𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐬 ⎜𝘬. 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘬𝘬𝘦𝘳 ━━ UNDER MAJOR EDITING

xxii. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵

[𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨; 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞]

⏤ 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨

The ambiance surrounding the wonderer and her air ways, it all feels too much to ever breathe a fresh of air. There is a thing lurking in this rather dark tent, a lurking figure waiting to pounce as Dara Leovolt allows herself to wonder around the lavish drapes of black velvet. 

The black color of richness and fabric lets her mind sway to a certain heretic. 

The slender pale fingers of her's run through the old parchments of maps and books scrawled out in front of her. Her eyes glance to the walls, nothing hung on them but ropes of pure gold keeping the tent from collapsing, tied intricately perfectly. It surely is such beauty. 

The blueness of her eyes, the ones that had changed from the brown ones of her father to now the ice ones of her mother, they check every corner she is able to reach since the darkness...she is sure she would be met at the hands of such nightmares if she decided to venture further. For some unspoken reason, Dara has not felt curiosity.

Perhaps it could be her lack of control. 

Step by step, movement by movement, Dara makes her way around the small circular table at the center of the room. Despite the lavishness surrounding her, the interior is nothing more than sand, dirt, and a small wooden table she such has seen in some memory of her's. 

There are two seats, two stools, old stools, crooked, carved imperfectly, almost painful, but Dara takes a seat nonetheless. Her eyes drawn to the books and parchments of drawers. Furrowing her eyebrows, she notices a drawing that seems all too familiar of that small little cottage she had grown up in. The one where her father made sure to never truly have her guessing his moves.

Although, he did not know of his own moves as well. 

It is beautifully designed, the picture that is. The outlines of black are faint, colors of water brushed beautiful on parch and Dara allows the image to take a hint of her breath. With small movements, the corner of her lips curve as she can imagine with her own ice eyes of her mother and brother messing around, Dara walking own⏤ stumbling out with lemonade. 

And her father watching his family from the window with the happiest of faces as he cleans the plates of their morning breakfast. The steady, content, family everyone deserves. Secrets all come at a cost.

"You have the hair strands of your mother."

Dara freezes, blinking slowly...fatigue hits her, or perhaps it is the confusion...or maybe...the curiosity. Her mouth feels dry, her tongue of sandpaper, she tries to swallow her saliva yet it all but causes her to cough. Her head throbs in pain, her face contorting into harm, her body too heavy⏤