Once upon a time, when she had been but a small, golden-eyed, cherub-faced child, the sound of thunder had frightened her, while the display of lightning had been a source of sheer delight. And a hundred years later, in her young adulthood--for time was a strange construct to beings of her race--the sound was still a terrifying ordeal, and the light a great comfort.

And what of now? So many centuries after the fact--the abuse of recklessly ambitious parents and a disgustingly violent extended family fed by the corrupted founts of power--what remained of that little girl?

“Nothing,” she said aloud, and droplets of water that had collected upon her face rolled into her suddenly parted lips.

Not the taste of blood. Not the hearty warmth and intoxicating clarity that came with it. Just water--just nothing.

“Nothing,” she repeated, her head tilting as strands of soaking hair fell across her brow to cover nearly half her face. The black tendrils transformed into an obsidian-like substance under the weight of water. The tilt of her head was a consideration, followed by a narrowing of her eyes as she mused, “...perhaps, everything?”

Was she really any different from that frightened child?

It was fear that had forced her hand, and it was the promise of light--an ending to the darkness--that had sealed the tragic fate of all the people of Orisia. She was a miserable coward who had hidden for too long behind the façade of a tragic hero. But there was no pang of pain at this acknowledgment. She had come to these conclusions at least a hundred times before, for at least a hundred days in counting—perhaps even longer.

Gabriela had come to accept both what she was and what she was not.

A pale hand, leached of any semblance of color, reached out and touched the rough surface of the bark upon a tree. She didn’t need to steady herself; she was not dizzy or suddenly overcome with emotion to such a degree that her limbs felt weak. However, she did feel herself sway upon the edge of dissociation, and she could not afford to dip away into the blissful numbness that came with forgetting everything.

The rain was threatening to let up just enough to let the morning sunshine break through the tumultuous black clouds overhead. She could feel the sting of it against her cheeks—the heat of the glorious sun. And she, who was now made of nothing more than ice and glass, found the threatening heat to be an absolute inferno. Though she might be deserving of death for her more despicable attributes, she had not sunk low enough to engage in physically self-harming behaviors. The psychological warfare she waged against herself was more than enough.

In her tattered rags—a soaked-through tunic of black, a pair of fitted breeches torn and ripped in various places, drenched leather boots, and a cloak that clung to her form and outlined her small figure as a thing of dense darkness--Gabriela turned away from the sight of a familiar lake. Yes, she had been here before, and yes, something tragic and beautiful had happened here, in a lovely cabin across the way. Somewhere—perhaps similar, perhaps not really here. Her mind was a great expanse, mostly hidden by fog.

She couldn't recall, but she didn't truly want to.

The sun was coming, and the clouds were rolling over themselves, threatening uncertainty, whether they would remain or dissipate. So she sought out the safety of that distant, abandoned building. But when she came upon it, she found it different from the image in her memories. This place was not warm and comforting; it was small and rundown, not the prison where she had spent a happy handful of days once upon a time.

She climbed up rotting wooden steps, careful not to break through the weakened material, and then crossed a creaking, tired deck that had been drowning under the rain for weeks. The door was locked, but she easily forced it open with a push of her shoulder. Into the dusty interior she went, where what was left of the furniture was hidden under thin sheets colored gray by age and dirt. Past the sitting room, into a dark hall, and into a bedroom where the curtains had rotted away and revealed a large glass window that would welcome all the light of day. Not a suitable place to rest. Not the sort of place a vampyre needed. She turned away and sought another space, a small bathroom at the end of the hall. The window was small here, and her cloak was more than enough to cover it.

Gabriela did not shiver as she climbed into the porcelain bathtub. Her slender limbs did not quake as she leaned back in her sopping wet clothes. She did not seek comfort or adjust her position. Instead, she lay flat on her back with her knees bent and her arms crossed over her stomach. She breathed in deeply the smell of mold and of the magic of things turning back into dirt. A sickening smell.

There was a flash of lightning, but she didn’t see it. It wasn’t until the thunder crashed that she jolted, though the movement was contained within the tub. Not a sound spilled from her lips. But it was with this fear, suddenly gripping her heart, that her golden eyes closed, and she found some semblance of sleep.