Prelude   •   TRAGIC TALE

     As years fade into decades, each reciting of this story shall bear mournful ballads with the promise of change yet never properly acquiring. It will be a tale spun from bard to bard, lost in translation as each attempted to capture the desired romance of a life that was nothing but broken from the start. A lie would spread as a foundation for many ambitious performers desperate to recreate History as those before them. The classic romantic literature which included hand-written letters or poems, the love interest of the classical story confessing their feelings for the main character in such beauty syllables before heartache and pain would take the main theme. A twisted story where the heart of the listeners lay in the palm of the performer; every emotion, every thought was willed to the teller without a second glance. It would be a story where life was reflected through the ability to love rather than to mourn.

At least that was the promise her parents had made during their retellings of bedtime stories, but each started the same way;

Destiny is a dagger poisoned with tragedy.

A story beginning this way was nothing new to the youngest DéGarmo. Destiny was the parchment — the foundation — to a story about life, and tragedy just happened to be the spilt ink forcing the creator to rewrite the words. It was a crime, and tragedy just so happened to be the punishment assigned. She knew this all too well for her Destiny was to rot in the shadow of her porcelain doll of a sister. Gwenaëlle was the beginning to Deanna's story, the catalyst to the rest of the writing. She was the reason a story of a girl who ran away in the footsteps of her older sister, of a girl who turned into a woman at the age of thirteen or the woman with the body of a kid bearing scars and wounds that those her age should never experience. 

     It wasn't as if Deanna hated her childhood nor her sister. Verna and Ossian DéGarmo were reliable, yet naive, people but they were good parents and that was something the sisters were able to agree on. What they lacked together they made up for in love towards their children, and perhaps that was why Gwenaëlle would know when to disappear into hiding before the shouting started for sometimes their love for them wasn't enough to keep Fox Hollow happy. Maybe it was cruel that Deanna held resentment towards her sister for never being near when that shouting started, leaving a young girl alone in a house of anger and accusations. But as she grew older she understood why... Gwenaëlle could not look after the family no longer nor could she raise her younger sister when she was a mere babe herself. It was cruel expecting her to do so.

Yet in those moments, Deanna found the fondest of memories of Verna braiding her youngest daughter's hair as she recounted stories of Destiny and heartache shaped by the Gods as her husband watched with loving eyes from the doorway. And for a moment the world was quiet enough where the two girls could simply just be kids with a devoted family as they were intended. As they were promised. While the stories may have been vindictive yet heartwarming, Deanna kept them buried deep within her soul as if wanting that feeling to remain with her forever. It was a childish dream of hers, wanting those stories which christened her heart while they graced her mother's lips to become a reality for her life. She knew it would never happen — Fox Hollow did not allow fairytales.

     Perhaps that was why Gwenaëlle ran from their home at such a young age, she was wanting to cling to whatever remainder of fantasy was left in the world. But without her sister's collectiveness, the legend of Deanna spread like wildfire. A girl burnt by the fiery rage of despair, carved out of the shadows of evil before being replaced by the dark deities in her birthplace. The same one who bore scarred feet as if it were a blessing and blistering palms like it was her birthright for there was no one to care within the shroud of darkness she was raised within. No, the only people to care for Deanna were their Gods as each townspeople spoke gentle whispers for the mere devil-child of Fox Hollow. But it was the years of building fury, matched with the vehemence of Fox Hollow folk, which finally tipped Deanna DéGarmo over the edge.

     Her uncle was a weird man, yet a good one claimed her mother. He was charming, loyal and above all considerate to the people of Fox Hollow, often offering himself for extra chores that piled upon the noticeboard in the town's centre. Deanna agreed to their statements for what thirteen-year-old would dare disagree with her parents? But during his first visit since Gwenaëlle's departure from the family, Deanna had grown sick of hiding behind the words of others and sort to form an opinion for herself. She followed her uncle to a field where a monster claimed to hide, stealing the vegetables of the old farmer who lived on the outskirts of Fox Hollow. The pair (though unknowingly to one) quickly discovered it was not a monster but a young father, no older than the age of seventeen, an age of which Gwenaëlle would be, stealing the food for his baby and wife. They had been deserted by their families upon the arrival of the babe, his cries echoing through the trees and crops for a chance of survival to her uncle. It was not until the boy took his hat off, revealing the pointed ears that she knew what he was... What horrors follow his kind in the tales of the townsfolk... What they did to the Continent. Yet she saw none of the monstrosities to which people deemed them, rather she saw a frightened kid desperate for help. A help she longed for herself. Deanna hid in the bushes, watching as her uncle listened to the story of the young boy who pleaded for his life to be spared as he sheathed his sword, an unexpected kindness to what Fox Hollow deemed lesser. Yet, it all happened within ten seconds.

One second. A small dagger rested in her uncle's hand, holding it out to the boy with the promise the weapon would help capture small prey for a required protein intake. Two seconds. The boy was crying, praising him as if he were one of the mere Gods watching over Deanna while he took the knife. Three seconds. Her uncle placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, an encouraging smile tainting his lips as he leant forward to give some advice. Four seconds. A blade of the dagger was lodged into the jaw of the young elf whose eyes widened as he choked, nails clawing at the hands of her uncle's biceps. Five seconds. The dagger was shoved with such a strength that Deanna wondered one question. Six, seven seconds. She froze, buried alongside the worms, as her uncle removed the blade from the dead elf's body, the jaw hung incorrectly from its hinges. Eight seconds. Deanna began to move, crawling backwards as fast as possible while remaining hidden until her body stumbled over a root, falling onto a stick — the echo of its snap bouncing through the trees. Nine seconds. Her uncle turned to her with a frenzy, the dagger drenched in elf blood in one hand and the other pulling his sword out as he trudged to her area. Ten seconds. Deanna prayed to the Gods and asked one question;

Who is the monster?

Deanna received that answer mere seconds later as her uncle dropped the dagger, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands as he swung over his head to her spot on the ground. All she could remember seeing was the glare of the red ruby at the centre of the guard. She scrambled out of the way, her pleas mimicking that of the elven boy as she reached for his dagger forgotten in the crops. There were another few seconds of silence as Deanna turned around on her knees, sobbing like a child with a dagger in one hand and a prayer in the other. Her uncle's back was to her, his sword stuck in the root of a tree which she had fallen over as the ruby glowed like a warning. Yet Deanna knew there was only one thing she could do.

     Fox Hollow's Gods gave the townsfolk their answer. Deanna DéGarmo was reborn that night a monster — the devil-child they knew she was.