"Fallen Angles, so fast to kill.
Thy kingdom come on the wild side"
//
She was raised to kill. With a mind full of knowledge and a tongue as sharp as a blade, Antheia Lestrange would grow to become a weapon in the hands of the people she hated most...
The story told, tells, will always continue to show the sides; the two sides. And though there's always more, something extra that's missed, because of guilt, anger, shame, or pride, no two stories will ever be the same.
There's the modern, the classical, the hero, the villain, and yet, the most important one...the bystander. It was always untold, and unsure of who to believe. The question of participating morals, the actions of revenge, and the duty of good- and yet every person will believe who they understand.
And many wish for a tale, a gruesome story of broken promises, shattered hearts, a pair who were so unlike, that it made their bodies share one heart. Death, murder...the horrific tales of plagued darkness trying to return.
A weapon, martyr, a teenager, a girl who loved- lived a life on the fence of anger, or acceptance. To come to terms with power, to finally learn how to grieve, to understand and accept that she will never be in control.
Or to rebel, to fight against a world which was causing more harm then good. To speak to people who didn't care to listen, by an instrument created by the devil. To fall in love, to loose herself to happiness, to embrace the change and accept the good.
Her sanity was a coin, flipped in the air, caught on a hand, and flipped back over. The choice of fate was out of her hands, manipulated to decide questionably.
It's her story. A tale of truths and mistakes, no sides different. A clarity on the horridness that infected the good, a bad person doing good, or good doing bad. She didn't know, no one did- not until the bells rang over the deafening sound of silence, and they waited in anticipation to see whose head she was holding.
**
She was as gorgeous, and as radiant as you were able to get; bright, intelligent, and a mortal. Some seemed it as a weakness, a curse against the superior- but those who were strength, who were power, didn't have to live in a world that would eventually set fire to itself. The justice of revenge, the recklessness of envy, of jealousy into the minds of the most beloved by beauty.
Liars and the martyrs
They took herself away from her, a sacred temple, the flash of an olive branch, a whisper of peace was fruitless over the noise of corruption from a man. Sentenced to death by a woman.
Lost faith in the father
Her hair, yanked and pulled, split into directions as she cried, shut eyes, whimpering lips forced her skin and soul to change. Her face soon turned pale, blue eyes now that of a sharp yellow, ghastly, as if every pore had cracked and split open.
