I OFTEN LIKENED Magenta to a wild rose. Beautiful, with a colour so rich and vibrant. But difficult and prickly. She too, felt that she was weak, and needed some sort of self protection. Her thorns were her sharp, bitter words, and her looks of steel.

So that no one picked her. Though they stared, intently.

I sometimes wondered if she had felt the pressure to excel and surpass ( mainly me ) others. If that upbringing had forced her to be so guarded.

Perhaps she was broken on the inside, as I was.

Her skill of hiding it, however, was unparalleled.

In those moments where my vision had returned to the other planes, it took me to the Alpha Plane; rolling hills, castles, thick forests of walking trees and shifting scenery and airborne magic. I looked upon the Hall of the Dreamcatcher Authority, where Magenta was undergoing her initiation ceremony.

In her severe robes of black and pink; stones of spinel and garnet glinting in the lining of her gown. And on the hilt of the silver dagger clenched in her hands.

She would have to do it. She had no choice in the slaying of the beast bound before her. Even if she did nothing, it would still be killed. If Magenta wished to sit atop that dark bloodstone throne, she had to take its life. Purge the wild evil for which it stood.

There had been a strain in that grip —a hesitation.

The hound was barely a pup.

It made me wonder, for only a second. Was there a heart there, in that void she called a chest?

Despite that thought, Magenta had mustered the determination to plunge the blade into the two-tailed jade wolf on the alter. I flinched at the crunch of bone. The sound of the wail —I had not been physically there, but I had felt it. Its agony.

Blue liquid dripped from the knife and Magenta's fingers onto the alter that was marked with runes which glowed when the magic blood flowed.

The other Dreamcatchers —in silken yellow and blue and red and velvet black —showed nothing of their approval. They were as stiff and polished as the pillars of diamond erecting the pristine temple.

Only Magenta paused, and showed emotion for a fraction of a second. Then she looked on blankly; those devastating pink eyes burning like hellfire.

The sacrifice was symbolic: she had to abandon her old self. The self who had fraternised with humans and faeries and Elves. Her days of childhood and innocence were over. She would no longer feel.

Magenta would no longer be my sister.

So why had I called her that, when I had clenched a fist and forced myself to return to where my body was? And it had stung, to know that we now meant nothing to each other. Not that it had taken me by surprise. We had spoken about what her promotion entailed, in length. I had shouted at her —looking back, I was not sure why. I did not exactly want her to stay.

I felt minimally for her.

So why could I not let her go?

"...Purple?" Georgia's voice then pierced through my fog of thoughts. "What about your sister?"

"She —" I began, but my throat closed suddenly. I turned my head, feeling every muscle in my body contracting. I could not continue.

Georgia did not press me for an answer. I was immensely grateful for that. I could provide no answer anyway. Until I had placed whatever was storming in me, I would not be able to explain myself.

A part of me hoped that it was not love.

"Come on," Georgia quipped, sliding off of the stool on which she had been perched and hefting her backpack. "Let's buy that tarpaulin-gram."

I let out a breath. "...Okay."

It was such a mundane endeavour, but I permitted Georgia to accompany me to the nearby camping equipment store down the street.

Perhaps it was a good thing that she came with me, though. I could scarcely keep putting one foot in front of the other as we walked, our shoes crunching the rubble and tar. Ever since I had moved to Oxford, I had never imagined it to now look like this —a ghost town. A husk. The war had stripped the Earth of its beauty.

What surrounded us now was dust. Ruins and dust.

Georgia also walked stiffly, her knuckles pressing against the skin till it turned white as her hand clenched a backpack strap. I tilted my head to the side.

"What is in the backpack?" I asked.

The blonde started.

"Is it something dangerous?" I murmured.

She shook her head.

"Is it something too private to share?"

Georgia averted her gaze further and tensed. "Not really," she mumbled. "I just...I guess I've gotten so jumpy. It's just some clothes and belongings."

One of my brows rose. "Then why do you look as though someone will steal them at any moment?"

Colour dusted her cheeks. "Like I said," she huffed, "It's my shit. And no one touches my shit."

I frowned as pity welled up within me. "Has someone attempted to steal from you before?"

She kicked a rock into the road. "Look around, Purple. Look at the world. It's ruined. People get desperate. So what do you think?"

I already knew that.

I had not been in Oxford for a month prior to yesterday afternoon, in order to escape the conflict. During the battles, I had hid with other Dreamcatchers in the remote areas of the world. I had refused to go home to the Alpha Plane.

That would have meant saying goodbye; giving up and letting the circumstances overwhelm me. I could not let fighting destroy my livelihood. No matter what —I had promised that I would never abandon Cotton Candy, nor the humans.

So I had written the war off as a passing fad. Humans fought often; and they continued to find fault with anything that they did not completely understand. They would simply exhaust themselves against those with magic, before normal life resumed. Soon —I would soon return and carry on with business as usual.

How naïve of me to think that.

