The following days, the lovely and welcoming house in which the apprentice lived carried the strong odour of fabric dye. Wide containers of dark liquids were set across the building, though the favoured room for the task was the bathroom. Gone were the floral scents, or even those of caramel and vanilla that always clinged in every corner of the house.
Purpose had been given after the creation of the flower crown, which she did not dare to remove from her head. The darkened blooms remained on the snow white locks at all times to be placed aside only during rest, which lasted little. After all, Celysiel did not dare to dream, nor let herself sit and waste time in thoughts and mourning. It was drowned beneath the long list of tasks that needed to be done, all distractions. On the top of them all was the removal of that sleeping gown throned on her skin those three days, replaced by another after a quick shower. There was the care of her beloved hair, as well as her legs that were still suffering the aftermath of her decision of jumping from the window. They needed to be ready within a week's time, so the moment that the map would arrive, nothing would keep her to the Kingdom.
Wandering in the house needed to be done with great care, for there was no place that hints and ghosts of the swordsman did not reside. On the third day she did her best to ignore the fact that ingredients that she had never purchased meant for the creation of a chocolate cake were placed in the kitchen. For her now gone birthday and all to come, she did not have the indifference of yore, but a strong aversion. Never would the third day of autumn be one dear to her again. Thaelen's belongings she did not touch, or move, but had practiced in not looking at them, as if the slumbering pain would be lessened. At least it would not awaken, hence failing to get in the way of her plans.
The very third day, she had started going through the belongings of her deceased mother, sparing no time to linger in nostalgic memories born in happier times, the days of innocence. Of course she was well aware of the latent touches of sorrow. No matter how much she tried to push it away, a constant thought returned.
"It is the irony of life, little Ashfury - how fitting that you were born in autumn's embrace. Just as the leaves wither and abandon their tree, so do your loved ones from your life."
Yet as the leaves danced to the tune of coming winter and fled out of reach, her efforts continued. Dyandria's scent had long vanished from the fabrics, as if she had never existed. It was after all the fate of the dead to eventually be forgotten, even if sometimes more slowly than others. Her daughter soon found what she was after. Perhaps her mother's finest piece of clothing, one dating back to her younger days.
It was a wonderful attire consisting of the most wonderful violet white dress the apprentice had ever seen and the long, impressive overcoat in pale thread and dark crimson colour and long, wide sleeves. One of Dyandria's favourite belongings that she aimed to pass at her daughter when she would be the mistress of herself, be it through marriage and the beginning of a new family, or greatness in her enchanting career, since her parents had never known their daughter's true calling. In the time standing by Theradrim's side, many a time had Celysiel desired to claim these clothes so she could be worthy of the Magister. She had not dared and after her parents' death, as well as Dowling's twisted wonderland, it had been forgotten. It was the crown that had reminded her of it, for it begged for an attire worthy of its glory. But not in its present state.
The overcoat Celysiel had not dared touch. Its colour was ideal, hence the young elf did her best to keep it away from the buckets of the umbral dye, though the fate of the dress was not as merciful. Violet white was forever lost, purity dismissed. It did not phase the woman behind such a crime. She had once been imagined in lighter and brighter clothes, surrounded by the flowers she so adored. When that fantasy she had tried to realise however, catastrophe knocked on her door.
The next day was dedicated to the drying of the dress, as well as the correction of any errors. It was only then that Celysiel has finally turned to the wooden box adorned with emerald cloth. It was meant to be a jewellery box, but the young child that the apprentice once was had no care for that. Her love was to collect feathers. A few attempts to turn them into quills had been made, all abandoned. The habit however remained.
It was fitting that a use had been found at long last. All required was simply the soft touch of the dark dye and their colour would be no more. For the next few days, the apprentice did nothing more than add them on the precious overcoat. Some under her tight black corset, embracing the very beginning of the skirt. Some on the shoulders, a promise of elegance for an individual who had not cared about it before that moment.
During her work, never did the heart of her heart cease to poke against her skin, the metal cold and harsh. The last days were but a game or irony atop irony and Celysiel had no doubt that it would not end there. A bird of prey she had always wished to be and now the feathers of many she could wear.
As these decorative touches were added, the elf burdened by youth could not help but entertain herself with the insight of a madman regarding the workings of fate and - as an ego inflated just for a moment dared remind her - a destiny of greatness.
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