*** A WINTER SENDOFF ***

This place was one that none would tread.  They could, but they wouldn't.  The reason why?  It's because no one knew of this place.  Of course, with rules come exceptions.  There were people who did know of it, but they wouldn't go there.  There was no reason to.  That was until that day came.  It was a cold morning of snow and ice, the brick-made roads covered in white—and more piling on as the snowflakes fell flat on the road's rough and scratchy face.  Here next to the road was a freezing gate, one that shivered with the breeze's cold and covered with icicles that nearly stretched to the ground.

It had no one to come in or out of it, abandoned so to speak.  It was the back entrance to a great property, an academy and the lands adjacent, that held the nation's noblemen and ladies education inside its borders.  Within it laid facilities and grounds for all kinds of things.  The students would study magic, combat, research, the arts, and others in the vast foot of the academy.  And at the back of this grand schooling, there it was, it's steel frame and bars freezing in their water-froze clothing of icicles next to a road draped in snow.

Clank.  Clank.  Tug.  Tug, tug, tug, bang!  The rusted, old lock of the gate broke off, torn open by the maw of a crowbar that looked to be made of solid crystal.  "Hah!  It took a little effort, but it wasn't a big deal!"  A young woman crouching by the now open gate said, her voice relieved and energetic in contrast to the white noise of the cold's blowing. 

She wore a swan-feather white inner top which was draped over by a similarly white open-button shirt that extended its sleeves to the wrists of her hands—a gold color running down the middle where the buttons were sewn, and on the collar of her neck and openings of the sleeves on her arms.  Her skirt was a plain white pleated one that went down just enough to cover the knees with a golden dye that followed the fine stitch lines.

"Please do it quickly.  I can't bear to see her like this anymore."  The young man who said this gazed at another girl just a short walk away being held by the arms by two knights wearing leather armor.  His brow went down alongside his mouth that curled its ends downward into a frown.  His eyes spoke of pity and concern over the girl who was struggling in the arms of his escorts from the academy.  

"It's open and- Oh!  I think her carriage is here!"  The girl wearing the academy uniform stuck her head out of the gate, and saw a large carriage that screamed extravagance and doting from its exterior.  If she were a bandit, this carriage would be equivalent to a goldmine to pillage, what with all the gold decorations on its outside.  The two horses counted as well.  But the most eye-pop detail would be the crest proudly mounted at the sides.

As the carriage came into view, the shining gold of the family crest belonging to the Flamehearts glinted in the little light reflected in the night's snow.  "I'm here to bring our lady to that place."  The coachman said as he took out his identification badge from his right pocket.  "I'm quite surprised the young lady of the Flamehearts would be going there.  I haven't a clue about this until just this morning."  He brought down his black cap off his head and put it to his chest.  He bowed to the young man and woman, and they bowed a bit in turn.  

Taking back his standing posture and adjusting his cap, he looked with slightly down-brought brows at the young lady of the Flameheart family struggling in the armlock of the two knights as they brought her closer and closer to him and his carriage. "Let me go!  I am Beatrice Flameheart!  I don't deserve this rough a treatment!"  The girl in question shrieked out to the people nearby.  The coachman had heard this line before, but not from a person of such prestige.

"Do not worry my prince and...?"  The girl beside the young prince jumped up in the snow, raising her hand into the air as she introduced herself "I'm Angelina!  My friends call me Angie, so you should too, Mr. coachman!"  She bounced off her winter boots and landed directly in front of the coachman's feet, then shook his hand with both of hers with a wide, teeth-show smile.  The old man who drove all the misbehaving students to 'that' place smile ear to ear, feeling the warmth of this upbeat girl's personality.  It was like the cold of the month fled from her when she drew near—a welcome happenstance in this freezing weather.

Taking his hand from Angie's warm grip, he fixed his collar then coughed to attain a serious attention.  "It was a great fortune to have met you, my prince and Angelina."  At this, Angelina laughed with the fervor of a drunk friend and slapped the coachman's back, saying "no need to be so formal!" but the old man still respected the position of the prince and kept a friendly distance from them.  Trying and failing to keep the serious air around him. "Ahem.  I will be taking lady Beatrice to the Reflection territory in just a moment.  Would you like me to give you a word time with her before our journey?" 

