Latent Troubles: Red Snow

"Everything's fine. I'm just tired."

- Cyzarine

A/N: Warning, character-centric. Warning, slow build up. Warning, messy and sporadic writing. Warning, amateur.

Just writing to waste time irl.

Her cousins have been frantically plowing through the snow, ignoring the squall of snowflakes tumbling over their heads that morning. Brunhilde ponders whether or not to offer help, since her power can easily sweep off the mound a matter of seconds. Family helps each other, right? But after giving them another look, she decidedly discards the idea. They would've asked already if they wanted her help.

Letting out a sigh, the eleven-year-old heiress buries her bruised knuckle in the snow, relishing what remains of her fading respite. Like her busy cousins, she has also kept herself preoccupied; searching for her eye-patch amongst the tinctures of crimson streaks and twigs scattered across the ivory glade. Her skin would tingle every time her hair prickles the empty eye socket. More often than not, she would feel gazes piercing through her tattered winter coat; sometimes spitefully, sometimes grudgingly. Regardless, none of her cousins dare to interact with the Engelnacht heiress.

She did entombed her other cousin by accident; so that takes priority.

Since the establishment of the Bluthardt family, it has been a tradition for the young generation to push each other to the limits; getting hurt merely equates to room for improvement. But as an estranged relative and an outsider, Brunhilde is well aware that she's not exactly in a favorable position to deliver an educational lecture- or beating up a cousin, in layman's term. Not only did the offender ruined her peaceful morning of strolling and taking pictures, but also her ears; listening to a high-pitched voice, laced with too much honey that would've put a Nevermore's screech in shame. She’d politely asked her cousin to speak like a normal human, countless times if she remembers correctly. But for some reason her cousin will grow more infuriated, then force her to listen more to that voice while harassing her with fireballs.

Diplomacy, failed. Brunhilde had no choice; so she shoved a fistful of snow down the throat, with a touch of mini avalanche-by-Semblance bomb, to hammer the final nail in the coffin. It was for the best really, for sanity's sake, but she feels that she's gone a little bit overboard this time.

Catching a glimpse of the eye-patch, Brunhilde is about to pluck it off when she spots a fluffy-looking white beanie, in which a pair of round ears sticks out. A puff of white smoke escapes her lips, her brows creasing at the head wear too small to fit her head, but she picks it up as well. Looks like she’s done here.

Suddenly, the group heave a collective sigh of relief, catching Brunhilde’s attention.

In the midst of the swarm lays a blond-haired girl with pig ears, limbs splayed helplessly across the snow dyed in red. Young and unconscious, the girl could've been mistaken for a sleeping princess, waiting to be kissed. But with swollen face, missing teeth, broken nose, worn clothes, the prince might opt to kiss a real pig.

Three teens immediately nurse the girl's wounds, two others rise to face Brunhilde, one speaks up; an older girl with fiery red hair glaring at her.

“Do you anything to say for yourself, Engelnacht?” She growls.

Ugh, really? Brunhilde rolls her eye. She starts trudging over a rock where her camera is. “Say what? That I shouldn't have defended myself? Okay.”

“Watch your tone when talking to someone older than you,” Another girl interjected, quite young and standing beside the older one like a minion. She points a finger at the Engelnacht heiress. “And what you just did is bad. Very, very excessive! The headmistress won't happy when she finds out!”

“Excessive? Truly?” Brunhilde almost chortles, if it wasn't for the spray of red that had spattered from her nose. At that, she twirls the white beanie with a finger, as though waving a little flaglet, her chin tilting upwards. “So stealing a beanie from a six year old girl and making her cry isn't excessive?”

The young heiress swivels her head, watching the cretins’ expressions morph into irritation and surprise at the sight of the object. No different from their parents, she concludes, remembering the time when she first met her uncles and aunties. It isn't only her who was outed because of their unpleasant origins.

Pleased with their responses, Brunhilde’s mind quickly drifts back to the blondie, recalling a certain feature.

If I'm going to do the time, I might as well do the crime

“Oh, I mean I'm terribly sorry, milady. I confess that I’m ill-informed,” The Engelnacht heiress smirks, putting a hand over her mouth. “That we give swines a royal treatment.”

“You-”

“What the fuck did you just say?!”

“Hey!”