Looking at Cotton Candy now, it was a possibility that I had underestimated the extent of the damage. Nothing of value to me had been stolen —aside from some money, I doubted that anyone found anything else worth taking —but that was the least of my worries. I had to fix the roof. I had to think about restocking.

Contacting my insurer was out of the question. I had received a call the day before yesterday informing me of the death of most of the company's staff.

I was on my own.

Not that I was unaccustomed to that. Even through a pampered childhood; my every move monitored; and being surrounded by Dreamcatchers and immortals...I had been lonely. Always believing that maybe if I tried harder, reached the level of Magenta —I would at last be content. But it was never enough.

So I shared in that desperation. The urge to rebuild, and make something of myself once more.

What had happened to Georgia, however, I could not comprehend the logic of it. I glanced down at her, just as she wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. I could not hold back the cringe in my expression.

The teenager looked me up and down. Even in my simple government-issued black clothing I still remained prim compared to everything around me. I sighed, tucking a stray curl of hair behind my ear.

I had an aversion to dirt.

Anything that caused a mess, or that was prone to make cleaning difficult, was repulsive. It was not that I avoided becoming dirty —I simply preferred not to stay that way. Down to a single fleck of mud; I would slip into a frenzy over it when I was at my worst.

I would have to stomach the idea of being dirty for prolonged periods of time now.

Georgia noticed it —the way I fiddled with my hair, or self-consciously brushed my arm to remove the dust there. I was stiff and uptight.

"It's closed," Georgia then said, coming to a halt. "And the door's been boarded up."

I peered through the dusty window riddled with wide fractures. "No one is inside, barricaded or otherwise. Perhaps it is abandoned."

"Or they died," Georgia offered flatly.

I did not want to think about that.

My gaze then sharpened as I spotted the shelf with tarpaulin-grams. "If no one is here, then we will have to force our way inside."

I did not like it, but the situation called for urgency.

"But how?" I wondered aloud.

"I can kick it," offered the teenager.

I knocked on the glass. Though it was not the strongest, there was a reason that it only had cracks to show for inflicted damage. "...You might need more than the force of your foot to break it."

"How about a rock?" she suggested —before proceeding to bend down, pick up a stone, and launch.

It barely hit, and dropped to the ground.

"Damnit," she hissed. "I can't throw properly with my right hand. Bloody useless."

Her dominant arm was in no shape to throw.

I looked down at my own arms. Pain from the burns still writhed in them, but if I took on my male form instead, I would be able to hurl a rock large and hard enough to smash a hole in the glass.

I dropped the bag hanging on my shoulder and took a step backwards. Georgia looked on with surprise as I stood up straight —and inhaled sharply.

Everything abruptly went black. Then small balls of purple light danced in the expanse. We called it the In-Between. The state where a Dreamcatcher, is simply a dreamcatcher; bits of wood and feather.

I knew that I was on the ground at Georgia's feet; a ring of woven purple velvet and black string with dangling dark feathers. Hanging from the ring, were a little moon and two stars. A sun gleamed atop the middle feather. Of course, I had never quite seen it myself.

I only had dull photographs.

My consciousness wafted between two poles. Male and female. Though I favoured female, there was a different charm in the male physique. One that no one before had seemed to understand that I saw.

I concentrated on broader shoulders; muscles cording my often spindly arms and legs; narrower hips, before imagining an increase in height. And I added my favourite touch: a strong jaw and trimmed beard.

The In-Between then collapsed —and I found Georgia fallen backwards onto the tar, staring up at me with wide ekanite green eyes.

She was still speechless as I reached for a sizeable rock. My muscles pulled, my skin screamed in agony, but I bore it long enough to lift the rock and hurl it towards the glass window. It shattered on impact —and almost disintegrated in light of the preexisting cracks.

I smiled in triumph, and rolled my shoulders.

"Purple," Georgia hissed.

I glanced over to where she remained on the ground, her hands clenched into fists and her brows furrowed as though she were in pain. "What is it?" I asked.

My voice was deeper; rougher.

"You're...shirtless."

For the first time since I had reformed, I looked down at myself. I had not thought ahead; when I changed my appearance so spontaneously, it would mean that I had no change of clothes. All that had managed to survive the transformation, was the knee-up portion of my jogging pants along with my shoes.

Though they did sting at the toes with tightness.

"...So I am," I murmured. I glanced into the shop. "I can get some clothes from in there."

Georgia shakily got up and dusted her hands, before marching by me and gingerly climbing inside past the broken glass. "Please do," she quipped.

An unpleasant feeling settled in my stomach. Did this...my transformation...did I repulse her after all?

I then hissed as the sensation of newfound tightness from the bandages registered. I flexed my fingers as a coping mechanism. I was unsure, but there might be some First Aid supplies in the store. If not, the pain could be bearable until we returned.

Sighing, I then climbed in after Georgia.

author's note |
this is literally the fastest i've ever updated in a row.