The prince stepped forward, stomping his foot into the snow. "No.  Please get her there safely.  I... I simply hope she truly changes through this."  The young prince looked the coachman in the eyes with a hand to his own chest.  The coachman stood silent.  A cloud of pity rained onto his face, and he answered the young man's plea. "My prince, not many truly change their ways.  Even after something like this, the noble children often resumed their usual behavior..."  The prince lowered his gaze to the snow below him.  His eyes dulling their light, hope dying inside him.

"But."  The coachman's word got his attention again.  He jerked his head to meet the coachman's look, now fully paying attention.  All the attention and focus he had. "Those who did change always did for the better.  Let's hope that she be one of them."  The prince's mouth curve upwards into a crescent smile, but like the moon hidden behind gray clouds, an aura of darkness still surrounded him.  There was hope.  Not much, but there it was.

"Yes.  I hope my fiancé...  I hope Beatrice becomes a better person."

***  A FAREWELL ***

After the conversation of the prince and the coachman, the knights safely and gently put down Beatrice into the inside of the carriage—though she did kick and scream at her fullest might.  "I am Beatrice Flameheart!  You can't do this to me!  I should just throw a fireball at you-!"  One of the knights forcing her into the passenger car of the carriage raised their voice—putting just enough hush to not be heard by anyone.  Anyone except Beatrice. "Why don't you?"  His question silenced her.

For a moment, she gathered her thoughts.  Her thinking threw many responses into her mind that she could choose.  Though, that chance didn't appear.  Before she could make a choice on what to say, her lips moved on their own.  Her voice betraying her prior fury. "I don't want to hurt you." This, she said in a near-cry tone—a little lump in her throat joining her watery eyes.  She tried to retort her own words.  She tried to deny them.  But the knight interrupted her. "See?  You can be a good one."

As she sat still on the carriage car's floor—her eyes wide open and mouth agape with shock—the knight that put her there shut the door closed.  He then signaled to the coachman standing with Angelina and the prince. "It's time.  May Kalt have mercy on your journey."  He returned to the prince's side with another knight assigned to escort the royal family's heir.  After a short trade of goodbye-greetings, the coachman walked to the carriage steps, and climbed back onto the driver's seat.

His hand in the air, the coachman waved a farewell to everyone with his white gloved hand. "Angie, my prince, and the knightly fellows that accompany us now, I thank you for your well wishes.  May Kalt have mercy on your journey back.  Farewell my friends."  He took hold of the reigns in front of him and swiftly crackled them in the air.  The two horses attached to the reigns neighed and stood up right for a moment, then went back onto the ground with their front legs.

As the horses moved forward and the carriage they pulled followed suit, Beatrice beat at the window of the passenger car's door.  "You can't do this to me!  I am Beatrice Flameheart!"  Her voice was clear though the volume was muffled by the glass.  Nonetheless, the horses' hooves were already tapping along the street alongside the wheels that oh-so-slightly creaked as they spun and dragged on the grey bricks beneath.  She couldn't stop it.  Her family had authority, yes.  They were a ducal family famed for their powerful flames.  But her?  She was naught but a misbehaving student.

Still knowing this, she banged her fists at the door whose window view was changing at a joggers' pace. "I am Beatrice Flameheart!  I was only doing what was right!"  Her shout was reduced to a muffled scream behind a pillowcase's cotton.  Rather than words, it sounded like a mumble to the people that she meant to hear it—who were already a long walk away with distance increasing by the second.  "I am Beatrice Flameheart!  Please, hear what I'm saying!  It was for the greater good!  I swear to the gods!  Please!"  She begged.  She pleaded.  Her eyes already watered with tears she couldn't bear to let out.  Her throat was sore.  It hurt, and was going as ragged as a washcloth used over and over and over again for cleaning.

