You remember your parents sighing when the fall came, because the cold would be there soon. Your mother would knit you all knew mittens and a hat, black hat for your head, a color to match your pink head and blue gloves because that’s your favorite color. You were excited because fall was great and all the leaves fall down and you played with your mom and dad in the leaves and there’s laughter and you’re happy. The seasons would change and instead of the leaves small snowflakes would flurry down and land on the ground.
( “Sherry! Put your hat on! It’s snowing and Jack Frost will nip your nose!”
Jack Frost huh? With a small whine you relent to your mother’s commands and place on the hat atop your prettypink hair and run out to the snow. Jack Frost seemed to be a name for winter, someone who nipped people’s noses and lived forever in the cold. You liked him, you decided, there was something rebellious in liking the winter. It would fight back. Autumn was still your favorite season, but Winter was the time to rebel.)
You remember the first, and only, time you got frostbite. It was ugly looking and painful, and your mother fussed so much. Your father merely shook his head and asserted there was no medicine, Sherry, and questioned without expecting an answer (which would annoy you, but you would stick your tongue out anyway) why didn’t you wear your gloves? He too, fussed, and they both reminded you almost every second it could have been avoided. Your hands are too important for your magic, father said, take better care of them. That week was pretty weird, but it eventually went away. And you vowed to never injure her hands again.
Your remembered the flame. The ash. The destruction of all that you ever loved. The demon’s roars penetrated the night air and the footsteps shook the floors, the ceiling, the entire house and you. No one was safe, and your mother held onto to you before kissing your forehead. The roof was gone a second later and she threw you away from her and you watched as the demon’s giant, toobig hands took swiped your mother away. Your father screamed, and he, too, followed his wife in death. It was almost poetic, expect for the fact you lost both your parents like it was nothing. Your world was ending and there was fire everywhere. Your magic, your developing magic, did not help much at all. You couldn’t magic your parents alive, now could you? For they weren’t dolls. Even if your mother looked like the doll you threw across the room just the other day in her final seconds of life.
( The smell of burning flesh was strong that day, and the screams continued and the beast roared. You hidandhidandhid until a few people roamed the town. It was days after your parent’s death and the smell was getting to you, really.
The first person you saw was an old short woman with a huge hair style and she looked at your grimly and offered her hand.
Her name was Ooba Babasaama)
You remember autumn coming, and for some reason, you still liked the season. This year, though, three years after your family’s death---no, you correct yourself---murdered, three years after your family was murdered and the gloves finally became too small. You wept like a child, well, you were a child, and it was Jura who found you. Crying over a pair of toosmall blue gloves. He was understanding and suggested you could keep them in a box.
(You stored them away, along with the hat and the outfit you wore, all made by your mother, in a box that was in a box that was in a safe in your closet. Locked away, kept safe. Just like your memories of them.)
You remember meeting those like you, as in, people who have lost their families to Deliora. The demon now as a name, the fire now as a name as well as a face. Yuka Suzuki and Tobi Horhorta. You like them well enough, and they make you laugh. You like Lamia Scale, you decided, a long time ago. But Lamia Scale with Yuka and Tobi was Lamia Scale with family, as well.
(When it was rumored Deliora was encased in ice, you smiled and wondered who did it.)
Now, this is a meeting that changed your perspective on fire and ice. Fire, was something you learned long ago was badbadbad and nothing good came from it. Fire burned things, and burning did not smell good. Fire was what Deliora surrounded itself with and that demon was gone, but it was still, and always will be evilevilevil.
(But the man who was trying to revive Deliora to actually kill it, he used ice. And Ice was good, you learned, even after the frostbite experience. If Jack Frost had a face, it would be pointed deepbluesad eyes, slightly chapped lips that usually frowned, but man, when they smiled it was beautiful, framed by the hair as white as pure, clean and untouched snow. If Jack Frost was a real person, he’d be Lyon Vastia, you think, because Lyon seemed to be ice&winter and that was what nipped people’s noses, yes?
But Lyon nipped your heart.)
You remember seeing hope again, hope anew for the third time in your life. The first was when you gripped Master Ooba’s hand. The second was when you followed Yuka and Tobi to get revenge, and now, it would be Lyon askign you about Lamia Scale. Home. Because it meant he was changing, it meant that you could move on not alone, like before, but with others. It was a good moment, you decide, and you like that moment because when you return to Lamia Scale and you take Master Ooba’s hand, she spins you like crazy and you laughlaughlaugh and feel at home.
(Yuka and Tobi get spun too, and Lyon looks out of place, but like he belongs at the same time. It’s nice, tobeback.)