She knew she should stand. That if she stayed she would never rise again. Wouldn’t want to anyway. She should let her assassin succeed. She knew she wouldn’t though. She would stand, and fight, and hurt, and remain. She knew that If she wanted she could touch the stars in this reality. Reality. Such a silly thing. Who knows what truly is and isn’t. She could be walking in a dream at this moment. A cruel laugh escaped from her lips as a dagger pressed to her throat. Reality, was something she was not especially fond of. Something no one was fond of, except for of course the idealists. It was a cruel world crueler still in the way that she had let this happen. Started it really. The dagger pressed deeper and drew blood, and then the dagger dropped and so did he. The fallen hero come to save his people. Her hand still rested in the soft grass, tainted slightly red with the fade of blood. Fire coursed through her veins. Humans were too fragile and those without wings were pitiful. She rose at last, her black cloak ever so slightly stained by the wet grass. She scowled and it instantly disappeared. The space where her hand had once lay was now grey and made of nothing more than ash. A hint of blue remained and it was a relief to see. She let her fire control her again. Not the other way around. The man who was really only a boy was still lying there. Not dead, only sleeping. Her hand grazed the tree she stood next too, and her wings made of black, raven like feathers, brushed the ground. The ocean was near but not close enough. She saw the sun set and though as cliché it may sound the sun seemed to be pulled over the edge of the world, drowning in the oceans murky waters. She turned once more and her cloak snagged on a fallen branch. A simple twist of her wrist and it was free. Those small acts of magic still sent flares of joy through her. Even after three hundred forty eight years she still loved the way she moved, still felt pride in how elegant she knew she looked. She had even been called vain once upon a time. Alice wondered if when she picked up the dagger next to her where it would lead her. If she would see it’s past or it’s future or neither. She allowed herself to wander back to a part of herself she tucked away a long while ago, as she stood there leaning up against that old oak tree. She wandered to a time when words were spoken and not thought, when you could hear the twisting vines of words and feel the passion within them, when you could convey an idea through more than just paper, when she could lie and curse and scream and cry and be heard. She would sell her soul, sell her wings, her fire, her magic, all to have the freedom of expression. When she stole words from the world she meant to take the hatred with them, but life was not kind. She had crafted her future, the only one of her kind left and that was how they would be remembered. Or forgotten she supposed. The world was always too quiet now. Too somber. She had never meant to start this. It couldn’t be taken back, her life had no meaning no purpose and never would. She would be forgotten. Not worthy enough for paper. No ... there was already a shortage of that as is. The villain would not be remembered. Only hated.