the seven husbands of y/n l/n ✷ gi

in which the book thief and her accomplice strike anew

UNDER THE BLANKET OF GLITTERING SNOW AND CASTLES FORGED FROM THE TEARS OF ICE, laid the wasted snow dunes of poverty and barren lands which only the souls of the destitute dare wander.

Thus, huddled like a pack of needy and bony chicks, seethed Y/N: her skeletal hands clenched in an icy fist.

The negligible town of Chekalin— despite being only a few hours away from the capital-- was a town barren as a dense blanket of snow draped over the lands each daunting and perpetual winter. Houses constructed from scraps of rotten wood and rusted metal shouldered the strain of piling snow, thus, houses appeared twisted and deformed; creaking under the sting of frozen mockery.

Despite the near distance of a prospering capital, the dunes of snow forged a dread to any traveller wishing to reach the indigent town of Chekalin. Pathways vanished under the mount of snow and ice while the steadfast whistling of callous blizzards made it unfeasible to see. Eyelashes fluttered as flakes of snow latched on relentlessly while the incessant tempest stabbed thousands of minuscule needles that pricked the skin.

Thus, for hundreds of afflicted years, the town of Chekalin seemingly vanished off maps, roadways and the conversations of the ignorant.

"Here," cried a woman dressed in rags, "Take the blanket, I'm sure I can find another one in the storage room down below."

Y/N merely nodded, her lips chapped as words froze in her throat. Unclenching her grabby hands, she dutifully accepts the extra blanket; wrapping it around her hollow figure as she awaited the ceasing of a perpetual tempest.

Y/N was the solid age of thirteen and three months and despite the blithe attitudes her age may entail, she had already seen the visions of a nearing death, silently anticipating them to knock on the rotting wooden door and take her away in the sweeping of the storm.

To everyone who was born and withers away in Chekalin, it was only a matter of time before the inevitability of a slow death grabbed you by the shoulders. Thus, in some twisted fashion, it was a sigh of deep relief.

However, as Y/N fixated her acute eyes on the door, the sensations of a sparking fire raged within her. The clawing of her hands now fisted anew.

To the bold obstinate Y/N, she would rather rewrite the will of the heavens if it meant she did not scumbag to a faceless death.

"Hey Y/N... you're doing it again."

Y/N emits a vexed mixture of a sigh and a scoff as she replies to the scrawny boy seated next to her, "Oh shush, you know how much I hate these endless storms," Y/N then shifts her body to face the boy, a stirring expression of rascality, "Why don't we head to Sister's Martina's office? I'm sure it's much warmer there than here."

The boy heaves a sigh while his expression remains dubious and equally fraught. "You only want to sneak into Sister Martina's office to steal the books!" seethed the boy, grasping onto his blanket.

"It's not stealing! Merely borrowing, there's a difference," she adds with riposte, the tip of her nose slightly red due to the cold, "Besides, what else are we going to do here? Sitting around and waiting won't do us any good."

The boy shudders in pondering, what use did 'borrowing' the books have? To the boy, the thievery the two of you orchestrated made his heart jump out from the seams of his hollow chest. The town of Chekalin was already rotting away in frozen asunder, why add theft to the list of harrowing reasons to not live in the town?

Nevertheless, the boy was neither cretinous nor ignorant of the silver lining between each word you articulated and each scheme you pulled like the strings of a puppet. It was but a petty plunder you contrived that ultimately did not amount to any worth.