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If there was one thing Clare Beddor was grateful for, it was that the winter had let up just enough that no frost or snow was sticking to the ground and the cold packed dirt and evenly trampled weeds whose job was to stitch together a path from the village to the forest showed no evidence that she had set off in the wrong direction and was now retracing her steps.
The frigid winter sun quickly got rid of the sheen of sweat that had wanted to form along Clare’s skin as she rushed to make it to the luncheon in time, though it failed to chase away the red and ruddy cheeks that were, in a way, inevitable, whether they be caused by the brisk wind or her inadvertent exercise while she fought to keep sweat and stink from breaching her petticoats to contaminating her nicest dress her mother had insisted she wear.
It felt so strange walking in the reverse of how she used to get to Nesta. Since the ships belonging to Nesta’s father had been found and Nesta’s youngest sister Feyre had been sent to take care of their ailing great aunt, life had turned upside down. Though for Nesta it must have felt like it turned right side up again, as her family had returned to the wealth and status they had before the two had met.
Pulling her thick woven shawl around her shoulders, Clare shivered as the wind rustled through the trees along the curving trail. As the boughs of the tallest thinnest bare branches shivered along with Clare, their spindly shadows shook and stretched around the young fawn haired woman as if they could reach out into the world, creaky delicate fingers turning daylight into darkness, and ready and wanting to snatch her up off the path.
If her mother knew she was risking tripping and falling in her nicest most expensive dress, she would be sure to receive a beating, but what Clare’s mother didn’t know wouldn’t kill her and so she gave into the childish indulgence, reminiscing on how she had first become friends with Nesta, the pair jumping over stark shadows in a silly competition with one of the other village girls whose family had long moved away in hopes of a better life further away from the wall.
As Clare jumped and hopped over the skinny shadows, pretending she was evading a vicious creature of the wild and night as she went on her way to meet a fair maiden.
One hop over the shadow that belonged to the branch of a tree where she and Nesta had once hung their baskets with their small meager purchases so they could dance in circles around the tree pretending that they were at an elaborate ball. With a wild swing of her arms and an enthusiastic spin, she pushed away the tainted memories of their fantasy balls, brushed over by the grim reality of the two faced and treacherous soirees she attended now as a friend of Nesta. Where instead of clasping hands and dancing around the room, she and Nesta could only nod at each other and send terse smiles across the room while Clare sat on the sidelines and Nesta performed with a stoneface mein until she lost her patience and left the event altogether, leaving Clare to chase after like a desperate social climber or remain to be shunned by socialites for being an unseemly reminder of how poor the Archeron’s used to be, for once being richer than the family and now being too poor in comparison.
A second hop over the shadow of a tree that marked a small side trail that lead to a delicate pond, guarded by cragged rocks and deep enough to swim in if one was willing to brave the chilly water and the possibility of being stumbled upon by the local village boys and hunters who used the spot to rinse off after weeks unwashed in the woods.
Once Nesta had snuck out and trekked to Clare’s home, charming her way past the Beddor’s singular housekeeper, the stern and protective Mrs. Brinkle, to lure Clare from her warm bed in the middle of the night to run rampant into the dark and find icy cold water and shock melting into companionship and comfort as the two then-teenagers stripped naked, leaving frocks and nightgowns on the rocks and swimming naked as the days they were born together under the full moon. Clare let out a loud laugh as she defeated the shadow, smiling to herself. Maybe today she would succeed in getting Nesta to sneak away with her this time, to leave the luncheons and balls to Elain and slip away to spend quality time together once more.
A third hop over the shadow of the tree that marked the center of the path as it split in two. One side of the worn walkingway steadily filled with compressed dirt from the treks of those like Clare who made the journey from the village to the scattered collection of huts and houses belonging to those too poor to afford anything closer and safer. She used to take this path every other day to see Nesta, to gossip and plan. To find ways for the two of them to stay together in the village. The other side of the walkway watched on, less a walkway and more like the idea of one as it had long been reclaimed by nature, as everyone sane knew not to go near the Wall and tempt the fae to kidnap and eat them. Only a few footprints were present, temporarily trampled in the weeds like stamps, likely from the children of the blessed foolishly trying to make their way across. Clare’s third hop was turned into a stumble as her foot caught on a stray root that came to stretch out, defiling the smoothed out path that had been somewhat securely used by the folk here for longer than Clare could even comprehend. As she fell forward, the shadow of the tree fell over her hands like shackles as Clare tried to land in a way that wouldn’t muddy her dress.
Partially successful, she tried to shake the dirt off her underskirts and brush off the dark dust that had risen around her, settling into her hair and descending like dusk onto her cheeks.
Sharply sighing, Clare took this as the sign it was. Clearly she needed to let go of these childish fantasies. At twenty two, Clare should have been engaged and married long ago to someone who would be able to take over her father’s small couture and sewing company, however, due to the small population of the village, and with her and Nesta’s plan to have Nesta marry Thomas Mandray, who was desperately (and grossly) pining over the beautiful and statuesque woman, Thomas could be convinced to partner his lumberjack and wood cutting services to Clare’s family’s company, creating from the wood nearby whatever pulps and dyes, clothing stands and racks the Beddor’s company could need. And as a sign of their strong partnership and successful business, Clare and Nesta could remain perpetual bosom buddies, bonded forever, accompanying and chaperoning others together, raising their children together; eternal companions.
At twenty two, none of Clare’s plans, hopes, or dreams would come to fruition. Nesta, who used to only tower over Clare in her slender stunning frame, now towered over Clare in everything, from social status, to wealth, and beyond. It continued to surprise Clare that Nesta still gently held Clare into her arms when they met in dark corners no one could spy them in, that when out of sight, Nesta would trace her hand up and down Clare’s arm before trailing down and caressing the small of Clare’s back under where her corset strings were tied.
At this point with the small splotches of mud across her dress and her face, as unscathed as she could be but still clearly wounded in battle on the way to meet her magnificent maiden, she gave up the pretense of saving the dress and herself from mud and sweat and went as quickly as possible to the Archeron manse.
If she could make it in time, hopefully she could freshen up and filch a dress from one of the Archeron sisters, a switch up from when she used to sneak extra fabric or abandoned underclothes and dress patterns into the arms of the elder Archeron girls. Feral Feyre could not be spotted long enough by Clare for her to get a good estimate of sizing to sneak items for the younger girl, but she hoped the extra fabric was enough for her needs and desires to prance about the woods regardless.
The housekeeper who stood in charge of the Archeron’s new household was significantly more stern than Mrs. Brinkle ever could be. Even as a regular guest in the Archeron’s visiting parlor and to the personal rooms beyond, this housekeeper selected by the Archeron’s newly invigorated patriarch always looked at Clare like she was the mud she was currently freckled in.
Thankfully, gracious Elain, who had yet to meet anyone she couldn’t charm, rescued Clare from the housekeeper’s petrifying gaze and brought her up to Nesta’s suite. The maze of a manse that they traversed through to reach the woman always astonished Clare. It was such a difference from the hovel of a house the family lived in before. Nothing from there aside from the family themselves had been brought over to the new place. Everything was covered in tapestries, or had vases of elaborate floral arrangements hiding any trace of the simple wood that formed the structure of the building by necessity. Even Elain was decked out in fine fabrics, glittering jewels, and enchanting embroidered lace.
As she was transferred from the care of one Archeron to the other, Clare found a new thing to be grateful for. While Elain gave gentle excuses as to why she needed the aid of the maids assisting Nesta prepare for the events of the night, when they all followed Elain out of the room like eager ducklings, Clare extended a fleeting thought of thankfulness towards Elain before her focus was captivated by Nesta’s gaze.
Clare stepped forward into Nesta’s arms, which had come up to encircle her, one familiar hand resting on Clare’s waist, the other coming to rest against the back of Clare’s neck, Nesta’s thumb rubbing soothingly back and forth by Clare’s hairline. After a moment, she reversed her position, coming to stand behind Nesta, pressing a kiss to the nape of Nesta’s neck before finishing up the laces on Nesta’s corset and helping her slip on the overdress.
Clare was so happy for Nesta, for her to be able to return to everything she deserved and more, but now being closer in location than ever before she had never felt further away.
Every moment with Nesta in this new world felt like a foggy dream. As if everything was drenched in a haze of something other that was beyond Clare’s comprehension. As if the ground beneath her had become unstable and she was always only a single step from falling into the eternal darkness of the earth.
Despite the time away, Nesta was able to navigate this new world effortlessly, of course, only when Nesta deigned to put in the effort to do so, but Clare found that no matter what she did, she could not satisfy everyone. And she feared that soon she wouldn’t even be able to satisfy Nesta anymore.
The rest of Clare’s dream was spectacular. She tried to shake off the murky fog that haunted it.
In her distraction, Nesta had pulled her from her muddy outer dress and helped her into a magnificent spare that belonged to one of the two Archeron girls.
The two girls nestled together in the chaise lounge that occupied the corner of Nesta’s sitting room. Clare curled up to Nesta’s side as the other read aloud from her novel. The sound of Nesta’s firm steadfast voice paired with the delicate music of the ball starting below that had drifted up to accompany them.
Clare inched up in the hold Nesta had around her to grip the book so she could gaze up into Nesta’s eyes. Her left hand was tracing the delicate embroidery that decorated Nesta. Clare recognized the stitching.
The tiny even stitches and fullness of the design were the hallmarks of her mother’s steady hand. Clare stretched further to press a gentle kiss against the hollow of Nesta’s neck. As the love of her life paused slightly in her reading before continuing on, Clare felt emboldened to press another to her collarbone. As Clare tried to stealthily press a third kiss against Nesta’s exposed skin, her plans were deviously interrupted by Nesta leaning down to meet her lips to Clare’s, sliding down the chaise lounge to put the two on even footing as Nesta deepened the kiss.
Any fog hovering over Clare was chased away by the warmth of Nesta’s love for her. She could feel its radiating warmth like a fire against her skin. Each touch of Nesta’s over her dress felt like a precious flicker of the flame’s tongue and each touch against her bare skin felt like a roaring blaze that Clare was ready to step into freely.
When the intricate clock in Nesta’s rooms chimed sternly, letting them know it was ten thirty, they reluctantly drew apart.
No longer connected lip to lip, though still hand in hand, the two made their way through the empty gilded halls of the upper east wing of the Archeron’s new home. The music was no longer their gentle accompaniment but the saboteur of the night. Each new song that would play would be a new dance Nesta would perform with someone who wasn’t her and Clare would be left to watch on the sidelines.
Even if Nesta retired from the dancefloor, every rich society woman looking to become richer by associating with the Archeron’s would flock to Nesta’s side, and they had already made it clear that they would never accept Clare amongst their ranks.
The green carpet that traced the path through the golden branched hallways looked almost black, drenched in the shadow cast by the weak candle light flickering from their spots in the delicate floral candelabras that lined the vast expanse of the hallway.
The shadows looked almost like real branches, and so as they neared the top of the staircase that would lead to where the pair would have to separate, Clare imagined a hop over the first large shadow branch to grace their path.
With one hop, Clare defeated the first of the new evil suitors that fought for Nesta’s hand. In her mind’s eye she would be free to stride onto the dance floor and sweep Nesta away into a dance of their very own.
A second branch, a second hop.
Another fanciful movement over the shadow. Another fanciful wish for a dream.
Clare and Nesta would bow dramatically to each other as their dance finished, as their hands clasped together in farewell on the dancefloor, their fingers would gently press secret messages into the other’s skin. A time and a place. Later that night, after the clock struck twelve, just as described in one of Nesta’s elaborate novels, they would meet under the light of the moon in a hidden grove, a place only the two of them knew, where everything would blossom in the sight of their true love.
The third and final branch. A third jump.