Unlike the cloth that cleaned the kitchen tables with effort and work, her words wouldn't make their purpose a reality, as the carriage she rode upon drifted her farther and farther away from the people she wanted, that she needed to hear her.  Her voice was nothing.  Inside the ear-drumming howls of the snow, it was less than the noise of a fly's buzzing wings.  Now, she stopped screaming.  She stopped talking.  She didn't even mumble.  Her body—still clinging to the closed door of the carriage—slid down to the floor, the glass squealing as her forearms skid down from the window to the wood.

The skirt of her formal gown that ran from her tiny waist to just above her feet folded into wrinkles and crinkles as she sat on the floor with an oppressing silence bearing down on her entire being—from her head to her toes, from her flesh, to her soul.  Tears were ready too burst from her eyes to fill the car.  Wails and cries were primed to jump from her mouth to the ears of whoever would listen.  But she held it in.  They were useless.  Who would listen to her tears?  Who would lend her their ear?  None.  No one.  Even the coachman driving wouldn't listen.

All that was left in the passenger car of the carriage was red haired young woman who repeated a single phrase, as if taken into obsession and psychosis.  "I am Beatrice Flame heart.  I am Beatrice Flameheart.  I am..."  She paused.  Her mind went silent.  It went farther than quiet, and had gone blank.  Her mantra of Identity; Her saying that kept her tethered to reality despite her curse and the things she had to do for the betterment of her kingdom; That 4 word sentence that she kept nearest and dearest in her heart 2nd only to her loved ones; That same thing was infected. 

It became sickly of a deadly disease and fell ill to the ground.  This affirmation—this ground she stood upon whenever all else was unsure—shook with the force of an earthquake, and drowned her in the sea of anxiety of the tsunami that came after.  She who wielded fire in her hand was surrounded by a darkness that approached her from all sides and encroached into her very mind.  This illness that invaded her; This virus that took the rock she stood upon and heated it to a skin-burning touch; What was it?

"I am Beatrice Flameheart."

It was-

"I am Beatrice Flameheart!"

"I am..."

"..."

"Who... am... I...?"

Doubt.

*** GIRL IN THE DARK ***

Here I am.  Just a girl crying inside a carriage.  My dress and my gloves sinking onto the wood floor of the carriage car.  I'm not even crying.  I can't cry.  I can't sob or let a single tear fall.  No one would care for them.  Not in this moment.  I was only doing what I thought was right.  My friends at the academy—if I could call them that—all sucked up to me, and told me that it was the right thing to do.  I knew it was wrong to bully a person.  It was a sin to do wrong to those that didn't deserve it, but it was for the greater good!  How could a commer; how could she steal him away from me?

I was the best fit for his bride.  We'd known each other for so long.  Yes, we hadn't seen each other for years, but even then I still loved him, and loved him more and more as time passed.  I longed for him each and every day.  I reached my heart out to his palace I couldn't go to anymore.  I dedicated my life to make myself the perfect woman for him. 

I locked myself in my home library every night to study, to make sure he wouldn't marry an illiterate woman; I didn't touch or look at any of the food I enjoyed, and ate so little I starved myself to sleep; And I trained in my family's magical flames until my vision would blur, my head would rock back and forth from exhaustion, and then I'd collapse onto the stone floors of the training hall.

I'd become a lady worthy of him.  I'd become someone that could hold his hand.  I would become a person that could walk by his side, as we once did as children.  I was given praise, titles, and honors for everything I did for him, and when I finally had my chance to meet him again, another was already at his side.  Another had already taken his hand.  Another had seen that heart-melt smile that only he showed me.  Despite everything I'd done for him, he already chose someone.  Someone that wasn't me.

I had bullied her out of jealousy first.  Then everyone else came to my side in a flash. 'How could a commoner possibly dare to love a prince!' they would say, and helped me in my schemes.  It started small.  Like hiding her things—placing her pencils, pens, and erasers in hard to see parts of her seat in the lecture hall.  It started as I wanted.  It started where I was satisfied.  But then, the others took it further, and took me along with them. 