In an instant, Auras flare fiercely, followed by the heavy stomps of boots hitting the snow. Those who remain calm rise swiftly; grabbing the hot headed ones just in time, telling them that it's not worth it. Brunhilde huffs, regarding them with condescending look. And soon she retreats from the crime scene, threats of childish revenge and curses all lost in the morning frigid winds.

Danger averted, for now. Escape, success.

After trudging through the snow, the young heiress glances behind, lilac eye flicking between the pine trees and white boulders. No movements, save for the falling snowflakes. She continues trekking, her tender flesh shivering under the tattered winter jacket.

Brunhilde has been following a path, led by uneven gashes emblazoned on the wooden trunks. She'd carved them while giving a chase earlier, so that she wouldn’t get lost in the jungle of snowy maze when retracing her steps. Everything here almost look the same; pine trees, snow, white mounds, and then more pine trees, snow, white mounds. At first look, there are no distinguishable terrains and trees; as if the forest is designed to keep intruders out.

If one is lucky though, they'd probably come across a signage with a rotting human skull on top. If the goddess of fortune is smiling down at them, they'll find themselves looking at a little girl standing on top of an adult polar bear, meticulously dusting off snow from the signage and the skull. That, or replacing the human skull with something interesting.

For example, a grotesque skull with ram horns, which the young heiress now holds gaze with fascination. It sits quietly on top of the signage, its empty eyes dissecting every mortals that crosses its sight, watching out for those who would dare to touch its charge. Underneath it sat the little girl, with a worn human skull to her right, and then a classic guitar to her right. Atop her shamrock green curls is a handful of snow, perhaps accumulated for not moving for quite some time.

“When I said don’t move, I didn't mean literally,” Brunhilde deadpans, twirling the fluffy white beanie once again. “Oh well.~ At least you kept my guitar safe.”

The little girl jumps suddenly, wide blue eyes staring at the young heiress. Shortly, realization passes over her, and she waddles hurriedly over to the raven-haired girl, the instrument on the edge of scraping against the snow.

“Ah...” The girl says, eyes sparkling at the beanie. But upon seeing the young heiress’ appearance, her smile disappears quickly. Tilting her head up, she strains her white, bear paw mitten up to the slit running across Brunhilde's right eye.

“Ah…?”

“First time seeing it?”

“Mhm.”

“... You know, I could use a proper conversation. I did you a favor,” Brunhilde says, amused, feeling the soft fabric gently caressing her right face. Carefully, she takes the guitar and straps it over her right shoulder.

“But damn you cry so loud. This is payback!”

“Mah!”

Faking annoyance, the young heiress slips the beanie on the little girl's head, and squeezes the smooth baby cheeks, almost uncontrollably. Brunhilde couldn’t remember the last time she'd dealt someone younger than her this amiably. Most of the children she'd known were unbearable, particularly the ones in her family. So imagine her surprise- and initial irritation- when the small, little thing was forced upon her not too long ago.

The little girl flails and giggles, sticking a tongue out at Brunhilde. Soon, she makes a hurried noise and taps the other girl’s arms to let her go, to which the heiress obliges with a raised eyebrow. Using her mitten again, she points to their west, tugging the Brunhilde's sleeve like a kid in a candy store.

“Oh, righ- ow...” The heiress says, about to put her hands behind her head when she winces abruptly, sore muscles and wounds aching in protest. “You're gonna show me around your home.”

The little girl nods slowly with a worried expression again, eyes flickering at Brunhilde's bruised skin. Again, she pulls the sleeve and points at the same direction, anxiously this time.

“Okay, okay, don't worry about me. I'll live... Just don't make an ash out of me, alright?”

The little girl gives her a puzzled look.

“... ‘was a joke. Because your home is, you know- ugh. Nevermind, just lead the way!” Brunhilde ruffles her companion's head, before giving her a pat on the back. The little girl pouts, having to smooth down her messy hair and beanie.

And I’ll set the mood. How about something gothic? Humming to herself, Brunhilde taps around the sound hole, caressing the guitar’s neck to feel the thin, sturdy steel strings sliding under her fingers. Then she starts strumming, one by one; each note lingering in the air of the ever-silent woods.

Giving the signage a one last look, the little girl gathers up the rest of their belongings, the human skull going inside her knapsack. She snatches up a stone along the way, dashing after Brunhilde as red rays start shining down upon the forest.

Soon after, the rock flies from her hand, hitting the signage with a resounding clack. Snow shudders, unraveling the etched characters beneath.

''Columbarium. Proceed with caution.''