A desperate plea in the dark for a future together.
As Clare tried to stop the skip in her step, she stumbled over the hem of her borrowed skirt. Fallen in the dark shadow of the third treelike candelabra, Clare let Nesta help her up and brush her jostled strands of hair back into place.
Hidden in the cloak of the dark hallway, Clare felt even more awed by the resilient presence of Nesta, who stood draped in the shimmering light coming from the ballroom below.
As Nesta clasped their hands together once more, pressing a kiss and a promise to meet later to the back of Clare’s hands before leaving her to the shadow and starting her obligations for the night, Clare stood still as the spindly hands of shadow pressed closer until enough time passed for Clare to make her entrance after her lady love’s.
Clare took careful note of the fashions of the night, who wore what, who made what dress for who, which stitch was used on which pattern, things that would prove useful to her and her mother as they tried to raise their status as the makers of premier dresses in their village, aided by Nesta’s patronage, but still needed to be more. The night flew by in a catalog of threads and colors, her only breaks from textile being when she fervently watched Nesta spin about the floor, definitively out-dancing everyone she was partnered with.
Soon the dancefloor saw less and less movement, as clusters of guests broke off and left for the night. The intricate grandfather clock that towered over and monitored the dancefloor had long ago sounded out midnight and was now preparing to announce the end of the witching hour by the time the room was empty save for Clare herself and one ever magnificent Nesta Archeron.
Each of their movements mirrored each other in their now practiced ritual of closing out an event hosted by the Archeron family. Taking Nesta’s extended hand, their synchronized movements led them to a moderately sized carriage waiting at the entrance to the manor.
Clare would need to assist her mother in the morning and shouldn’t shame her family by presumptuously taking advantage of the Archeron wealth and staying the night, so Nesta had taken to having Clare driven home by horse and carriage, often accompanying her as an excuse to remain together longer.
As they whispered and giggled together in the dark of the carriage moving towards the Beddor home, Clare’s heart was lifted by Nesta’s hopeful whispers.
All of Clare’s desperate pleas in the dark had been answered. Nesta’s father wanted to expand his business and Nesta would use it as a chance to make a trip to the continent. Obviously, she would need a lady in waiting, and obviously, someone who could assist with altering clothes as needed on demand to fit in with the style of the continent.
Clearly there was no one else more suited to this position than Clare Beddor.
And then once on the continent, Nesta planned for them to establish a business together there. Clare could send money to her family and Nesta would represent Archeron interests on the continent and no one would question their closeness, for they would be designated companions and the only two women of similar age and hail from the same place. Their bond would be unquestioned.
Each kiss Nesta pressed to her lips in between hushed plans brought new life to Clare’s core. Clare was on fire, and she burned for Nesta.
She would gladly burn for Nesta for the rest of her life.
Each bump of the carriage that moved Clare like a wave against Nesta’s rocky shores filled her with ecstasy, and as the carriage rolled to a standstill, the two women spent a final moment taking in each other’s presence.