It escalated into horrid rumors of her being a seductress—a temptress that would play with any man she wanted—and her only wanting the prince because of the throne he was to sit upon.  They spread even more ridiculous hearsay about how she was a bastard daughter of a nobleman, how she deceived the generous people into letting her into the academy, and even more.  All of those were false.  I looked into it.  I researched it, and though it took a little bit of time, I came to know that those sayings were untrue.  I tried to speak up.  I would have spoken up. 

But those same people who were at my side only used me as a figurehead, a mascot to carry their plan with authentic authority of a powerful duke's daughter: 'A true example of someone worthy for the queen's seat!' they'd say.  I was nothing more than a puppet.  A multipurpose 'thing' to puppeteer on stage, and a scapegoat for all the blame to chase around the prairie like starving, hungry wolves. 

If it were me who received all this hatred; If it were me to be attacked by all this malice; Even with the power of a duke's daughter, the power of father, I wouldn't be able to take it.  I would have shriveled up and cried.  In my darkened room, all by myself, with no one there to see the mess I'd become.

But she, Angelina—the victim of all this hate and outrage—didn't even wince.  She took all of it from the front and not a bead of sweat left her forehead.  And when she stood up, others went to her side as well.  The promising 'earthen knight' Elijah Terramen; The potential-ful 'winter's mistress' Aoi Cerebra; The 'wind seer' Jack Welkin; and the prince—my prince—Kenzo Katsuro;  They all stood behind her back, guarding her and protecting her as she braved the storm of malicious harassment and rumors thrown at her.

And the outcome of this was me now.  The me that was blamed for everything; The me that was swayed by everyone's flatteries and promises; The me that sits her alone inside this carriage—hunched over her own back, barely able to hold back her cries and sobs.  That was me.  But who am I now?

The name I'd taken pride in—Beatrice Flameheart—didn't feel like mine anymore.  The name I worked to prop up, the name I spent so much time, so much effort and pain, everything to make worthy of not just the man I loved, but everyone around me—my parents, my true friends, my followers, my servants, everyone!—that same name, it felt heart-crushing to even think it now. 

Who am I, if not Beatrice Flameheart?

Am I-

"Nothing? Correct."

*** THE VOICES IN THE DARKNESS ***

Oh no.  It's here.  Again, it's here.  I tried to get rid of it.  My family did everything they could to remove it.  But here it is, tormenting me again.  It's always like this.  It never comes to me when I am strong.  It never comes by when I am ready.  It always breaks down the door in times like these.  When I am at my lowest, the world retreats from me.  Light becomes scarce in my vision, and all I can see is myself and the floor I sit on.  Darkness becomes all that I can see around me—a prison that inevitably comes to torment me when I lose my footing in the world.  And now, I am in a cell inside that very prison.

With every prison, there is nearly always someone to act as the warden and guard, and mine was no exception.  "This is no prison."  There it was.  That voice again.  Those voices in my head.  When I am here, surrounded by the dark, they speak words that gouge deeper than my skin, deeper than my flesh, and into my soul.  The way they speak is like an acapella choir reciting a single sentence in unison.  Their voices overlap one another, layer after layer, each with a different pitch and tone.  Some were filled with sadness.  Some took rage, soothing, grief, unnerving, and many more—more that were different, but couldn't be named—into their pitch and tone.  

But for all the variation and difference that they all had, there was one thing they all had:

Malice.

"This place is the truth.  This is your world!"  The amalgamation of many voices of different pitch and tones screamed all around me.  It was like the blowing howl of the cold outside.  I could still hear it—thank Kalt for that small mercy—but the voices here were even louder.  They seized my hearing from every side.  Behind me; In front of me; left and right; from the ceiling above and the floorboards below; They shrieked their horrid words from all directions there were.  I couldn't respond to them.  I tried to.  But the lump in my throat beat the words I had to say back down to my throat.

