She'd been there, begging and weeping through every scream of her father and every crunch of bone as they smashed his legs again and again. He hadn't fought back to defend himself, nor his family when the thugs who burst into their home grabbed his daughters and hauled them off, never to be seen again. In the darkness that followed, among the broken glass and trails of blood, she whimpered, wide eyed and unblinking beside her fathers broken body. No help would come. There’d be no reprieve. Salvation lost.
Then and there, she'd vomited on the stone steps of their cottage.
Everything changed after that day.
After a few months, whatever wealth they had left was eaten up by food needs and the medical supplies to tend to her fathers injuries. It’d taken months before Jhaan attempted to walk again, and a year before he could amble about without assistance. With a home still in shambles, and no source of livable wage, Aelin had declared she would start hunting to provide for them - the tiny, insignificant, fire-eyed child.
Jhaan hadn't argued.
A small part of her had hoped that he would look upon his last daughter and find the will to stand up from that spot by the hearth. Instead, he hadn't bothered to move, didn't bother to look, allowing her to wander off into that dangerously eerie forest that even seasoned Lupo were wary of traversing alone.
But if she wanted to survive she’d have to figure it out, she would have to adapt. Through that lesson she’d learned of her own source of power, her strength of will. She wouldn’t let herself succumb to anger, or waste time and effort feeling sorry for herself, she’d work her fingers to the bone and dance with Aerðs himself if it came down to it.
After fourteen years of trial and error she was no longer the little girl who whimpered in the corner. She’d never be a victim again, and had long given up hope on Jhaan. Whatever chance of him becoming the man he was, long passed. His addled mind left him incognizant most days, save those when recognition would finally glow in his expression. The former Alpha would offer signs of gratitude for the work she performed - hobbling around incessantly on his gimp legs, attempting to help prepare whatever kill she'd brought home.
Those days were the hardest.
The once Great Alpha, who couldn't manage to lift a carving knife properly, was struck with rage and confusion of his own inabilities. Mercifully today, he was content to stare at their hearth and pretend she didn't exist, bundled in his threadbare blanket and mumbling nonsense.
She kicked her boots against the stone door frame, knocking the snow from them, bits of ice falling free from the gray stones. Blinking past the brightness of the fire inside, she moved to unload the doe from her shoulders, its lifeless body hitting the wooden table with a thud.
That was when it finally hit her.
With the stench of the doe right next to her nose, the smell of a charnel house was masked. There was no body that she could see, but there'd definitely been one.
A third body in only two weeks was making this occurrence much too common. Turning, she slid onto the floor next to her fathers chair where he warmed himself. He didn’t flinch as she edged around him, his blank gaze staring ahead. Hollowed out cheeks and bloodless lips marked a once handsome face. Orange eyes that had once shone with the same fiery vengeance as hers, now seemed utterly dull and nearly brown - reminding her of something akin to grave dirt.
Gingerly, she lifted his hand to examine the nail beds for signs of crusted blood, his lips curling back, emanating a deep snarl from within his chest in warning.
“I know this winter hasn’t been easy, but you can’t keep doing this.” she said, like a mother scolding a young child of little understanding, setting down his hand without the slightest flicker of emotion as she gazed on this broken, carved-out thing her father had become. “Now I’ll have to go into the village tomorrow and see how much damage you’ve wrought.” a sigh, “I guess until summer arrives, I’ll just have to start giving you my portions.” Her back straightened, almost too tired to stand, bracing a hand on the arm of the chair to help her back on her feet, gaze shifting to the doe that still needed cleaning and prepping.
Pushing her hand against her belly, she tried to ignore the ache, the fatigue that made her want to collapse, resolving that she’d have to get by on the rest of the scraps from her last kill.
A few more years and he’d be gone, if he could somehow manage to outlast the sickness, leaving no sign that he’d ever been there.
She inhaled, leaving to sharpen her knives.
Adapt, survive. It was the way of life