Tomorrow, they would see each other again, they reassured each other that their parting would not be long, for Clare clearly needed to return the borrowed Archeron dress, though Clare would still need an excuse for what happened to the first one, and Clare would be hosted at the Archeron’s for the next week to help plan and design a new wardrobe for Elain, who was courting the son of that lord, though she struggled to recall the name amidst the more prevalent fantasies playing out in her mind.
Nesta’s slim manicured fingers burned a cool trail across Clare’s face and arm as they traced Clare’s visage, caressing the lines of her smile at hope for tomorrow and onward, sliding down to squeeze their hands with joy for their renewed future together.
Leaping out of the carriage and into the cool night air, Clare breathed in the sweet scent of smoking meat, clearing something bought from the hunters, there must have been a successful hunt during the day.
As the horses pulled Nesta in her carriage away, Clare then started the small walk to her home. The distance was necessary so that no one would see and gossip about how Nesta extended her wealth so unfairly to Clare or how Clare used Nesta for these luxuries.
The smell of smoking animal flesh grew stronger as Clare stepped through the grassy path towards home. She resigned herself to only a few hours of sleep rather than the lie in she was hoping for, as she’d have to help air out and perfume any dresses that would be delivered in the next few days as the scent of the fresh catch being preserved for Beddor consumption was spreading quite far.
In the distance, Clare could now see lights and movement flickering already. Clearly mother and father were impatient to start the day, and now Clare would need to quickly think of an excuse as to why she wasn't wearing her own dress, as she wouldn't be able to sneak past her sleeping parents and quickly change to postpone any needed excuses.
Still, soon Clare wouldn’t need to worry about any of that. She and Nesta would be living a gloriously romantic life together on the continent, Clare would have her own dress shop and Nesta would run the business aspect of it, and they would live together as a true couple.
Eyes closed and spinning in delight, Clare let her body dance herself home down the path she had walked so many times she would have been able to make it back blindfolded.
Lost in her the sounds of the city Clare had built in her head, the shrieks of her family brought her back into the night.
Eyes opened, Clare picked up her skirts and ran towards her home.
The house was on fire.
Her family and Mrs. Brinkle were trapped inside.
She had to help them.
Before she reached the door, she grabbed the water bucket resting in the well and drew up some water. Water splashing onto Nesta’s dress as she ran with the cumbersome bucket was an insignificant worry compared to the bright plumes of flame cutting through the night and the Beddor house.
Pushing down the front door to enter the abode, Clare screamed as she saw her mother pinned by a fallen beam, smoke wrapped around her and fire creeping towards her, her brother and father visible in similar situations down the hall. She splashed water on the flames eating the carpet in front of her.
As the water hit the carpet, the world started to end before Clare’s eyes. The plumes of flame devouring the house turned into shadowed lurking figures. Their eyes glowed flames in the dark as their monstrous abnormal wings stretched from their backs casting terrifying shadows of the wretched fae in her family’s home.
They stood like perversions of her brother’s wooden toy soldiers, in angular rigid formations, centered around the menacing figure whose freakish purple eyes stared into Clare’s soul, whose booted foot stood on the neck of Clare’s mother, who controlled the faerie monsters who were tearing apart Clare’s life and family for no reason.
