❆ à la folie.

The terrain shifted with the wind and it was with the disruption of the earth that Vanille roused from her slumber, a layer of snow dappling her long coat. Somewhere, someway, she'd shed the heavy weight atop her head—her tied antlers forgotten in the place of a new future. Or, it would seem, an old one.

Layered beneath the snow and intermingled with the heady scent of pine lay the remnants of her home, the taint of Philos ever-apparent despite how long she'd spent away. Lost, taken, Vanille wasn't privy to the details, simply thrown to and fro with the will to adapt wherever she wound up.

But much like her home, she had changed. Harsher, stronger, sharper, the sweet and tender medic that befell the dangers of winter had returned without the same desires. Her perseverance had strengthened and her love for hope had failed, fallen flat as she froze into the new home—the now old home.

She no longer cared enough to help others at the expense of herself, and instead found herself thrilled by the idea of exacting revenge, at the first thirst of a spar. She was different. Snow fell from her frame as she rose to her feet, lingering patches remaining as they intermingled with the frozen tufts of her fur.

Instead of exploring, the woman would opt to wait before intruding on her past, taking in the harsh slopes of the mountain with a careful gaze.

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The sunrises were different. Though not in sight or sound, the silence ever-prevailing, but in smell and feeling. She'd enjoyed them once upon a time, scraping herself raw to reach the highest point if only so that she could catch a glimpse of the mountain's wake. The echoes of light and deep giggles resounded within her mind—faint and strained. A different life, a different reality. A better one, she couldn't be sure, but one distant and intangible all the same.

As if on cue, her childhood slithered across the snow, biting at her ankles and making everything so significantly colder. They'd known each other since birth, the solace to each other's chaos, and it was only now that she'd begun to realize how truly little he knew of her. Cassian Vasiliev. Ian. Her gaze was hollow when it settled on him, every memory spent falling so simply into the snow around them.

"Ian." He hadn't changed, certainly not in all the time she'd been away. Perhaps he looked sadder, empty in a way she was unused to, but it was no mere days she was gone. And she'd changed—it was no surprise he did too.

Her gaze turned back to the mountains, her frame unmoving even despite his presence being every wind bound to pull her to her knees. "Nothing has changed." She remarked lightly. "I don't know why I expected it to."

Perhaps she'd wished, in all the time she'd spent gone, that something could've changed alongside her. That even with her absence—one she had no choice in—everything didn't remain the same. That she was as much as the glue as Ian was.

"You look older." Tired. What happened to him?

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Something was undoubtedly amiss. Concealed by months of snowfall, fabricated in the face of unruliness, or plain malice—Vanille didn't know. In the absence of raw truth, she would remain prosecuted. Legs and arms bound by falsified crimes Cassian had pulled from her absence, as if he had a right, as if he truly knew her.

Tarnished, squandered, forgotten—her reputation and spirit may as well have been broken the moment he dictated she was no longer worth remembering. Should she have remained under his care, protected beneath his wing, that carelessness might've destroyed her now. Should she have remained, seeing him as a memory of the very thing he never wished to become, that might've killed her.

But Vanille was not a pawn to be played. His change of heart was not something to be blamed on her absence but on his own accords, she wouldn't stand for the blame now. "Боги," — The Gods, She would start in a gentle drawl, her eyes carelessly sweeping across the scape ahead. "Чаще радуемся своему несчастью, чем нет." — delight in our misfortune more often than not. But he was well-acclimated with the gods, was he not? Forged from the very bones that built him his throne. A new world didn't change that.

His remark likely would've sent the older Vanille careening into his arms, desperate for reassurance—something, anything. This one, this one had quickly come to terms with the fact that as much as it looked the same—everything was different. "No. No, I think that might've broken my heart too much if it did."

Her eyes fell to him, but they were swift in their leave as he swept into her proximity. What should've felt warm was overpowered by the cold surrounding them, and his usual scent that she could've drowned in only sent her nose wrinkling in a brief spat of distaste. He was a shell of the friend she fell in love with, a husk of the man she'd adored. What remained could rot for all she cared.

"She is dead." Vanille had mourned herself, but it was a weaker part of her she lost. Cassian had simply blinded her into believing that weakness—her entire being—was okay. She knew better now. "But so did you." She spoke after him, her features hardening. "You don't get to blame me for this shortcoming, so what happened to you?"

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Vanille was practically seething. Let him think her a fool. Let him think himself the only one to ever carry pain, to ever witness it. When they’d arrived here, it was her who lost her loving family, it was her who’d been dragged away with her soul kicking and screaming. He was the fool and she would bear the name no longer. Vanille’s entire being roared in the face of his presence.

Pity me, his words cooed to her. See my misery, they practically yelled. But she’d been cast her own net of hurt, and it’d snagged on every pretty part of herself until she was nothing but ripped skin and broken shards.

He needed her sympathy? He needed her excuses and explanations? Let him force them from her mouth, then; press his pretty little claws to her throat and rip the words from her that he wished to hear. He was no coward, so why should he put the facade up now?

They'd both drawn swords and unsheathed them just enough to threaten each other with the telltale shine of metal, but it was not she who fully withdrew. He'd pulled it and he'd aimed it, but she pressed her muscle into the blade. If he wished to wield it, let it be made useful. Let it be painted like it should, as hers should.

The woman's breath left her in a shuddering motion, her anger carving fistfuls of hate in a hand choking her throat. Words meant to ease the situation, to defuse, fell flat in the face of his own remarks. “You sound like a petulant little boy, whining after a toy that's been taken from him.” He questions her heart? Her spirit? Let him remember this.

Her movements were swift, yearning and wanting in a way that steered clear of desire and instead wasted away in a dance with hate. He was larger than her, breathed into the movements to defend and offend, but Vanille had been taught her own measures. Passion guided her, passion moved her, and that passion yearned for her to best him—to show him she was not some little girl he could push around any longer. Besotted, she hadn't been in a long time. But even her passion left chance for his own talents, and though Vanille aimed to pin him, knocking into his side as he pulled away, she was prepared for his quick offense. Either way, pinned or not, her point would remain the same.

He didn't deserve to look down at her. Didn't deserve to mock her where there wasn't anything worthy of mockery. “You are a fool! Perhaps I should blame your father for that trait, feeding you on that silver spoon you find yourself so attached to. Gods forbid, something is taken from you. I was not yours! Let yourself remember that when you think of the engagement you sought to continue when the kingdom was lost. You did not claim me, so you don't get to control me.” She shook where she stood above him, spittle flying in her momentary fit before she was stepping away. Her shoulders lifted in controlled breaths.

“I was taken from the Vale. I fought, and simply because you do not see the scars with your eye, does not make them any less there. I am riddled with pain, with a life shoved into my throat. I either accepted it, or I perished, you don't get to discredit me just because I am not the girl who fawned over the prince she fell in love with. The friend who no longer stands in front of me now.” Vanille laughed into the Vale.

Insane, she felt. Lifted and free, she was embraced by the tendrils of cold against heated skin. “But yes, let us pity the King who lost one of his pawns.” It was uttered to him over her back, sturdy steps guiding her back to the rough cliffside.

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