Difference between revisions of "Octavia Grigore/Background/1660s"
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| − | I | + | I sat silent, every nerve taut as a wolf’s, watching her across the lantern-lit veranda. “By God,” I blurted, “what happened next?” |
| − | Octavia | + | Octavia drew a slow breath. The vines shivered under a ghostly breeze, as though nature herself held her breath. Her eyes, pale and distant, sought some secret beyond the dark rows. |
| − | + | “Fire,” she said, and the single word fell like an axe. “They swept in with torches—ragged peasants driven mad by hunger and rage, their faces twisted in hate. Banners snapped in the smoke like dying sails. They struck our home, the gardens, the ancient oak—all swallowed in hellfire.” | |
| − | Her | + | Her fingertips clenched the wine glass so barely that only a hawk might spy the tremor. It was a crack in her armor that few ever glimpse. |
| − | + | “My father met them head-on—brave, but foolhardy. I huddled behind a marble column, heart pounding like a trapped animal. He bellowed commands that thundered into the inferno and vanished. And my mother…” Octavia’s breath caught, a thin, deliberate gasp. “She came to me, calm as a winter dawn, eyes bright with sorrow and resolve. ‘Run, Octavia,’ she whispered. ‘Hide. Don't look back.’” | |
| − | + | A wash of sandalwood and crushed roses drifted from her hair, bitter and sweet. Her voice sank to a hush heavy with memory. | |
| − | + | “Of course, I did look. At the forest’s edge I watched the flames hunt down everything I knew. I saw my father crumple, sword in hand. I saw them seize my mother, drag her into the firelight—her gaze locked on mine until smoke and shadow claimed her.” | |
| − | + | She lifted her face. In the lantern glow, centuries of control slipped, and for a heartbeat she was only flesh and bone, haunted and raw. | |
| − | I blinked | + | The night held its breath again. The vineyard lay still beneath a sky of cold stars. |
| + | |||
| + | I blinked, voice small in the hush: “Did they—did any of them survive? What happened after?” | ||
Latest revision as of 18:17, 18 April 2025
I sat silent, every nerve taut as a wolf’s, watching her across the lantern-lit veranda. “By God,” I blurted, “what happened next?”
Octavia drew a slow breath. The vines shivered under a ghostly breeze, as though nature herself held her breath. Her eyes, pale and distant, sought some secret beyond the dark rows.
“Fire,” she said, and the single word fell like an axe. “They swept in with torches—ragged peasants driven mad by hunger and rage, their faces twisted in hate. Banners snapped in the smoke like dying sails. They struck our home, the gardens, the ancient oak—all swallowed in hellfire.”
Her fingertips clenched the wine glass so barely that only a hawk might spy the tremor. It was a crack in her armor that few ever glimpse.
“My father met them head-on—brave, but foolhardy. I huddled behind a marble column, heart pounding like a trapped animal. He bellowed commands that thundered into the inferno and vanished. And my mother…” Octavia’s breath caught, a thin, deliberate gasp. “She came to me, calm as a winter dawn, eyes bright with sorrow and resolve. ‘Run, Octavia,’ she whispered. ‘Hide. Don't look back.’”
A wash of sandalwood and crushed roses drifted from her hair, bitter and sweet. Her voice sank to a hush heavy with memory.
“Of course, I did look. At the forest’s edge I watched the flames hunt down everything I knew. I saw my father crumple, sword in hand. I saw them seize my mother, drag her into the firelight—her gaze locked on mine until smoke and shadow claimed her.”
She lifted her face. In the lantern glow, centuries of control slipped, and for a heartbeat she was only flesh and bone, haunted and raw.
The night held its breath again. The vineyard lay still beneath a sky of cold stars.
I blinked, voice small in the hush: “Did they—did any of them survive? What happened after?”