Clare sobbed and tried to run to save her mother and ȩ̵̢͍͇͍̣̩̰́͂͆͆̀͌͆̓̐͜͝͝ͅv̷̛̹͒͂̑́̐̐͌͒̽͐̽̓͒̈́̂̇͆̅̈́̃̾͑̊͗͋̈́̋̃̌͛̀̓̄̒̽̊̾̀̇̉̒̐̔̕͝͝͝͝͠ę̴̯͇̱̗̯̫̭͖̟͉͖͍̣͕̻̳̭̗̻̞̲͖̊͂̎̇͐̓͊̈́͜ͅͅr̵̢̛̠̗͎̫̦̟͍͇̼̣̫͉̰͓̜͍̲̞̙̺̠͖͎̩͈̩͚̞̯̘̮͙͚͎̦͉̠̽́̒̆͋́̏̾́͒̾̌͂͜͝͝y̶̡̧̧̮͍͎͎̼͖̠̥̭̦̗̫̞͉͉̘̠̰͔̫̰̝̟̹̤̰̻̳̰̺̩͍̳͕͖̾̏͜ͅt̵̢̯͚͍͉͙͕͎̝͕̗͕̖͚̞̰̙̗̭̩͇̗̂̽͛̏͋̑̉̒̒͒̐̃͂̌̀̅͒͊̈̇͆̀̂͂̏̌͂̉̓͂̓͂̈́̾̈́̎͑́̍͒̕̚̚̕͜͜͜͠ͅh̴̡̧̧̛̛͎̝͖̗̝̘͈̙̞̺̥̗̗̪̖̰̰͉̥̗̪̳̩̤̙͉̖̎͛͗̀̒̐͋̃̃̋̌̅͂̒̉̏̔̾͒̊̈́́̂͆͆͛̔͋̽̑́̆͂̈̌̊̚̕̚̕͜͝͝ǐ̴̲̩̤͇͖͇̲͍̗̥̟͚͉̫̀͐̀̉̂̌̊̇̽͂̈́̄͊̐̔̒͗͐̔̄͆͒̒̏̿̕͘̕͜͝͝ņ̷͈̬̻̼̼̦̼̲̻̞̲̯͕̮̫̆̓̔̄̋̐̑̅̂̾͆̇͒̊̽͋̀͋̔́̉̆̎̌̎͋͆͋̑̈́͛̍͊̈̕̚̚͘͘͝͝͠ͅg̵͕̖̥̓̑͊̊̍̍̉̀̈̀̓̂̀̅́͑͋̕̕͘̚͝ ̶̨̨̢̡̨̧̟͇̘̻̦̠̪̩̹͇͕̰̙͍͍̞̜͕̩͔͖̦̙̺͎̰͖̰̣̦̰̗͍̫̮͈̱̜̟̠̈́̈̉͠ͅw̵̡̡̨̢̛̪̣͕̫̼̱͚̪͔͓͕̣̙̱̟̹͕̩̌̓̈́͒̎̀̿͌̃͂͑̄̄͊̈́̄͂͗̾̐̏͛̋̐͐͌́́́́́́̓̀̽̕̚̚̕a̴̢̪̱̟̼̠͎̬̦̼͔̱͈̫͈̤̠̙̺̜̰͇͉̯͇̟͖̖͓̪͕̭̞͇̺̮͉̘̩̘̗͐͂̀̌͒̄̔̋͐̌̎̈́̓̊̎̓͂̐́̈͒̓̉͌̈̀͋͋͋̃̈́̍͛̑̿̀͛̾͑͘̚̚̚͜͜͝͠͠͝s̸̡͔͚̙̟̣͉̭͉̬̹͔̰̞̫͍̗̟̫̳̮̻̀̇̀͐̊̀̎̔͂̐̋̽̑̄͒̾͌̄̌́̒̓̓̂́͗̉̓̋͐̌̕͜͜͝ ̶̡̛̩̠̬̗̝̬̜̫̣̼̃͊̈́͒̔̆̅͐́̔̃̍͊͛̈́̏̂̑͆̉́̒͑̒͆͂̂̓̽̄̕̚̚̕͘̕͝͝ͅt̷̨̡̨̛̛̛̪͓̮̜͖̱͉̳͇̮̼̫͙̺͖͈̟̗̟̙̬̮̪̠̋̐͐̓͊̿̃̈̎͂̀͛̒̉̌̋̊̇̑͆͊̌̄̄͊̐́̕̕͘̕͝͝ͅͅư̵̢̨̛̛̮̪̯͓̼͎͔̪͖͎̜̪̠̥̯͔̻̺̩̼͙̼͉̍̅̌͌͑̊͂̄̑̿̈̂̀̋͒̀͒̍̾̒̐͂̋͆̀͛̊̓̿̈́͐̾̓̆̊̓͂̂͘͘͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅŗ̵̨̨̡̯͕͈̻̙̼̰̙̞̩̬̣̥̭̪̙̰͔̜̲̖͎͉̟̯̟̼͕̰̲̻̥̠̩̭͖͔̖̣̩͓͙̜́̔͌̄̎͗̈́̑̊͛͌̑̈́́̑̉̑̔̔̅͂̌͝͝͝͝ņ̶̢̤̘͉̦̪̮̦̥̱̮̗͖̱̪̠̲̝̯̲̖̊͌͌͑͋̂͒̎͋̑̿̏̋̿͌͂̔͝ę̵̢̡̧̢͔͈͈̮̪͇͕̹͈͕̬̤͍̗̯͙͇̺̲̹̝͇͎͍̬̙̰̺͉̣͉͇̪̈́̿̅̎d̷͇̻̯͓͖̩̝͉̥̤̩͇̖͇͌̑͆͐̈́̔̔̇̇̏̏͒̐̅͛̈́̔̀̇́̇̿͋̾̋͑̉̓͐͐̌̃̑̈̿͌̈̌͌̒̎̍̈́͗́̽̚͘͜͜͠͝͝ ̸̢̨͖̠̲̭͈͈͕͔͈͖͖̖̠̖̫̘͚͓͔͐̀͑̈́̿͊̽̒̉͗̅̏͊͆͐̕̚͠͠͠ȃ̷̡̖̖̜̹̙̻͍̲͍̯̤͎̩̀́̉̀̈́̀̕͘͝g̴̨̨̛̛͖̫͙̬͖͇̜̪̬͒́̈́͂̈̐̓͐̾͑̄͐̈́͜͝ͅa̷̧̨̢̡̨̛̛͚̺̣͓͓̝̗̬͙̟͙͈̫̬̪̯̱͉̭͚̼̳̣͍̟̪̞̼͙̲̻͍̩̩̫͕̔̽̒̿̈̅͐͌͗̇́̄̐̾̃̑́͐̍̍͛͊́̒͊̆̇̀̊͋̉̇͗̾̊͑͌͋̚͜͝͝͝ͅį̶̢̨̢̡̨̗͍̙̠͙̬̦̩͎̱̣̦̮̘̭͍̘͍̯͓̭͈̫̹̦͕̼͖̯͕̥̗̞̗͍̜̮̼͕͉̟̗̤́͜n̷̢̢̛̗̲̪̮̣̼̲̜̩̜̪̣͕̦̰͉̮̬̞͔̬̰͉͔͓̠̙̈́͑̿̂̿̄̆̿̓̌͗͊̈́͆͊͛̌̎̄̍͂̈́̊̑̆͐̐̒̾̕̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͠s̶̺͓̜͇̮̯͂͛̍̑͂̉͋̌͗́̍̋̓̅̒͒̑͒̏͛̋̋̊͗́̋̓͐̀͋͘͘͝͠͝t̴̨̧̨̛̛̼̮̭̲̙̻͇̦̭̩̰̟̞̪͇̙̱͗̌̊̃́̀̀̋̔͋̈͐̒̓̋͐̀̅͋̈́̋̈́́̑̉͌̉̀̌̉̇̆͌̈̽͊̅̀͒̽̏̈́͘̕̕͘͝͝͝ ̶̨̫̞̝͕̼͚͇̺̭͕̼͚̞̯̟͎̀͂̀̇̊͆͑̓͒́̇̂̀̉͗͆̆͊̈́̄́́̈͑̔̅͋̊̆̕͝͠͠͠͝͝h̸̨̢̛̛̛͓̺̠̘̮̞̯̺͚̲̘͉̯̰̻̜̤̬͖̝̮͔̳̜̠͓̝͇͕̍̉̿͑̽̐̉̂̈́͌͐͆̉͋͛̈́̊̒̈́̆̐̃̈́͆̓͑̍̕̚̕͜͜͝͠ë̶̖͔͇͎̙̝̻̫̏̓̒̒̀̑͆̇͋͋͑̀̇̎̍̾͠͠͝ͅŕ̸̛̟̏̇̇̊͋͋́̐̂̊̋͗͆͂́͋͂́̀̿̕̕͝͝.̵̢̡̛͈͚̗̥͇̭̻̣̗̗̯͖̥̗̤͎͙̘͖͔̻̖̹̯͇͕̞̥͕̅̊͆͐̅͊̃̓̚̚͜͜͝ ̶̢̢̢̡̧̥̫̹̳̙̳͓͎̤̱̱̳̩̗͉̭̙̮̺̫͓͕̱̼̯̯̝͇̩̬̣̣͕̪̩̖͙͚̞͑̑̅̈́̔̉͑͊̆̂͑̈́̂̄̈́̎̿͂̎͋͐̔̈́̿̏̄̋̆̋̑̚͜͝͝͝ͅͅ
s̶̡̡͍̬̳̣̜̰͔̥̜̺͇̘̘͉̟̬̼͓̼͙̬̿̌̐͛̈́̏̆̊́͘͠ͅc̷̛̩͎̲̖̜̮͚̭̥͂̂̈́̾̀͆̉̾̈́́͗̄̅́̀̄ͅr̷̢̨̧̨̧̤̞̜̤͎͈̣͈͎̹̰͕͕̝̬̯̥̯̳͇͔͌̾͑̆͆́̽ͅę̸̢̧̣̭͇̣̹͇͕̖͕̱͚̤͚͇̱̟͉̬͔͇̗̙͈̈͆̄̉̆͜á̷̢̧̢̗̬̻͉͍̭̟̩̺̺̩͈̭͖̰̘͇̦̞̟̤͕͙̮̣͓̩͈̍͋͊̋̉̄̈́̾͌͘͜͝m̴̡͔͔͕̪̖̮͓̬̞̣̹̺̘̜̗̱̘̣̒́͘i̸̢͍̜͓̘̗̥̠͓̼̫͌͂̊̌̂̀̊̈́̓̄̿̽̀͜ṅ̸̛̜̈́̍͊͊̉̅̆̃̑́̉̍̚̚͝ģ̶͓̩͔̺͙͙̪̎̍̆̐̔̍̎̃̄́͗̅̍̑̇̄̅͊̿̿̚̕͜͠ ̸̧̢͈̫̣̤͇̩͎͓̹̙̯̯͖̹͓̝͎̑̆̈́̏͌͒͌̾̈́̓̈́̂͒̋̾̒̓̅̾̉͗̂̀̄̾͌͋͌̚̚̕̚͝c̶̢̛͓̘̰͔̠̗̙̟̗̲͔̀̏̇̽̃̋͆̑͛͋͒̀̌̊͗̈͆͊͑̓͒̅͗̎͋̔́̊̍̌̈́͘͘͠͝r̴̢̹̝̼͕̱͙̤̖̣̩͉̥̹̯̜̥͊͋́y̵̨̨̡̡̰̩̮͈̣̤͉̘̥̮̮͉̦̞͈͔͍̝̋͘͜ͅĩ̶̢̨̡̧͖̹̗̣̰͇̗͉̪̳͚̯̘̙̮̟͕̪̖̲͑͛̎͋͐̆͆̓̉̇̇̈́̌͒̐̃̌͘̕̚͜͠͝ņ̶̼̖̝̫̏͆̽͋͛̓́͌̓̎̄̌̿̄̽̆̂̎́̓̓̓͐̽̈́̾͝ğ̵̨̜̰͓͕̟̯́͋͗̈̎̆͠ͅ ̴̗̝͍̻͖̱̜̻͚͖̫͖͕̲͝p̸̨̱͎͚͙̳̥̠̲̘̬̪̣̮͔͔̪̤͓͚̩͇͇̩̙̈̈̌͜͝l̵̢̨̨̧̢̘͙͙̫̥̹̠̲͔̝̬͚̘̙̰̮̦̰̝̯̮̰̦͕̟̤̳̳̑͋̀͜ͅȩ̴̨̡̧̢͔̠̤͓̬͖͙͔̰͙̼͓̫̰̫̙̙̫͕̝̞͕̣̂̀͆͆͆̍͜͜ͅã̷̢̢̡̗̟͈͕̝̱̲̠̝̳͔͓̦͍̺̙̎̀̍̎͂͗̀̇̏͂͒̍̿̆́̓̃́͂͊́̎͊̀̍͌̔̎̀͘̕̕͜͝͠ͅd̸̡̨̨̨̠͕̖̠̻͓͎̪͇̫͕̳̪͎͖̠̯͚͙͔̠̻̤͉̙̬̟̏̊͂͑͋̆́̇́̉͂̃̍̆̊̚͜͜i̵̡̳͉̠̮͖̤̰̦͖͈̮̳̎̀̅͛̔̀̾̈́̈͐̈́̈́̆̒̈́̒̔̀̐̈́̑͒̐̚̚͘͘͝͠ń̸̗̱̰̠̱̱̱̲͙͚̘̣͙͔̬̙̥͈̲͚̘̰̺̥̳͎̜̽̌͒̌̎̀̐̃̎̓͒͜͝͠ͅͅġ̵̡̳̣͇͕̫̳͓̞̫̖̥͙̰̳͇̺͓̳͒̾̈́̏̒̒̆̍͒̅̉̇̒͂́̾̉̇͊̽͜͜͝
̵̨̛͇͖͙̟̳̪̮͇̙̫̩͇̟̙̆̓̌͛̄̐͗̈͛̈́͗̒̾́͗͌͒̂͒̿̏̋̾̈́͘̕͝͠͠ͅw̶̙͎͓͖̤̘̻͎͌̈́̄͗̈̽͜h̴̡̢̨̡̩̜̱̥̦̺̫͈̘̻̻͎͙̘̞̼̹̦͚̯̩͕̘̙͍̗̘̤̮̉̈̽̅͊̎̋̏͗́͌̄̎͑̋̌̿̄̕̕̚͝͝͝͠ͅy̵̢̬̫̠̪̞̤̓͐̉̽̓̓̊͆̈́̌́̍͐̽͊̃͠͝͝͠͠ ̴̤̑̈͆͊͛̔̊͌̉͛̾̈́a̴̡̛̛͕̺̠͉̮͚̭̩̣͚̜͍̮͎̝̱̫͙͙̺̲͉̖̫̫̘͋́̊͂͂̅̉̈͐̑͊̒̆̀̏̿̏̒̚͘͝r̸̢̧̮̖̱͚̞̥̝͍̱̣͉͈̳̦͚̼̖̜͚̜̫͇̮͇̞̳͙̉̐̀̂̌̀̓̄̌̀̈́̂̑̿́̉̚̚ͅe̴̡̨̡̧͖̤̼͈̱̳̩͈̜̻̮͖͎̹̦̜̰̮͓̿̓͊͛́̈͑̈́̂̔̔͌͋̏̋͐͑̈́̒͛̃̓̄̃̚͘̚͝͝͝͠͝ͅ ̶̹̗̥̳̹̔̍̆̒͒͑͂̐͌̋̊̑̐͂̓͌̔̀̋͐͐̑̍̓͐̀̚̚y̵̡̢̧̙̠̱̺̦̙͙̘̗̪̦̪͉͍̹̬̲͒̈́̎͛͐̀̈́̍̃̇́̃̉̈́̎̏̀͊́͒̚̕̚͘͜͝͝͝ͅö̴̢̨̧̝̦̹̗͍̹̺͙͈̱͙̱͔̞͎͙̥̟͇͉̝̟̈́͊̓̍̽͆͋̂̕ų̵̨̧̢̧̧̼͙̰͙͕̫͚̭̮͚͖̦̻͇͎̩̫̭̣̙̙͑̽̂̊̔̑̐̆̆͂̎̓̂̅̎̐͋̇̔͑́͊͑̚͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅ ̵̛͖̣̰͎̟̪̆̒͂̃̊̈͌̈́̿̾̊͊̊̑͗̅͗͐̐̿͛̃̌̄̀̓̓͘̕͝͝͠ͅd̷̨̢̡̢̛̗̫̘̩͚̹̠͍̜͙͔̼̖̮̗̜̱̠͖̖̙͈̤̥͛̎̆̐̇̂̈́̑̃͐́͒͂̕͜ͅo̷̡̬̱̮͌̊̈́į̷̢͔̻͕̻̠̜̤͎͙͔̳̹̬̖̌͐̇͐͛̒͒͐̃̀̆̀̓̾̈́n̵̡̧̢̪̤̦͕͕̳̳͖͉̼̰͙̥͕̖̦̯̈́͜͝ͅg̵͍͕͕̺͇̹̥̭͇̬̗̣͕̽̓̒͐̿̉͗́͐͊̔̈̕͜͜͠ ̴̧̰͈̱̞̦̪̫̺̲̤̼̬̱͋͛̇͑̿̔̔͆̏̈́͂͊̈̀͌̒͌͆̈́͊̓̋͑̇̆͗͛̊͜ͅṫ̶͔̃̽̒̅̾͆̽̑̈́́̋̓̑͋͑͂͗̅͌̈́̈́̓̍͊͋̕͝͠͠ḩ̸̡͙̩͈̗̬̗̩̠̰̠̼̹͖̗̥͍͍̆̓̓̑͑̈́̅̒̈́̅̓̈́͒̐͑̊͐̊̕͝ͅi̴̤̣̯̘̺͕͔̳͉͑̃̎̒̆̐͗̅̾̉̅̓̌̄̋͛̈́̔͘̚̚̕̕͜s̸̛̩͈̰͍͕̤̺̿͗̈́̊̿̍̍̈́̇̐̀̽̔̉͂̑͛̈́͌͒́͑̊̎͂̏̚͘̚͘͠͝͠
