._Aki Ana's Raevan

[Aki Ana]

PRP Five a.m. (in progress)  

[Aki Ana]

Crumbs

The sounds of the street murmured behind her, the slight breeze of traffic ruffling her hair and wings as it passed. She'd arrived early to open Second Chances for Vi…but the parcel on the door stop had stopped the Muse before she ever fit key to lock.

It was wrapped carefully in brown paper, tied with twine. The lyrics to one of her very first favorite songs echoed teasingly in her memory. Obviously, whoever had left it had known her for a very long time.

Pasha's wings stretched back as she dipped forward, picking the tiny package off the threshold. It weighed almost nothing. She was surprisingly composed, or so she would have thought had she been able to watch herself open it. Her had did not shake, her brows did not knit. With delicate fingers, she tugged the string till it parted and let the brown wrapping fall open.

A single bloodstained feather, white and red and impossibly delicate, rested in the paper nest.  

[Aki Ana]

Trail

The circles under her eyes were the perfect counterpoint to the bright sliver of dawn on the horizon. Melisande sat on her balcony, wrapped in a loose lace shawl, watching the fading stars struggle to speak.

It used to be that the others would have found her, even here. It was the last place they would have thought to look for her…sitting outside Aria's old quarters, looking out over the Manor's leafy orchard. She'd sworn she'd never return. It would be too easy for Aki to find her, here. But then, what did Aki matter?

The Muse turned the feather slowly between her fingers, bloodstained quill rotating unevenly as it spun. Someone was sending her a message. A message that kept her awake at night, kept her from work, kept her from those she loved. There was no one she could confide in, not truly…not without subjecting them to the same bloodied reminders she now held.

Pasha settled back into her chair, the hint of her hips curving against the cold metal, and brushed the feather absently against her lips. The packages hadn't ceased. She now had enough bloody feathers to make a small capelet. They rested in a gilded box on the vanity that Anderson still dutifully dusted, every morning.

But why? She rubbed the back of her hand absently over her sallow cheek, the bright colors of her friends flashing in her memory. In the back of her mind, the Muse could hear the rain falling. The sound gave her comfort, though the summer dawn was clear.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered shut, and the stained feather twirled to the ground like a forgotten maple seed. It joined the others on the warm concrete without so much as stirring them. Ashes, ashes…