Fiona did not think to the damage of her home, of the precious memories left from her childhood, of the items she had kept that had once belonged to her father. She did not think to what might be left afterwards, if anything at all. Did not think to the minutes, hours, years spent in the kitchen, chopping, measuring, cooking, nor the ones spent on the very rug that had started the blaze, learning to write at her father’s tutelage. The lavender and wildflower girl thought of nothing but the strangled, feral beating of her heart in response to her fear. Somewhere above the din of the fire Fiona thought she heard her name called. Was she imagining it? She did not know.

When she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, her eyes did not find the shadow of someone outside the window, too wild with thoughts of the flames consuming all the spaces behind her. Perhaps if she had she may have stopped, may not have gone so recklessly forward, but instead she breathed in, braced herself and leapt. Barely clearing the small table, Fiona just managed to tuck her nose against her chest before crashing straight through the window. It cracked unceremoniously, not shattering into small pieces but splintering into knife like shards. Most of them fell away in front of her, falling to the ground. Pieces above her began to shiver and shake, losing their grip in the frame. They started to fall just as the last of her body made it through, fortunately skimming past her rear legs without hitting them directly.

Fiona hit the ground with a heavy breath escaping her, adrenaline pumping swiftly through her veins. For a moment she laid and did not move, fearing she might pass out as the edges of her vision began to darken. Eventually, the roaring, buzzing sound in her mind faded and the world returned to her. Groggily, she attempted to stand. Behind her animals streamed out of the now broken window and into the streets of the court, escaping the fire still burning up her home. Even the mother fox, her two kits being dragged along, disappeared down the street.

The lavender girl looked up and there, swimming in her vision, was someone oh so familiar to her and yet still such a mystery. Atreus, and if the words could have slipped past her tongue they would have fallen to the ground with such softness. Still, her lips parted, a silent cry for help. She rose to her feet, taking her first step toward him, and then another, when she stumbled. It was only then that she felt the heavy cloak of burning pain. What she had thought was rain rolling down her side was not rain at all but blood. The cut spanned almost the length of her barrel, deeper in the middle and tapering off at either end, and all the other small scrapes and lacerations over her body paled in comparison. Though not fatal, it bled heavily, the result of being slashed by a broken piece of glass on her way through the window.

For awhile, looking at the way the rain washed the blood away, turning her lavender and alabaster coat to violet and pink, Fiona thought she might lose consciousness. She breathed in again, much more slowly this time, and once more pushed herself to a standing position. Her legs wavered, unsure if they would hold her, but she would not fall again. Atreus’ face swam in her vision and she closed her eyes, furrowing her brow. Focus, she told herself, we need to get away from here. Although the heavy rains would begin to douse the fire they were still unsafe. She gave no thought to how far she might get like this.

My poor girl Atreus (he might want to get out of the way)