̸̡̝̮̮̞̞̈̽̂̍̋̈́̈́͂̈͒͜͜͝Į̵̛̲̝̠̟͔̫͉͔̼̞̘̘̹̣̭̹̲̼͗̌͊́͑̔̄͛̒̏̉̈́̆̓̿͛͐̚͘͜͠͝͝ ̸̨̧̳̠̰͈̦̪͔͓̙̳͈̣̰̠̻̙̬̻̙̤̹̖̟̝͚̮̞̺̝͇̓̉̅̇̿ͅd̸̨̼͈̗̠̮̮͕̼̻͚̙͍̮͈̮͔̰͇͈̫͙̝̭̫͎͆̈̏́͑͜ͅͅṏ̴̧̡̬̜̯͓̬̣͕̖̻̠̖́͛̾̈́͑̂̾͊̆͋̏͐͘͠ͅņ̶̛͓͎̯̮̪͍̬̲̟͈̝͈͙͑̌͆̔̏̚͠t̸̥̍̊̅͊̈̋͌̋͂̿͋̉́̍̅͌̃̊͌̈́̌̄̓̑̈̊̅̓̎̚͘͝͠͠͝ͅ ̷̢͓̝̞̙̯͇͇͙̲̲̘͕̗̩̙͕̥͇̥̠͇̪̆̓̈́̌̀̄̉̄̈̊́͛͐̅̒͗̔͆̌̎̕͜͝k̷̡̼̟͎̭͓̤̜̤̯͇̹̹͗̓́n̶̨̞̱̮͕̱̼̝͍̙͍̣̭̏̐͗̏̿̈́͌̕ͅơ̸̧̧̢̢̛̘̼̤̖̯͔̯̹͎̞̺̱̰͉̺̱̺̪̪̱̟̜͍̞̔̍̋̾̽͆̋̋̽̊̎̓̑̔̿̀̐͂̍̒̉̓̎̿̏̚̕͘̕̚͜͠w̸̡̠̬̞̪̻̺͕̬͓̪̗̫̣̜̰͔̮̺̟̤̙͔̠̯͚̑̀͛̑̈́̐̌̎̒̋̑́̀̒̎̊̓͆͒͌̍̐̽̈́̔̈́̅̽̌̚̚͝͝͠ͅ ̸̢̛̛̹̘̰͎̰̥̺̰͚̳̠̙̫̱̹̮͕̰̩̪̫̬́̇̑͑̇̔̅͋̇̒͐́̆̌̓̐̃́̓͌̉͌̋͒̄͐̽̊̏̕͘͜͠ͅͅâ̴͚̬͍͙̮̘̆̓̔͒͘̕͘͠n̶̢̨̡̛̛̜̺͔̺͕̰̞̰͇̗͕͙̪̤̮̳͌͌̎̄̿͛̓̓͛̓̈́̃̆̀͆̆͋͊͒͒͒̐͐̚̚̕͠͝͠͝ͅy̴̫̙͌͛̇̀̑͗̽̇̆̎͂̀̾̈́̏̓̽̄͛̽̇̂̿̊̚͘̕͘ţ̴̡̤͕̭͈̳̮̣̭̩̟̅̏͛̈̋̊̈́͜͝h̶̡̙͖͔̪̥̥͍̳͔͉̺͖̰̞̭̪͕̖͇̺͔̤͍͈̋́̿̓͛̈́̽̋͜͜i̴̩͇͚̞͈͚͉͚̮̔͊͐̎̄̽̂̽͛̎͂̾̅ņ̴̨̱͍̘̩̣̼͓̼̜͉̥̠̩͉̯̓̈̆̈͋̊̔̊̆͘͘̕͜͜͠ǵ̴̛͇̥͔̞͎̪̗̘̣̝̲̟͍͚͉͔̋̀̊̌͋̈́͐̽̾̂́̓̈̄̽̓̓͋̕
̵͉͈̦̙̻̞̉̒̋̒̈́̒͒͌ͅÎ̴̢̡̧̢̼͕͍͉͉̭͕̲̩͎͉̮̥͉͓͓͇͓̖̲̌̊̊͒͌̂̅̾̓͗͂̋̇̀̀̚̚͜͠ ̵̡̅̋̌͂͛͗̊̔̈́̃͐͆̽̋͛̓̌́̈́̎̿̀̐̌͆̀͠͠d̴̢̢̝̩͔͈͑̃͋͒ͅò̴̡͖̟̜̩̼̗̻̳̱̲̼̭̪̞̖͂ņ̷̡̱͔̝̲̮̩̦̬̮̮̦͇͚̮̻̝̻͉̟̘̼͔̺̺̤̳͎̪́̂̾͛̽͌̆͜͠ͅţ̵̼̮͕̯͍͓̣͔̮̩͓̯͓̖͌̉̃̆̈́̆͗͌̍ͅ ̸̧͓̗͖̺̤̠̮̜̞̯̤̣̲̣̹̞͚̳̩͚̣̘̤̥̙̰̭̗͓͎̱͔̂̉͛̄̆̀̈́̒̓̈́̓̃̊̒̋̄͌̒̌̿͗̕ͅk̵̹͕̐̊̈̿̀̄̂̊͊͝͝n̴̨̡̛̟̝̜̻̹̱͖̊͆̄̈́̋̽͒͋̐̑͋̏͌͑͆͗͂̀̎͑̆̀͋̽̑̒̀̾̌̕͜͝ͅo̷̢̡̢̧͇̪̣̻̻̩͓͖̝̞̗̫̼͎̥̪̼̩̫̝̼̘͇̻̖̳͔̥͍̗̜̅̄ͅẉ̴̢̢̡͓̳̫̺͓̥̰̼͎̣̀̈́́̈̐͆̈͗͒̈́̈̄͆̋͊̕͜͜͜͝ ̵̨͉̰̹̗̰̦͔͕̼̬͖̣̪̟̞̬̃͋͐̿͑̏͊̌͐̎́̌͒͊͋͒̕͜w̶̨̡̢̡̢̗̲̥̯̥̙͓̳͖̰͓̬͕͙̲̫͕̥̼̳̲̟̥̹̤̱̹͓̞̍͋͛̅̔̂̆̄̒̚͜͠ͅh̵͎̖͌̽̄͋̇̍͐̍́̿̉̃̂̊̈́̃́̂̈́̿̈́͌̃͛͑͐̓͛͘̚̕͘͝o̴͎͉̭̦͉͈̣͔̓̿͗̈͆̂̿͐̃̿̊͌͑̎͊̈́́̎̓̐̑̉̐̏̇̀͘̕͜͝͝ ̵̹̗̥̱̟̹̺̝͉͖͕͉̜͈̮̱̗͍̺̰̗͔̟͎̥͇̭͙͔̹͔̰̮̅̇̐̒͑͐̑͑̏͑̅́͂͐̀̈́̎͋̐̿́̀̐̾̌̾́͠͠ͅt̵͓̦̼̞̬̹͔̮̣̰̻̪̳̾h̸̛͍͎͕̱̮̹̞͔̭̲̼͖̬̥̪̻̫̙͇͎̖͆̈̉͌́̓̈̈́̈́̓̓̈́͆̉̄̒͒̀̄̌̈́ͅa̸̢͉̥̯̜̹̗̙̞̣̱͎̬̬̽͠ţ̵̨̧̡̩͇̯͓̺̞̺̩̬̻̳̺̱̜̹̳͕̮̥̠̞̬̠̠͋̆̓̈́̀͘͜ ̷̢͖̰̮̬̺̖͕̲̃́̎̊̒̓̐͆̔͂̾̄̚̕͝ͅỉ̸̡̨̤͕͚̰̺̣̻̳͓̮̣̩̪̙̻̙͓̮̞̹̯̝̬͔͖͈̲̗̟̗̾͒͂̎͛̓̑̓̂̀̽̃̄̄̏̾̕̕̚͜͠͠͝ͅs̸̛̠̼̙̘͈͖͔̞̬̭̩̘͗
̴̢̜̮̤͖͉͖̙̠͖̝̣͕̖͇̅̏̿̿̂̉̈́̃̿̿̋̉͑̽́͋̈́̚̚̚͜͠͝Ḭ̶̛̣͇̰̝̗̝̯̤̥͖̝̗͍͎̟̩͚̤̹̳̩͐͛̈́̃͗̿͐̋̑̿͋͑̊̅̔̒̈́͆͆̈͌̈́̆̆̉̾̈́͑͑̾̐͜͜͝͝͝'̷̨̢̨̢̡̨̛̜͍̲̜̞̬͔̺͖̳̯͔̙͕̯̮̺̼̺̟̼̥̟̮͂͒̔̆̒͒͆̂̌̊̎͋͊̌́̂͂̄̊͂̇̈̕̚̚͝͠͝͝v̴͉̤̺̰̼̠̇̀͆̈͐̌̒̏̉́̇̑̈́̆̃̚͝ę̵̛͓̹̬̱̦͕̭͕̙̜͖̱̭͉̲̗͚̈́̋̊͋̇͗̅̒̿͋́͒̓̀̊̂̋͘͜͠ ̸̡̨̧̡̢̧͓͍̰̫̙͔̖̳̯̥̻̻̳̪͙̯̩̼̦̮̥̫̄̀̅̊͆̒̿͜ͅͅņ̸͚͍͇͔͈̟̮̮̙͖̼̥̝̰̫̗͕̺͕͎̳̘͛͌̄̀͑̒͐̌̓̐͑̃̽͑̏̂͂̉̍̂͗̒̽̒̒̇́̚͠͠͠͝͠ȩ̸̛̛͕̬̙̳͇͍̠͇̗̫̣̠̖̻̔̋̄̍̉͊̉̋̀̐͌̌̑͌̈́̌͛̏̈́̈́͌͑̅͒̈́̀̐͘͘̚ͅv̸̧̠̱̤̙̦̤̥̥̼̜̻̣̫͎̱͆͂̒̇͑̄̾̅͌́̾͐̆̃͂͑̋̀͠͝͝ë̸̡̘̺͔̩̫̳͈̘͙̦̤͍́̋̀̾̐̋͂̊̅̈͛̓̂͋̽͑̽̀̈́̔͛̓̓̈̀͑̎̚̕͝͝͠r̶̢̮͓̳̭̜̦̰̙͓̰̮̠̣͓̘̳̮͎̖̻͚̲̮̳͕̩͉͈̫̉̐͑̓̉́̐̿̈́͛̒̊̀͒́͌͒͘ͅ ̵̢̛̰̤͊̄͌̔̏̀̒͊͐͌̓̃̊̈́̏͜͜ͅb̸̤̩̞̳̠̐̋̐͌̍̏̀̆̏̽̿ę̸̢̗̤̣̗̜̜̼̦̱̭͎̯̲̜͉͍͉̳̙̦̥̝̻͚̻̝̙͕̪̎̅̂̋͊̒͑̒̈́̋̈͘͜͝ͅe̶̖̩͖̤̗̹̜̍̾̿̿̑͘ņ̷͙̗̘̼̣̤̿̅̔͗̽̂̈́̂̓̊̌͛̐̐̃͊͐͒̓̓͌̆͒̅̈́̆̚͝ ̴̢̡̨̛̛̣̙̰̹͔͓͕̪̮͙̤̦̠͈͈̥̦̌̌̃͋̾̌̔̆͒̈́̈̅̾́̔́͛̽̌̐́̐̐̚̚͠ͅi̷̢̡̛̳̙̗̫̜͖͇͈̹͈̘̱̞̻̭̞͎̦̋͆̔̔̃͐̑̀́̀̀̇̈́̄͋̅̿̔̐̕͘͜ǹ̵͇̤͚͈̮͓̲̠̼̻̣̑͑̈́͑͂̓̀̒̀͆͒̄̇͒̃̆̔͐͑͆͘͘̕̕̚͠͝ ̶̡̡̞̼̝̙̞̲̲̠̩̬͎̟̫̪͈̞̲̝̠̠̥̦̯͉̭̈́̀͑͛̒̈́̏͌͛́̿̎͝ͅĺ̷̢̧̨̛̤͉̺̭̲͔̫̩̝̰͖̪̞̱̗̬̺̤͇̣̬̦̹̱̐̅̔̀͛͋̃̂̀̽̂̃̑͐̋͌̅̃̔̔̂͛̑́̂̄͘͝ớ̷̢̡͚͈̝̪͖͓̹͚̪̥̤̮̥̩͓̦̲͉̼͖̺͓̻̣̭͇̳͖̗̬̐̀͂̏͂̊̈́̓͒̍̏̍̈̚͜ͅͅv̸̛̛̮̰̞̘̙͓̻̭͙̒͋̃̈́̾̈́̃̂̐͐͌͆̀̓͆̉͘e̸̡̧̛̤̺̖͍̱͙̫͚̟̭͔͇̲̤͔̅̏̃͂̉̈́̃̈́̄̑̒͊͊̽̔́̀̆̄̒̓͘͝͝ ̴̡̢̢̹͖̼͍̮̫̟̪̰̠̲͈̣͉̝̘͕͈̣̫͎̮̗͕͚̩͉̼̋̀͑̒̓̏͗͒̌̑͊́̐͗̚̕ͅw̵̨̙͔̹͎͗͊̋͜͝i̴͚͙͙̝͑̉̈́̄̆͐̋͊̀̑͐̈́̋̇̿̌̃̑̈̀̆͋̌͘͘͝͝͝͝͝͝͠t̴̨̛͙͚͍͔͇̭̙̲̑̎͜͝ͅḩ̸̨͙̰̻͇̖̪͔͎͈͙̮̹͖̱̭̹̩̳̖̠̙̗̜̗̮̰͕̈́̆̑͋͆̉̐̎̎̓̋̄̌̅̚͜ͅ ̴̛̖̦̗̪̰̌̓͛͂͜a̴̧̧̨̤͔̣͉̪̥͕̪̺̩̭̬͚̮̬̮͚͙̫͍̲͈̬̱̪̿̅̋͌́̋͑͒͋̋͌͊̓̍̕ͅn̴͙̠̲̪̮̭̅̑̍̃̄͒̿͑͌̈́̇̃͛̓̑̽͛͝͝y̴̢̢̧̗̣͎̪̦̩̠̣͚̥̙̰̮̬̳̟͙̩͚̞͖̦͉̼͙̲̮̆̊̈́͛̇̽̂̓̉̃̊͊́͊̎͂͒̈́̌̚̕̚̕͠͠͝ ̸̢̯͋̎͂̓̇̉̈́͛̾̌̑̾̑͐̿̐͑̅̇́̃̈́̄̕͘͠͝͠m̸̢̜̘̳̺̯͉͓͈͍̱͖͎̻̔̈́̈̂́̈́͋͛́̈̏̀̓̈́̈̓̆͗͋͑͌̇̌̌̀̈́̀̔͠ä̶̡̡̢̼̟̮̝͚̼̯̤̙͚̭̙̝̖̙̲͍̳̹̜͕̯́̎̈̌̄̑̍̐̄͂͆̐̇̄̄̊̈́́̓̒͌͗̀̍̿̕͠n̵̹͋͂̀͒̈́͑̇͑͌͛̇̃́͐̇̌̍͑̓̀̽̈́͘͘͠͠
̸̡̡̨̙̫̫̻̪̞̳͉̺̙̻̜͓̩̻̹͔͙̫͆́̾̍̐̑̂́̌̔̊͒̐̏̆͑̅͋̉̆̃͛͛͆̍̒̾̆̈́̕͝P̸̢̡̨̢̨̛̳̝͔̫͕̖̥̰͉̮̮̦͚̟̱̩̭̰̥̪͚̱͍̳̞̊͒̓́̽̍͊͛͋̎̉͐̐̊̈̏̚̚͜͝͝͝͝ͅl̶̨̥͙̭͕̠̫͐̊̈͂́̏̀͌̉̅̾̏̅̈͐̚̕̚͝͝ę̶̧̧͕͙̬̯͓͓͕͖̰̫̲̟̠͕̰̘͉̜̗̘̦͔͚͍͓̩͐̽̈́͒̊̀̊̀̋͗̆̿̀͊̈́͆̌̈́͆̆̆̊̋͛͗̆̓́̎̕͝͝͝â̶̢͉̇̑̾̎̌̂͋̾̚̚͠ś̵̡̧͓͙͙͍̱̼̲͓̪̞̘̪̟̯̙̞̦̯̥̲̝̗̱̼͍̲̺̞̞͕͔̐͆̃̂͌̂̈́̂̅̾̌̓̍̈̐̽̀̔̈́̒͌̀̍̀́̂̕͝͠͝͠͝ͅê̷̥̼̬̱͎͍̪̦͚͍͍͔͉̻̦̩̝̭͛͒̌̃̿̋̋͝ͅ ̵̢̜̹̰̙̱̪͇̟̱̦̥̗͖͎̙̓͑͗̓̊̓̄͐̓͆̍́̋͐̕͘͜l̵̨̧̝̩͙̺̲̹͚͉̰̺̰̟̬̪͉̙̻̱̜̹̟̹͕̼̓̃̀́̈́̽̍̀̕͝͠͝ę̶̨̢̥͚̤͈͚̱̝̟̠̜̫͖̣̩͎̬͖̲̰̩̮̇̑̊͋̐͜t̸̢͙̠̞͇͕̝̪̻̰̜͖̤̭̘͉̺̮̜̟̃͛͒̒̇̏̈́͌̑̍̾́̃͋̅͗̒̃́́̏͂̑̇̔̓̍̃́̚̕͘͘͝͠ͅ ̴̨̡̳̪̜͖͕̺̘̤̣͔̾̇m̸̛̛̮̩̘͚̝̜͉̹͇͚̱̼͇̹͖͇͍͇͖̲͎͈̹̝̜̞͙̠͆̔͛̍̈́̍̾̏͌͌̀̄̿́̀̀͒̂̂̾͌͘͘̕͠͝͝͝ȩ̸̙͎̭̦͛̾̌̓̓̑̽́̋ ̴̨̨̨̢̧̜͎͓͈̱̼̹̭̪̝̭̲͙̳͍͍̝̲̦̞̼̬̰͎̖̞̳̎̆͒̈́͌̏̈́̂́͆́̾̈̕͜͝ͅg̴̨͔̞̳̟̰̩͙̳̗̞͚̳͔̬͔͔̯̪̳̼̊̀͒̏̎͂̃̐̅͊͜ͅo̴̡̹̲̩̫̹̗͔̭̗͔̬̜̻͕̞͕̪̖̪̥̞̰̣͑̒̈́̏̑͐͌͌̾̋͛͆̈́̀͜͠