"This is what you see!  This is your truth!  You don't belong to this world!  No one wants you here!  Not your father!  Not your mother!  And your followers?  They don't want you, they want your titles and authority!  This world, the heavens, earth, and man have all rejected you!  Even your beloved has abandoned you for another!"  No!  I tried to say no!  I tried to shout, to retort, to defend the people I knew liked me, loved me!  But I couldn't do anything.  There wasn't enough of my voice left for my words to come to be.  All the strength I had, all the will I'd built from everything I'd done for everyone, it was gone.

"But we haven't!  We haven't abandoned you!  We took you here as one of us!  You are one of us, our kin, a sister!  Everything had left you behind.  The people you knew may have gone on without you; The ground you walked on might have given up; And the star-filled sky you gazed at from below has taken its bright lights away from you; But the darkness has welcomed you into its home!"  I wanted to deny them.  I wished they were wrong, but they were right.  Everything in this world has gone from me.  Perhaps even the warmth I felt from my father and mother's hands were lies as well...

"We will help you take everything that was stolen from you!  The things that others had—the warmth, the l0ve, the riches, the pleasures—we will help you take what was rightfully yours!"  Maybe... Maybe they were right.  Maybe I should listen to them.  Everything had been taken from me.  What I should have gotten, others had received.  What I couldn't have, everyone else was granted without question.  Maybe... Maybe they will help me...

"Let us become one!  You become us, we become you!  We are one and the same!  We are one!  We are one!"  No... No.  No, no, no, NO!  These voices!  They are trying to use me again!  They're just like everyone else! "Your body, your mind, your soul, you will join us, and we will become complete!  We will take everything that was taken from us!  We will claw at everyone who got what we could not!"  No!  NO!  Why!?  Why gods!?  Why does this happen to anyone!?  Why did this happen to me!  Why!?

*** THE JOURNEY ***

Now, Beatrice had already arrived at her location, the "Reflection territory."  The Coachman drove her through the snow and storms for 7 days and 7 nights, and on the morning of the 8th day, they had arrived.  Along their journey, he noticed that Beatrice had gone quiet.  It didn't bother him much on the first day.  It was much better than having her scream and shout profanities at him like other students did.  She indeed did screech earlier, but it wasn't at him, and it ended quickly.  It was a miracle.

Having a quiet passenger in his line of work for the academy was a rare blessing, so he didn't question it.  That changed when night fell.  When it was time to feed her dinner, he opened the car door only to find her on the ground, fallen to her knees.  She did not react to the door being opened.  She didn't shiver at the cold air outside blowing inside the passenger car. 

Her eyes looked dull, dead, as if she was gazing at something far, far away.  Thankfully, when the Coachman brought a piece of the packed rations and stored food he'd brought, she ate out of her hand.  Even as she chewed on the bits of food and swallowed the warmed soup, that dull and gray look kept itself in her.

He thought he should ask how she was, and he almost did.  When he'd opened his mouth, it quickly shut itself closed.  No.  He slammed them tight.  'She's not right in the head at the moment' he thought.  Some previous students he'd taken to that place would shout profanities at him; Some would threaten him with their status as sons and daughters of lords and ladies; And some outright attacked him with their spells and swords, sometimes both at the same time if they were talented, and sometimes in groups when multiple misfits were sent by the academy.

'What if she flew into a rage? What if she threatened him? What if she attacked him?'  He could handle those naughty children that flailed around their sword without an ounce of technique, and even put up a winning but hard-fought fight to the intermediate swordsman.  Kids with magic were harder to deal with, but he could make quick work of them, even when they were the more tricky types. But Beatrice?  She came from the Flameheart family.  She had an innate talent for magic, and a very strong affinity to flame magic.

She even honed her skills from childhood.  Not a shadow of laziness or couch-sitting stagnation in sight of her.  That was what the stories said anyway.  But regardless of the stories, she performed well.  Her fire could quite literally burn any enemy in front of her.  The adamantium training dummy, built to withstand any and all attacks physical or magical, was half burnt to dust when faced with her.  That was when she was just entering the academy, and who knows how much she's grown?

