|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Fri Aug 19, 2016 1:15 am
Mathilda sat on her bed, wrapped up in her thick blankets. Sitting next her on her dresser were the vials of heart's blood she had gotten from a couple of the metal birds. As annoying as they were, the avian did leave good things behind. Rolling over to her side and prodding one of the vials, she closed her eyes for a moment. Her dagger was in the dresser drawer, which was partly open, ready and available if she needed it.
At her home, she had a blade pretty much under every surface. Her time as a professional killer had ingrained preparedness into her head, and everywhere she went, she strived to make sure she was safe as possible.
Her bakery had it's normal kitchen blades, with the addition butterfly knife or thin metal blade hiding in bowls or empty jars. The front register had a blade under the counter, resting below the cash register. Another one was hidden in the display case.
Knives were her specialty. Multiple was better, but she could work with one. She hated guns and poison, one being too loud and the other being messy. A knife left a clean incision and could kill instantly.
Sighing, she took her dagger from the drawer and held it up to the light. It was an interesting blade. One that could piece the meal flesh of metal birds. Perhaps, the weaponry back at her new home had altered metals that enhanced a weapons ability. If this blade had enchanted cutting strength, she wondered what a set of flying daggers could do. Closing her eyes, she fell asleep, her mother on her mind.
-
Her mother was beautiful, she really was. She was tall, legs long and strong, body toned and a living weapon. Her blonde hair rested on the small of her back, and her eyes were cold as steel. Mathilda, when she was younger, had thought that it was her mother's pretty long hair that had made her father marry her mother.
Because her mother? Her mother was cold. Where her father was warm and kind, gentle in every way and then some, Manon was dark and cruel. Her mother rarely smiled when Mathilda was young, choosing to purse her lips or scowl. Manon had no interest in Mathilda's schooling or friends, coming home late and leaving early.
Manon tried very little to work with her. For years, Manon had tried to teach Mathilda French, and for years Mathilda refused to put in any effort. By six, Mathilda could speak, appropriately for age, in both German and English. Her mother didn't bother to speak to her in English until her was eighteen.
Once, and only once, Manon had called Mathilda by a different name. It was in passing, and Mathilda never cared to bother her father about it. Mathilda knew, even now, that she had a middle name but it wasn't important to her to find out. She remembers seeing it once, when she needed to do a report and looked at her birth certificate. It was long and weird, girly and floral. When she was older, she realized that the name was in French. It was the name her mother had wanted he to be called, but her father spoke up against. He had never told her the reason of how he got to pick out her name, but she was happy with it. Mathilda was old, the harshness of the 'th' interesting to hear and interesting to watch people butcher it. Her middle name was not, and therefore Mathilda didn't care.
Manon had pointed out once, before Mathilda really began to understand what her mother did, that pretty names were the key to success, but Mathilda, with the hardness of her 'th' and her tightly braid and pinned up, found success in the solace of those, moving farther away from Manon.
Part 1: Done
(wc: 645)
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Aug 19, 2016 1:15 am
The first time Mathilda had picked up a knife, her father nearly had a heart attack. She had been very little at the time, and even though it was a butter knife, Jonas still looked faint. He had kindly removed the knife from her tiny little hand and placed it on a higher counter. When Jonas had asked why, she responded immediately, her whole face lighting up. She wanted to be like daddy. Jonas had then spent the next week teaching her how to properly use a kitchen knife, and letting her use extremely dull blades to cut soft butter and other such ingredients.
It was different, when Manon had handed Mathilda a dagger for the first time. The ratio was off, the object to light, to small. By this age, she had been properly using a knife for years. But this blade was different. It was too light, too thin, easy to pierce skin. She had taken to the blade immediately, but always left it with her mother. Never wanting to bring something so fowl into her fathers kitchen.
Picking up a blade at the Prytaneum felt normal. Nothing weird about it, she had been doing this for years. But when the blade easily sliced through metal, attached to a metal bird, Mathilda knew things would be different. That this time, a dagger would be able to help fight for something that she believed in, not someone else, or for some hidden agenda.
Yet, as she opened her eyes, awakening from her dream, she couldn't help feel that maybe, maybe this adventure was just a repeat of her past experiences. She was in the dark about a lot of things, and being in the dark was not something she liked.
Standing up and getting ready to head out, she slipped her dagger into her boot, its weird tiny reflecting in the light.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