̵̱̬̝̳͇̄̍͊̾́̊W̸̨̮͉͉̠͙̤͉͚̘̬͚̬̖̊͊̿̾̆̈h̷̡̡̛͖̻͔̠̰̝̱̝̫͇̾̈́̇̌̊̐́̿̓̽͆̂̀̐̀̃͋͂́̅̆̍̀̄̈́̿̂̔̓̕̕͠͠͝y̵̧͍͈͗͋͐͂̃̔̽̌̌̌̈́̕̚͘̕͝͠͠ͅ ̴͈̞̮̟̻̙͉͖̮̺̘̬͍̺̯̬̻̮̩̻̝̟̺̲̜͈̈́̾̈̓͒̀͑̏̋̚ͅą̵̢͓͎͓͍̟̦̠̬̤̒͊́̾́̌͌̊̈́̎͗̓̿̋͒̄̆̊̈́̈͆̋̏̑̿͘̕͜͠r̷̨̧̧̬̼̫̰̞̰̰͈̪̖̟͓̯̗̼̼̦̩̭͈̭̲̦̠̪̠̪͖̳̖͋̓͐͐̎̓̅̉́́̌̀̎̿̀̓̀̾́͜͠͠ͅͅe̸̢̧̫̰̩̪͙̪̙͒͝ ̸̡̢͖͇̝̼̻͙̙͇̳̼̹̫̤̳̜̪́̈́͊͋͆̀̾͐͠ͅy̶̡̛̜͍̩̺̝͛̈́̅͒̌́́͌̎͛̆̏͐̽̆̓̀͐͑͜ơ̶̢̧̧͇̞͍̤̳͕̼͇͖͚̞̭͎̗̗̤͍̰̠͙͌̇̈́̔͊̃͒̍̌͌̽͛̈́̆̈́͘̚͘͜͝ų̴̧̥̭̝̥͇̮̥͔̦̩̫̺͇̩͔̰͍̺̯̗̔̂̀̎͐̉̒̃̉̐͆̒̾̽͒͌͒͒̓͠ ̶̡̧̢͉̰̰͚̻͍̳͍̟̣̫̗͎̻̗͔̣͉͐́̈́̎͂͊͊̄̇̂̐̈̒̋̽͒̿͋̒͊̏͑̋́͂̃̃͘͘͜͝͝d̸̛̛̰̾̾̿̀̋́̒̂̎̈͊́͑̏̇̿̃̽̿̎̀̉̽͘̚̚o̷̢̺̬̜̬̼̬̘̮̼̫̺̻̯̼̘͛̋̓̂̓̆́̏̇͋̔̈́͗͑̉̿̀̓͑̍̀̎̀̃͊͌̓̕̚̚͜͝͝͝į̶̨̨̛̛͍̮̘̝̼͖̱̩̗̗͍͕̩͙͇̺̤͔̙̊͑̄̔̂̄̔̿͋̓̉͗͆̾̄̀̈́̑͐́̃̔̓̋̕͘͘͝͝͝͠ͅṅ̵̡̨̹̰͇̝̳̯̰͚̰̣͔̥̗̣̣͈͓̗̟̭͓̣͍̳͕͕͚̂̌̎̈́͛̿̄͊̋̀̚͜ğ̵̨̥̞̹̯̳̠͎̙̞̒̒͗̎̍́̇̓ ̷̢̖̼͕͙̤̲̞̰̮͇̞͔̞̼̞̗̝̥̠̞̱͙̣̪͔̦͗̄͑͆̊̀̂̈́̐̾̂̾͗̅̀̀͑͋̀͒̎̏̑̚̚̕̕̕͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅt̶̢̡͖͓̙̗͙̟̤͕͚̣̹̼͙̩̺͍̻̱̯̣͔̣̮̤̱̫̟̟̟̪̠̟̩͔̀̌̔̔͆̓̊̌̐̎̿̐̊̑̾̉̌̚ḫ̴̡̢̛̤͖̟̥̼̥͇̺̥̯̰̟͖̘͚͈̹̺̘̮̗̘̬͚͂̇́̉̀͆͒̾̓̓͆̃̑̉̈̒̏̏͆̓̋̾̆͊̈̕̚͝͠͠ͅì̴̢̮̦͇̦̬͙̭̯͈̯̮͍̤̥̪͕͇͙͆̉́͋̈̓̉͑̊̀̃̑͑̽̆́̀̃̋̿̆̍͊́̒́͆͊̌̐͛͝͝s̶̡̢̰͔͚͍̟̻͍̮̹̥͉͈̝̻͠ ̵̖̗̖͓̪̃̓̽͜͜͝ţ̸̢͓̳̙̙̖̤͚̫̱̫͚̘̖͓̹̜̱̯͓̮̰͉̬̲̎̊͂́̾̓̓͑̍̽͆̍̕͜͜͝o̸̢̨̧̧̬̣̼̫̹͉̰̺͇͕̱͔̪̮̜̜͉̻͕͉̝͑̀̏͜ͅ ̵̨̧̨̨̛̥̝͚͉̖̟͈̗͖̹͍̥͍͉͇̰͉͚̲͍̬͔̝̠͉̈́̈́͑̑͊̐̾̄͐̋͛͗͋̒̓́̐́́̉͘͘͘͝͝ͅͅm̴̡̲̮̱̩̺̠͚̱̲͙̠͉̝̗͉̺̤͚̞̳͉̺̤͖̲͙͙̣͓̼͆͐̃̉̚͜ͅę̸̡̛̼͎̫̹͎̥̫̟̭͇͈̟̭͔̅̾̑͛̋͆̈́̓̋̏̅́̌̒̊̂̂̏̈́͊͆̀͋̉̈́̓̌̏̚̚͠͠͝͠
̷̟̗̗̠͕̰̙̮̘̣͈̩̹͎͇͉̠͈̮̲̳̘̀͋̌́̌̀̀͘͜͜ͅͅP̸̢̧̧̧̝̫̟̺̝̗̞̭̲̬̭̜̝̝̞̳̱̼̫̳̗̻̩̯̳̞̣̿͒̍̽́̎͌̔̂̒́͠͝ͅͅl̴̢̛͍̘͎͇̝̠̝̰̙͚̟͎̲̱̙͇̋̇͛́͛̾̎̾́̓̂̽̍͛̌̇͑̇̎̆̎̈̒̈́͜͜ͅé̵̪̫͉̟̗̲͕͕̩̺̥͍̖̘̝͚̜͎̟̬͍͕̜̲̽̀̊̋̎̾̕͜͝͠ą̴̨̱̣̱͙͉̝͔͇̫̬̩̐̀͂͋̿͛͘͜͜͝s̶̨̢̜̳̯̙̼̫̪̦͕̻̤̪̹̺̝̤̥̱̞̱͔͝ͅͅȩ̶̛͓̟̠̝̻̥̟̪̝̺̣̜͔̼̥͚͈̹̬̻͕̗͈͚͆̋͌͑͗̓̃̈́͑̈͛́̂̀͜͝ͅ ̸̨̦͓̬͖̝̰͙̺͇̞̝̹͉̖͙̫͓̻̅͐̇̆͐̇̌̌͌̓͆̊́̕ͅI̵̢̢̧̤̥͎̼̩͇̹̹̩̲̬̖͑͒̈̈͆̆͜͝ ̶̛͉̦̙͉͇̼̭̬͍̞͚̣͉̼̼̳̲͕̲̖̯̗̊̊̿́͗͗͒̃̎̓͒͋͋͌̈́̈͛͂̿̓͆͂̚͘͝͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅẉ̸̨̨̢̧̡̟͙̗͙̯̗̮̪͓͎̰̺̳͔͓͕͍̲̲̻͉̅̏a̴̡̢̨̨̮̫̦̝͉̣̙͈͇̼̭̥͇̭͇͓̟̥͇͍̦̖̗̗̟̻̭̼͒̀̐̈́͊̓̀̿ͅͅn̸̢̢̛͉̝̱̤̟̝͈͎̭͙̮͎͇̤̠̪̩̘̻͕̩͔̱̭̩͚̪͖͈̯͛̈̾̒̈́̇̃̃̀̈̋̑̈̍̈͌̾̏͑̀̕͘̕͘͜t̶̡̘͕̰̫̘̥̟̥̹͍̪̫͈̥̏ ̵̡̧̛͇͖͚͖̰̩͙̫̫̣͐̈̀̏̂́̿͊͛̐̈̽͊͂̌̈́̓͂̓̋̈͌̽͑͐̚̕̕͜͜͝ţ̶̛͖̙͓̲̜̜̹̻̮̰͇̣̘͇̘̪̜̖̝̗̣͈͓͎̬̟̰͖̥̼͕̗̹̂̽̐̈̊͐̆͋̽̒̇̉̈́̽̓̏̿̾͒͜͜ờ̸̧̧̭̣̱̹̹̦̻̦̰̮̯͖̪̺̮̖̬̦͔̜̟̫̱̺̲́̀́͂̌̃̏̈͐͘͠ ̷̦̱̤̹̬͇͔͉̘̱͍̣̗̹͔͍͙̘̙̭̠͔̝́͊̋͆̒̒̃̾͑̈́̋͝ğ̴̢̢̧̨̛̭̗̪͕̬̞̝̲͍̗͎͉̯̹̳͙̬͙̼̩̙̯͈͈̫̱͓̪̺͑͋̓̈́̆͑̈́̀͜͝ͅọ̵̡͕̣̭̬͙̗̖̭̼͚̙͇̭̥̝̺͈̹̩̝͚͇̜͈̞̒̋͒̄̓̓̍̊͌̃͠ͅͅ ̷̡̗̯͇͕̳̲̣̤̘͈͇̘͎͉͔͈̺͎͍̯͙̩̱̙͇̿̀̈́̏̈́̉͑̏̀͜͠͠ḩ̶̢̡̨̢̧̢̛͇̟͔̺̞̦͎̦̝͓̟̗̗̔̋̈̆̅̊̽́̿͒͂̓̏̕͝o̸̡̧̨̡̧̱̝̫̬̦͈̼̤̫̠̤͍̮̞̖͖̣̦͇̠̩̫̘̖͉̘̥̮̓̍͛͊̓̐͛͜͜m̴̡̧̫̝̫͍̖͔̺͖̩͕̱̉̒͋͐̀̈̚͜͝e̵͉͆̊̍̀͆͑̌̕̕͝
̷͇̝̮̤̙͓̠͉̲͖͓̖̗̪̙͈̪̰̟̎͊͜͜͜Î̵̥̰͕͈̉̓̑̔͂̈͜͠'̶̡̛̛̑̓̂̎̆̈͑̉͌͊̓͋͑̀̒͛̊͂̂̐̐̈́̎̔͌̐̄͘̚͝m̸̡̡̻̠̯͎̲͓͔̣̞̜͇̖̦̰̊͌͋́͆̓̓̊̈͆͘ ̴̨͕̪̩̘̺̗̖͚̝̘͚̣̾͛̎́̾̏͒͆b̶̧̺̜̰̟̣͇̬̼̺̲̋̈̔̃̊̽ȅ̷̢̧̡̧̛͔̫̥̠̩̫̬̱͚̫̬̝̳̠͓̞̣͕͇̙̲̖̗̹͔̦̽͒͑́͗̀̉͑̃̒̉͒͊̀̋̌̈́̈́̈́̀̓̂̆͆̍̑̀̿̚͘͜͜͜͠ĝ̸̰͈̳̭͎̱̗̭̱̫͈̼̫͖͎̜͉̃̑͋̽̋͒̋́͑̀̿̊̾̾̈̀̃͜ǧ̶̡̨̨̡͎̦̺̳̳̰͚̟͚̬̺̞̲̫̝̰͇̼͙̲͇̘̮̙̫͊̃̓̑̓̾͑͆͐̊̊̎͗̓͐̃̉́͂͒́̚̕͜͝ͅi̶̡̛̬̗̗̱̘̪̻͈̱̹̥͈̎͋̋̅͋̅̎̉̔̅̈́̀̏͑̽̏̋̈́̾̎̉̌̽̅͆̓̈́̐͘͘͘͠ņ̵̛̛͙͙͚̪̞̘͔̼̖̹͉͈͍̦̗͙̳͔͓͍̝̱̬̙̝̞̹͂͗͂́͒́̄̓̋̐̒̔̂̔̅̐̄̽́͊͊̃̏͂͐͘̕̚̕ͅg̴̡̛͎̪͔̗̳̩̲̟̜͖̮̳͙̦͙̠̥̘̔̊̄̌̈̔̍̓́̆̄̍̈̆̅̈́͜͝ͅ ̶̭̯̗͇̲̙̈́̾̽̅̃̈́̿̉͌̏̌̉͛͑̾̇̀͑̓̀̒͗̏͒̈͊͂̌͊̂͐͘͝͠ỵ̷̡͔͉̞̘̤͉͔͍̊̽̊̒̋̆̾̑̀̂̾̓͒͛̒͑̀̑̔͛̈́̀̑̓̀̂̌̔̐͌̕͠͝ǫ̴̢̨̡̹̩͍̝̻̹̳̖͇̭̖͚̖͉̩͚̟̥͍̼̺̘̣̻̯͛͂̈́̉̏͛̀͜͝͠ͅͅǘ̴̡̧̫̻͇̫̦͕͉͇͎͈̥̣̩͔̝͎͖͉͓̫̱̫͔͕̭̰̝̞͉̜͎̆̇̓͐̂̄̿͋̄́̃͐̑͒̓̿͑̀̈̄̎̏̅̆̌͐̊͝ͅ ̶̡͙̭͈̤̹̬̩͖͈͚̙̖̦̼͈̣̯̝̼̺͙̬͈͙̗̗͍̼̭̣̭͔͆̂͋́̏̈̈́̋̈̕͜ͅͅ
̶̡̢̥͕̻͚̲̳̱͚͍̬͎̓̏̅̏̑̅̾͊̚̕ş̵̛̝͓͈̞̤̫͚̬̰̫̐͊͌̉̌̄̒͒̾̐̄͌̓͗̔̒̆̑͒͂̅͆́͌̋̔̒́͐͝c̸̡̧̨̡̨̼̲̠̰̠͖̪̹̘̳͇̭͓̰͕͍̈́̈́͋̈͊͌͜͝r̶̛͇̳̹͍̈̏͐͊̓̓́͊̆̐̀͒̌̊̊̔̉̽́͂̎̈́́̃̌͘̕͘͘̚͝͝͝ę̸̡̨̥͕̭̻͍̠̦̭͍͉̍̐͊͋͆̌̀̎́̈́̎̉̈́̅̈́̓̍̕͘ͅa̵̛̙̼̱̅͊͗̽̊̓̾̊̿͐͌̿m̸̡̧̡̟͍͓̲̫͔̤͚̝̥̪̪̹͎̰̟͍̮̣͚̯͉̺̣͎̲̗̳̝̠̲̔̃̄̐̌͌͂̊̈́̑̔͐͌̓͆̔̋̕ͅi̶̢̛̝̦̫͔͂̇̃̀̔͊̄͑̐͐͛̓͛̇̆̎̂̾̄̊̇̓͐̽͒̽͐̄̚̕̚n̴̡̛͚̠̺̹̮̭͖̭͇͓̏̉͋̈́̆̆̄͛̎̋̓̂̉̆̈́̇̆̆̚͠͝͝g̶̡͉̞̱̖̤͖̹̓̎͋̽̎̈̍͋̈̔̎̾͊͒̿̏̇̎͆̇̕ ̴̢̧̢̡̡̤̟̯̮̙̮̳̹̟̼̫̫͉̻̮̠̺̱̲͎͈̠̼̻̟͖̭̹̉̈̀͋̑͊̍̎͐̍͐̾͛̂̈́͛̓̂͝͝͝c̸̡̫̳̪͔͓̦̳̜̘͕̜̦̲̗̺̋͛̽́̒̆̈́̽̅̽͛̊͛͐̃̏̾̿̑͑̄̉̀̍̒͊̆̍̂̊̏͘̚̕̚ͅr̴̡̡̧̨̡̫̩̮͙̜͕͍͙͙̫̭̮̖̺̣͍̆̈́͗́̇͜ŷ̶̦͖̤̌͜ĭ̷̡̗̜͖̖̱̪̃̀̊̃͂̃̔̔́̅͌͆̉̈́̓̆͋́͑͋̈́͝n̴̨̼͓͎̻̻̞̭̪̤̽̐̈́́̒̉̒̈́́̿͒̕͘͠ͅͅg̸̢̨̲̭͙͇͇̬̘̭̞͕̩̳̬͙̗̲̰͔͕̫̙̳̜̺̘̓̐͛͊̈͆̃́̑̊̏̈́͆͐̉͊̍͊̓̏̈́̌̇͊͋̽̀͑̃̆̚͘͜͝ ̸͔̙̄́͂̇͗̂̔̔̀̅p̴̡͇̖̈͊͒̓̔̉̇̓̌̌̔͑̈́́̃͋͋̚ļ̵͖̱͈͓̱͈̫̯̗̯͉̖̯̜̞̰͍̀͜e̵̡̛̯͖̝̳̼͔͚̳̗̭̯͉̳̬̭̫͉̠͉̜̞̺̜̹̝̼̙͎̿̉̇͒̈́̓̍̃̽͐͒̉̄̑́̽͆̑̄̔̏͒̈́̏͑͐́̂́̀͋̄͌̕ͅã̴̧̡̰͓̳̻̖͖̻͈̦̱̙̳͉̯̺͚̯͔͔̟̖͉̣̈́̊̄̚͘͝d̷͇͕̱̝̭̠̯̱̩͚̙͚̺̗͉̮̺̱̪͍̈́̈̎̅͜i̸̛͉̖̬̱̳̤̮͉̘̻̤͔͈͉͖̻̪͉̤͙͓̼̮̇̓̈́̓͑͌͐̂͊̽̀͌́͆̒͛͑̏͛̐̈͆͂͌͑͒͗̕̚̚͜͝͝ņ̴̦͔̮͇̞͉̦͚̙͓̺̻̘̖͌̐͂̀̓̎̋̀̀̔̽̎̈̃̀́̋̀̔̇͊́͛̕̕͜ͅg̵̲̭͉̳̙̫̰̻̖̟͖̺͎̰͚͖͖̪̼͔̒̉̂͜
She couldn’t tell how long it had been. She had no control over her body. She screamed when she was commanded to scream.
