

𝐀 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓.

It had been hours since a little girl had been captured and placed into a white room.

She stood amidst the eggshell-colored walls and clean porcelain furniture, her curious (e/c) eyes not growing tired from the same rich shade. Instead of thinking of it as a bore, she found a certain allure to the bleached confines.

For now, the stillness of her heartbeat confirmed her tranquil thoughts. She felt safe.

The events that had led her into the white room were not addressed, as she continued staring at the many pieces around. She walked up to the foot of the room— right between the front door where a guard had left her, and the high window that cascaded more light inside— where she stared at a piece of art. And just as one would assume, the white mountains and pale skylight painted onto it flowed with the theme of ivory.

She had been told to wait there hours prior, and, somehow, she hadn't grown tired of floating around. Her eyes took in the wonder of the expensive pieces, her fingers running across the fur of the sofa pillows with a ghost of a touch— afraid it would be tainted by her grime-covered hands.

The little girl was about to sneak her clawing curiosity into a cabinet one of the tables farther down had, but a firm knock on the door had her flinching at the sudden interruption.

She gulped, her entire attention placed on the door handle, following as it turned to click open.

A silhouette entered the room, and for a moment the girl had to crinkle her eyes to see properly. She could have sworn an angel had entered and taken presence in front of her.

"Hello," the man spoke. His voice was firm and strong, but gentle enough to make her relax.

She didn't reply to the man, feeling a bubble caught in her chest.

Is this The God the townspeople speak about?

Something was intimidating about the towering blond man that had appeared, something that made the girl twitch. Not so much in a frightening way, but in a fearful manner.

She lifted her head, afraid he was the king of the nation.

His head followed her action, his pale blue eyes studying her. The ends of his long hair were ushered by the movement, a piece of it caressing his almost see-through skin.

He was abnormally tall and pale, appearing as if he shone all the light the surroundings reflected. The long cape hanging off his shoulders and polished badges were too captivating, and the young girl didn't dare look away for an instant.

"Are you a ghost as well?" she whispered.

The man smiled at her, though it didn't seem to fit with her inquiry. Instead of supplying a reply, he countered with a question of his own:

"What's your name?"

"I... I don't know."

"Hm." He strode to the corner of the room, where the snowy mountain painting she was overseeing earlier was hanged. A frown etched on his delicate features. "You can't survive in the world without a name."

He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a single golden flower.

"You will be called Tarragon from now on," he stated. He extended the flower down to the girl, its sun-colored petals lying flat against his white palm.

The name he designated was a summoning, resounding through her from the depths of her bones like an echo. There was no need to fight it, as she could already feel the call latch to her in a bonding spell of sorts.

The young girl opened her eyes, the name sticking to her like a collar, and her hand reaching out to his.

"Yes, sir."

———

He was the color of hope, and how could one oppose what an angel offered?

Named and cared for, understood and accepted— what else could a young girl want?

For if she is not his... what is she?