The Coachman did not want to face off against her.  And if asked if he could win, he could only say 'I'll do my best' with the odds of victory at 90% to 10%.  The favor?  Beatrice.

So he didn't.  He let her be.  He fed her every dinner and at every stop he took along the way, and now he escorted her through the little village below a mountain, and climbed up the slope with his carriage.  Once he got to the top, there awaited a towering mansion that overlooked the whole expanse of the frost burdened territory.  Most times, it was staffed with little to a few maids and butlers to handle the cooking, cleaning, and maintaining of the building, but that wasn't the case now.

He expected to see the same sight he saw before.  A few windows lit with a candle by the tableside; The building's cracks and holes being repaired with whatever they had on hand or wooden planks and stones traded from the village; And at most 1 or 2 servants coming to the mansion's gate to grant him entry.  He didn't see that.  It was much grander, better than before.

Now, judging by the all the windows glowing with bright light, the entirety of the interior was lit with candles and lamps.  Gone were the hastily hammered-and-nailed walls.  In their place were the white painted faces of the fine stone installments that practically shouted wealth and power with their clean and simple decorations carved into them.  'Now these were walls.' Thought the coachman as he drove up to the gate.

After a servant unlocked it and opened the gate's doors, he was faced with a line of 10 butlers and maids bowing and waiting at the side of the road to the mansion.  They all shouted in unison "Welcome, Young Miss!" as he passed by them in his carriage.  The time to part had come.  He got off the driver's seat after stopping the horses' walk.  Then he exchanged greetings with the maids and butlers that waited for him and Beatrice.  Finally, he told them of the journey he had with the Young Miss, and opened the passenger car.  Inside there, Beatrice sat on one of the seats to the side, tucked into a corner with her holding her legs to her chest with her arms.

The Coachman worried that the people with him might be alarmed at the sight.  She was still their lord's daughter.  To see her in that state and not have any questions would be madness.  Against his reasoning, when the servants' gaze met the young lady's appearance, all that they let out was a sigh and a downcast face, some looking more sad, and some more looking upset and worried.  He didn't realize it, but his left brow raised to his forehead and his mouth let out a droning 'uhh' sound.

"We've seen her like this before." A maid off to his side answered his confused mouthing. "This is nothing new to us.  But..." The coachman looked at the maid and saw her fist's grip tighten and clench onto her dress' skirt as her face grew sour, her teeth biting down onto each other and her brows creasing together. "It still hurts to see her like this." 

She paused for a moment then properly bowed her head to him. "Thank you for taking care of her.  The rest of the servants don't have much of a good opinion of her, so we were sent here as..." She took her gaze from the ground, to the side where the other butlers and maids were carefully carrying Beatrice out of the carriage's passenger car. "The few people who understand what she's going through."

At this, the Coachman didn't know what to make of the situation.  Broken-glass guilt stabbed into his heart.  There was more to her than being a misfit.  He didn't know what that 'more to her' was, but he knew that being misunderstood wasn't something to laugh at.  He was dragged through some deep mud for a simple misunderstanding before, so he knew how it felt.  He couldn't do anything but offer his condolences.  Perhaps she was a good girl deep down, or maybe she was being caught in the current of other people's problems and dealings, like he was.

He had questions and wonders, but he didn't have the time to ask.  He finished his job, and when the job was done, it was time to go.  He wanted to stay.  But he couldn't. Not long enough to get what he wanted to know.  And so, with a bit of guilt and a shot-glass of a new understanding of the girl, he first bid farewell to the maid he spoke to.  Then, once the other servants got Beatrice safely out of the passenger car, he locked its door, sat at the driver's seat, then said his goodbyes to everyone—the maids, the butlers, and Beatrice herself.

He took the reigns of the horses in his hands and whipped them.  The crackle sounded like high-pitched thunder, then the horses shouted their 'Neighs!' and galloped out of the mansion's open gates.  The servants waved him goodbye as his back slowly disappeared into the rocky slopes of the mountain stares.  The one maid holding her young lady—Beatrice—in her arms nodded to the others as she turned her back on the gate and made way for the mansion's doors.

-end