The demonic red haired creature presiding over Clare’s torture had shouted questions Clare couldn’t answer, accused her of stealing some faerie male’s heart.
Despite how much Clare denied and tried to prove the contrary, the torture increased, as if Clare was lying and sinning and this would be her punishment for eternity.
The purple eyed monster who had kidnapped her had wrapped his dark shadowy tendrils into and around her mind.
He kept whispering in her head that he was helping her, that he had no choice, but he still made Clare watch as her family and Mrs. Brinkle were tortured and murdered in front of her. Her brother was just a child, and now she would never chide him for leaving his toys out where she accidentally stepped on them again, his laugh as he thought he pranked her or yanked on her skirts and ran away. Her mother would never take her steady hands and guide Clare through complicated stitches, the two of them would never create another embroidered masterpiece together ever again.
Clare could only stare down in horror as her fingers were broken in front of her forcibly held open eyes, she could only feel the mental anguish as the physical sensations of her body were out of reach.
Scream now . He commanded. The demon fae wanted to see her in pain.
No horror they inflicted upon her they did was ever enough for the monster.
An audience stood around and watched as Clare was systematically broken apart. Obscenely dressed perversions of humanity stared at her soulessly, none of their incorrectly proportioned limbs or twisted figures extended any help to her. They moved around the dark cave she was trapped in like they were at a party, all dressed for different sick perverted themes.
The purple eyed fae kept a constant controlling presence in Clare’s mind. And even as she pleaded, that if he was helping her then why couldn’t he get her out, he insisted that he was doing everything he could for Clare’s benefit.
That being unable to speak, only shriek as the terror of the endless night that was now Clare’s life gave her just enough control over her body to scream.
She longed for Nesta and wished that Nesta would never have to step foot near these monsters to save her as the demon dragged her clawed many eyed hand over some golden masked fae’s face taunting that even his love wouldn’t save her anymore, but that she could be shown some mercy if she admitted to infringing on the demon’s claim to him.
.̵̨̡̝̞̦̭̮̮̲͍͖̪̦͈̺̳̗̘͓̮͓̐̈́͌̿̈́̾̈̎̃̏̌̉̈́͜͝.̴̢̡͈̯͚̮̗͇̥̣̝̰̦͆̋̄́͌͠͝͝.̶̡̨̢̛͈̮̫͖̙̹̯͎̼̮̤̣̎̔̾̈̾̓̓̓͌́̋́̋̎́̀̈́̾̔̉̏̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͠.̵̧̧̛͖͈͕͖̤̞̦͍͚̆̓̀́̍̈́͆̓͊̌͐͋̒͑͋͛̔͆͑̕͜͠.̷̡̧̢̧̞̞̻̮̞̤͖̺̥̠̙̘̭̖̝͖͕̜̳̟̰̹̳̮͇͌̇̇̓̋͌́̔̓̈́͛̀̋́̈̌̐̿̈̽͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ.̸̡̨̨̧̬̭̝̟̫̠̙͉̖̦̺͚̣͖̫̼̥̱̘̟͓͎͔̰̜̫̌̀̍͂́̚͜͜͜ͅ.̶̧̧̣̲̰̟͖̻̙̬̻̣̯͔̱̝͇̮̩̬̙̤̗͔̙͕͔̀̓͒̏̎̈́̍̓̍̌͌̅͘͘ͅ.̵̧̢̢̛͕͎̠̦̞͔̟͍͖̠̞̫̭̖̲͓̲̭̘̱̣͙͖̟̝͎̻̹̰̈́́̿̋̇́̅̀̈̐͒͛͌̾̈́̀̂̿́̿̓̔͘̚ͅͅ.̵̨̢̧͔̳̬̬̤͕͓̬̟̠̞͚̯̠̦̼̞͉͎̭̪͉͕̺͖̗̤̦̆̃͊̍͐̾́̊̿̑̍̉̓̉̀̿́̍̕͜͜ͅͅ.̵̨̧̧̛̣̮̞͓̝͇̰̰͔̥̦̤͙͙̤̩̭͓̰̝͈͌̿̀̈́̈́̓́̿̌̌̆́́̈́̍͐̏̓̍̇̀̚͝.̵̰̘̋̒̉̇̔̈̽̽.̶̨̡̛̥̠͈̬̞͓̬̦͉͈̪̜́̆̏̂̍͋̏̓̆͗͊̒̐͊̏̍̈́̐͆͘͜͠͠͝.̸̢̨̢̛͎̠̹̹̤̭̝̘̦͕̯͈͉̜̩̞͉̩̻̹̣̬̩͖̣̱͕̫̗̀͛̊̋̀͒̋̕̚͝͠ͅ.̵̧̛̗̳̠̙̯̳̭̯͎̞̼̠̬̘̎͊̅͌̉͒́̏͂̈́̊̄̓̓̽̈́̑̉́͒̈́̄͑͊̈̾́̈̉͘͝͠͝͠ͅͅ
Clare had no idea how long it had been.
Her answers were never enough. Never enough to make it stop.
She wished this was over.
She wanted to go home.
The demon wanted answers to something Clare didn’t know.
It was the purple eyed monster’s turn to torture Clare again.
As if he wasn’t constantly doing so already.
Her limbs were twisted beyond recognition.
Her chest was caved in and even without the sensation of her body, she knew that she was struggling to breathe.
Burns and whip marks decorated her skin.
And yet she could not feel it, watching as a bystander with no way to help herself. Nothing remained of her dress. Of Nesta’s dress. Of the happiest night of Clare’s life. Only the worst endless night remained.
The demon wanted answers.
The purple eyed monster stood in front of her. Everything he said to the demon differed from the lies he placed in her mind.
Scream. Scream now.
This is to help you.
I’m sorry, I have to.
He didn’t have to. He could free her.
He didn’t free her.
The demon asked a question about who she loved.
Nesta’s face flashed into her mind’s eye.
Of how she would read to her while Clare stitched by her side. Of their childhood. Of their love. Of their future that Clare would never see.
She loved Nesta’s strong will, her determination, and generous but hard won care. She loved how Nesta would trace her fingers down Clare’s face and brush away stray strands of hair that had escaped Clare’s braid so gently, the movement Clare had only ever seen Nesta duplicate along the spines of delicate books on the brink of falling apart but that Nesta showed love to regardless. She loved each deliberate step Nesta could make across a dance floor. Each movement so precise, made to look effortless but only could be made with subtle strength and unwavering faith as a single misstep could result in grievous injury.
She loved Nesta’s eyes and wit, the way those clever beautiful eyes looked at her, that somehow they decided to look at her and only her in that way, with that much love and desire.
Fire took over Clare’s body.
What did she want?
It was asking her.
She wanted Nesta.
She wanted their home on the continent. The dress shop and company they would have together. Walking hand in hand as they mailed money and letters back to Clare’s family. Who would come to visit soon to see how successful their shared shop was away from the village.
A flicker of purple crossed her vision as the question was asked again.
What did she want?
She dreamed of Nesta. She dreamed of fighting the shadows. Jumping over the branches as kids again. She wanted to be back in Nesta’s arms.
As she pictured Nesta’s form wrapping her up in her embrace, laying together on the chaise lounge as the sun cast beautiful beams across the room, Nesta reading to her, pressing kisses to her forehead between paragraphs.
She wanted to be back in those arms.
What did she want?
Who did she love?
Scream, the purple eyes whispered.
.̵̨̡̝̞̦̭̮̮̲͍͖̪̦͈̺̳̗̘͓̮͓̐̈́͌̿̈́̾̈̎̃̏̌̉̈́͜͝.̴̢̡͈̯͚̮̗͇̥̣̝̰̦͆̋̄́͌͠͝͝.̶̡̨̢̛͈̮̫͖̙̹̯͎̼̮̤̣̎̔̾̈̾̓̓̓͌́̋́̋̎́̀̈́̾̔̉̏̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͠.̵̧̧̛͖͈͕͖̤̞̦͍͚̆̓̀́̍̈́͆̓͊̌͐͋̒͑͋͛̔͆͑̕͜͠.̷̡̧̢̧̞̞̻̮̞̤͖̺̥̠̙̘̭̖̝͖͕̜̳̟̰̹̳̮͇͌̇̇̓̋͌́̔̓̈́͛̀̋́̈̌̐̿̈̽͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ.̸̡̨̨̧̬̭̝̟̫̠̙͉̖̦̺͚̣͖̫̼̥̱̘̟͓͎͔̰̜̫̌̀̍͂́̚͜͜͜ͅ.̶̧̧̣̲̰̟͖̻̙̬̻̣̯͔̱̝͇̮̩̬̙̤̗͔̙͕͔̀̓͒̏̎̈́̍̓̍̌͌̅͘͘ͅ.̵̧̢̢̛͕͎̠̦̞͔̟͍͖̠̞̫̭̖̲͓̲̭̘̱̣͙͖̟̝͎̻̹̰̈́́̿̋̇́̅̀̈̐͒͛͌̾̈́̀̂̿́̿̓̔͘̚ͅͅ.̵̨̢̧͔̳̬̬̤͕͓̬̟̠̞͚̯̠̦̼̞͉͎̭̪͉͕̺͖̗̤̦̆̃͊̍͐̾́̊̿̑̍̉̓̉̀̿́̍̕͜͜ͅͅ.̵̨̧̧̛̣̮̞͓̝͇̰̰͔̥̦̤͙͙̤̩̭͓̰̝͈͌̿̀̈́̈́̓́̿̌̌̆́́̈́̍͐̏̓̍̇̀̚͝.̵̰̘̋̒̉̇̔̈̽̽.̶̨̡̛̥̠͈̬̞͓̬̦͉͈̪̜́̆̏̂̍͋̏̓̆͗͊̒̐͊̏̍̈́̐͆͘͜͠͠͝.̸̢̨̢̛͎̠̹̹̤̭̝̘̦͕̯͈͉̜̩̞͉̩̻̹̣̬̩͖̣̱͕̫̗̀͛̊̋̀͒̋̕̚͝͠ͅ.̵̧̛̗̳̠̙̯̳̭̯͎̞̼̠̬̘̎͊̅͌̉͒́̏͂̈́̊̄̓̓̽̈́̑̉́͒̈́̄͑͊̈̾́̈̉͘͝͠͝͠ͅͅ
She stood by the chaise lounge in the Archeron home.
Elain had just pushed her into the room, leaving her alone to stand awaiting Nesta’s royal command as the maiden in the tower once more. Beckoning Clare to her side, Nesta pulled Clare into her arms, she pulled Clare home.
The sun burned.
Shadows rushed into the room, blanketing the two girls as they held each other.
She screamed, “I want to go hḣ̵̙̳̝̠̐͊̒̒̔̓͋̓͋̈͑̚͝͝͠ȯ̸̡̖̜̖̩̫͓̼͇͖̞̘̠̤͎̗̱̹͚̜̞̓̍̎̂̉̉͛̂͐̔͂̇̌͐͑̇̀̉͘m̴̡̨̛̫̳͎̭̬͉͖̈́̈͊́̈̐̽̍͊̌͐̓̈́̉̏̌̓͋̄̕̕͠e̵̞̬̠̺̫̜͈͍̯̞̟͕̠̹̮̻̫͚̬͇͑̐́̐͒̀̋̽̀̑͌͒͒̀̊͆̾̄͗̈́͆̀͗̿͂͝͠”
.̵̨̡̝̞̦̭̮̮̲͍͖̪̦͈̺̳̗̘͓̮͓̐̈́͌̿̈́̾̈̎̃̏̌̉̈́͜͝.̴̢̡͈̯͚̮̗͇̥̣̝̰̦͆̋̄́͌͠͝͝.̶̡̨̢̛͈̮̫͖̙̹̯͎̼̮̤̣̎̔̾̈̾̓̓̓͌́̋́̋̎́̀̈́̾̔̉̏̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͠.̵̧̧̛͖͈͕͖̤̞̦͍͚̆̓̀́̍̈́͆̓͊̌͐͋̒͑͋͛̔͆͑̕͜͠.̷̡̧̢̧̞̞̻̮̞̤͖̺̥̠̙̘̭̖̝͖͕̜̳̟̰̹̳̮͇͌̇̇̓̋͌́̔̓̈́͛̀̋́̈̌̐̿̈̽͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ.̸̡̨̨̧̬̭̝̟̫̠̙͉̖̦̺͚̣͖̫̼̥̱̘̟͓͎͔̰̜̫̌̀̍͂́̚͜͜͜ͅ.̶̧̧̣̲̰̟͖̻̙̬̻̣̯͔̱̝͇̮̩̬̙̤̗͔̙͕͔̀̓͒̏̎̈́̍̓̍̌͌̅͘͘ͅ.̵̧̢̢̛͕͎̠̦̞͔̟͍͖̠̞̫̭̖̲͓̲̭̘̱̣͙͖̟̝͎̻̹̰̈́́̿̋̇́̅̀̈̐͒͛͌̾̈́̀̂̿́̿̓̔͘̚ͅͅ.̵̨̢̧͔̳̬̬̤͕͓̬̟̠̞͚̯̠̦̼̞͉͎̭̪͉͕̺͖̗̤̦̆̃͊̍͐̾́̊̿̑̍̉̓̉̀̿́̍̕͜͜ͅͅ.̵̨̧̧̛̣̮̞͓̝͇̰̰͔̥̦̤͙͙̤̩̭͓̰̝͈͌̿̀̈́̈́̓́̿̌̌̆́́̈́̍͐̏̓̍̇̀̚͝.̵̰̘̋̒̉̇̔̈̽̽.̶̨̡̛̥̠͈̬̞͓̬̦͉͈̪̜́̆̏̂̍͋̏̓̆͗͊̒̐͊̏̍̈́̐͆͘͜͠͠͝.̸̢̨̢̛͎̠̹̹̤̭̝̘̦͕̯͈͉̜̩̞͉̩̻̹̣̬̩͖̣̱͕̫̗̀͛̊̋̀͒̋̕̚͝͠ͅ.̵̧̛̗̳̠̙̯̳̭̯͎̞̼̠̬̘̎͊̅͌̉͒́̏͂̈́̊̄̓̓̽̈́̑̉́͒̈́̄͑͊̈̾́̈̉͘͝͠͝͠ͅͅ.̵̨̡̝̞̦̭̮̮̲͍͖̪̦͈̺̳̗̘͓̮͓̐̈́͌̿̈́̾̈̎̃̏̌̉̈́͜͝.̴̢̡͈̯͚̮̗͇̥̣̝̰̦͆̋̄́͌͠͝͝.̶̡̨̢̛͈̮̫͖̙̹̯͎̼̮̤̣̎̔̾̈̾̓̓̓͌́̋́̋̎́̀̈́̾̔̉̏̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͠.̵̧̧̛͖͈͕͖̤̞̦͍͚̆̓̀́̍̈́͆̓͊̌͐͋̒͑͋͛̔͆͑̕͜͠.̷̡̧̢̧̞̞̻̮̞̤͖̺̥̠̙̘̭̖̝͖͕̜̳̟̰̹̳̮͇͌̇̇̓̋͌́̔̓̈́͛̀̋́̈̌̐̿̈̽͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ.̸̡̨̨̧̬̭̝̟̫̠̙͉̖̦̺͚̣͖̫̼̥̱̘̟͓͎͔̰̜̫̌̀̍͂́̚͜͜͜ͅ.̶̧̧̣̲̰̟͖̻̙̬̻̣̯͔̱̝͇̮̩̬̙̤̗͔̙͕͔̀̓͒̏̎̈́̍̓̍̌͌̅͘͘ͅ.̵̧̢̢̛͕͎̠̦̞͔̟͍͖̠̞̫̭̖̲͓̲̭̘̱̣͙͖̟̝͎̻̹̰̈́́̿̋̇́̅̀̈̐͒͛͌̾̈́̀̂̿́̿̓̔͘̚ͅͅ.̵̨̢̧͔̳̬̬̤͕͓̬̟̠̞͚̯̠̦̼̞͉͎̭̪͉͕̺͖̗̤̦̆̃͊̍͐̾́̊̿̑̍̉̓̉̀̿́̍̕͜͜ͅͅ.̵̨̧̧̛̣̮̞͓̝͇̰̰͔̥̦̤͙͙̤̩̭͓̰̝͈͌̿̀̈́̈́̓́̿̌̌̆́́̈́̍͐̏̓̍̇̀̚͝.̵̰̘̋̒̉̇̔̈̽̽.̶̨̡̛̥̠͈̬̞͓̬̦͉͈̪̜́̆̏̂̍͋̏̓̆͗͊̒̐͊̏̍̈́̐͆͘͜͠͠͝.̸̢̨̢̛͎̠̹̹̤̭̝̘̦͕̯͈͉̜̩̞͉̩̻̹̣̬̩͖̣̱͕̫̗̀͛̊̋̀͒̋̕̚͝͠ͅ.̵̧̛̗̳̠̙̯̳̭̯͎̞̼̠̬̘̎͊̅͌̉͒́̏͂̈́̊̄̓̓̽̈́̑̉́͒̈́̄͑͊̈̾́̈̉͘͝͠͝͠ͅͅ.̵̨̡̝̞̦̭̮̮̲͍͖̪̦͈̺̳̗̘͓̮͓̐̈́͌̿̈́̾̈̎̃̏̌̉̈́͜͝.̴̢̡͈̯͚̮̗͇̥̣̝̰̦͆̋̄́͌͠͝͝.̶̡̨̢̛͈̮̫͖̙̹̯͎̼̮̤̣̎̔̾̈̾̓̓̓͌́̋́̋̎́̀̈́̾̔̉̏̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͠.̵̧̧̛͖͈͕͖̤̞̦͍͚̆̓̀́̍̈́͆̓͊̌͐͋̒͑͋͛̔͆͑̕͜͠.̷̡̧̢̧̞̞̻̮̞̤͖̺̥̠̙̘̭̖̝͖͕̜̳̟̰̹̳̮͇͌̇̇̓̋͌́̔̓̈́͛̀̋́̈̌̐̿̈̽͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ.̸̡̨̨̧̬̭̝̟̫̠̙͉̖̦̺͚̣͖̫̼̥̱̘̟͓͎͔̰̜̫̌̀̍͂́̚͜͜͜ͅ.̶̧̧̣̲̰̟͖̻̙̬̻̣̯͔̱̝͇̮̩̬̙̤̗͔̙͕͔̀̓͒̏̎̈́̍̓̍̌͌̅͘͘ͅ.̵̧̢̢̛͕͎̠̦̞͔̟͍͖̠̞̫̭̖̲͓̲̭̘̱̣͙͖̟̝͎̻̹̰̈́́̿̋̇́̅̀̈̐͒͛͌̾̈́̀̂̿́̿̓̔͘̚ͅͅ.̵̨̢̧͔̳̬̬̤͕͓̬̟̠̞͚̯̠̦̼̞͉͎̭̪͉͕̺͖̗̤̦̆̃͊̍͐̾́̊̿̑̍̉̓̉̀̿́̍̕͜͜ͅͅ.̵̨̧̧̛̣̮̞͓̝͇̰̰͔̥̦̤͙͙̤̩̭͓̰̝͈͌̿̀̈́̈́̓́̿̌̌̆́́̈́̍͐̏̓̍̇̀̚͝.̵̰̘̋̒̉̇̔̈̽̽.̶̨̡̛̥̠͈̬̞͓̬̦͉͈̪̜́̆̏̂̍͋̏̓̆͗͊̒̐͊̏̍̈́̐͆͘͜͠͠͝.̸̢̨̢̛͎̠̹̹̤̭̝̘̦͕̯͈͉̜̩̞͉̩̻̹̣̬̩͖̣̱͕̫̗̀͛̊̋̀͒̋̕̚͝͠ͅ.̵̧̛̗̳̠̙̯̳̭̯͎̞̼̠̬̘̎͊̅͌̉͒́̏͂̈́̊̄̓̓̽̈́̑̉́͒̈́̄͑͊̈̾́̈̉͘͝͠͝͠ͅͅ
̸̧̡̨̛̜̺̲̹̭͔̖̺̮̟͚̮̩̳͔̫̺̤͖̱̳̜̜́̓́̏͒͛̊̅̐̀͆̇͋̎̍̏͊̏̐̌̃̏̌̀̃̌͋͘̕̕̚͝͝͠