Chapter One: The Storm

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Chapter One: The Storm

(2) Antonio Vivaldi - Storm - YouTube

By Roz

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        She was dressed in blue meanwhile her sister always remained in red. A practice which never appeared to disturb the young rus as their mother would crane their faces to apply just enough powder onto their youthful complexions, forcing them to appear older than they were, both four and seven. A common hymn unsung as the huddled auvergne arched over them with the assortment of tools to sculpt their features to accommodate the society outside their nest; cheeks blushed, lips glossed, hair tousled, dresses puffed, wings flourished. A repetitive cycle which never seemed to overlap in all genuinity for everytime a new shade of lip appliance was introduced or a new lace ribbon to be fastened within the girl’s hair. Through all the torment of plucking and torment the girls would clutch each other's hand within their own, tolerating the trouble with each restrained squeeze every time a hair was whipped out from their crown due to a merciless swipe from the aged wooden brush. 

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        Emerentia had always gazed upon her sister and their older friends within the old abode of their street house back in Helena, watching as she play among the other girls outside with a mixture of dolls and sticks - wings sprouted in a vibrant shade of scarlet - feathers splayed as they flutter against the wing as she rush and jump. Always dressed in red the raven haired birdie would swarm about in an immaculate grace that could hardly be discerned, almost as regal as a royal or holy as a priest. As the fledgling arose from her cushioned security beside the window she peer from she would spread her wings of cerulean akin to the eldest sister outside, arms spread as she circled the base of the foyer in desperate hope to flutter like the crimson birdie. Yet as she remained trapped in her cage due to their pecking mother her heart sought to leap out and join her sister from afar, bound inside due to the soft lecturing of ‘being too young’ and ‘too stubborn’ for her own good. When the raven haired birdie returned to their nest she would always ensure the blue one never felt isolated or alone. She would grab her paints and hover before a canvas while requesting a whistling melody from the younger sister as she created a scene with her chirps - few claimed her a prodigy though she only cared for the smile and reaction from the older girl’s lips.

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        Eventually the two feathered sisters had grown older and their mother and father beckoned them to the edge of the nest’s door with luggage in hand before they were promptly and forcefully shoved out into a carriage of elegant wood and silver detailing. No words were spoken between the two as their stout governess with a bob of fiery tufts chattered away the entire way for the both of them. They had been closer to the caregiver than their own mother who opted to care for a set of pearls than a set of daughters, yet they did not care for this caregiver as they did for one another. As they were sent away into a school with floors of marble and walls of cream paper they did not sprout their wings or flutter as they used to, they idled and stared at one another as they were gradually wrenched apart. Shrill cries and pleads escape them as the tousled storm of blue and red arose from their mangled screams as they try to grapple onto another; feathers lost at their feet. Soon the two birdies were separated into confines of their own - one of wretched paint and canvas and another of aged and rotten instruments - all the best for the best yet decayed with wrath and ache. 

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          One day the youngest fledgling was summoned to their newfound home within Providence as their old home was no more, demolished by an onslaught of demonic beings who tore into her old nest full of her dearest sister. As she entered their new and quaint nest she could only smile vaguely as she allowed her wings to expand and flutter once more as she entered eagerly to inspect every contour and crevices surrounding her. However everywhere she went she felt encaged without the scarlet bird at her side, empty without the sight of their captivating wings, at a loss. Perhaps it was a blessing when the mother passed in a pool of blood and misery for the news of her sister returning home reached her ear from the confines of her father’s office as he struggled on his lonesome to take care of the household. The girl pressed a palm to her lips with a shudder of her feathered wings with overwhelming joy as the missing piece would soon return.

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        The day of the eldest girl’s return the young Emerentia could not prevent herself from crying tears of relief and jubilation for she would once more see the scarlet wings she missed so dearly. Yet as the raven haired rus departed from that same old carriage of wood and silver detailing there was no sight of wings, only a stoic faced woman who found the flaxen-haired girl with a sorrowful smile and nod. Her fingers were coated in vague touching of paint and charcoal and hair elaborately detailed against the base of her back where no more did beautiful feathers of crimson rest but rather two naked stubs. She could no longer flutter. The ache at her heart throbbed as the younger girl merely approached the eldest to engulf her into her arms, sapphire wings shielding her from the outside as they wept for her sister. She had died and now walked among the living as a carcass of her former self. 

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    The raven haired birdie was never the same after her return. No longer did they paint beautiful scenes for the love of the art but rather escapism. Though never did the youngest cease playing for her as she hoist her brushes and swipe away at the bare canvas, always paired with a thrum of her bow against the strings of the delicate instrument. Much had changed even though this practice had continued. No longer did the eldest dress in beautiful dresses of vibrant colors for she opted for clothes more dull, no longer did she care for the judgement of others for she spoke her mind, no longer did she return home alone for she now returned with men of stylish tailcoats and wicked grins. And thus the little blue bird had begun to try and be akin to her sister in her own manner; dressing more uncaring and daring with shoulder-less garbs of vibrant colors, frolicking about men though she never brought them home, and speaking in an untamed tongue that sometimes got her in trouble. Yet all the while she felt closer to her sister and soon she would be introduced to her sister’s favorite powder though it wasn’t applied upon the face but rather ingested through the nose and in exchange the younger girl had introduced them both to their father’s favorite gin. 

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       Though playdates had turned into parties the tradition of granting a melody for her sisters paintings had never ceased. As Natalia had created a scene of a weeping woman upon discovering her arranged marriage the younger sister remained at her flank as she allow her violin to match its sorrow; as Natalia silently cope with the birth of her unwanted son and created a scene of a woman in disgust the younger sister had played a melody to match the despair and agony; as Natalia painted a scene of defeat when she were pregnant once more the younger sister had created a wretched tune of betrayal. As the house had finished its construction the girls decided to paint a mural above the ballroom within their newfound nest, one which had taken ages to complete. It was a scene depicting a miracle of Emma Vladov during the ducal war in which an Adrian woman prayed to the Saint with her babe as they were trapped into a corner with death and yet as the prayer had concluded from skyward an arrow shot down into the floor and revealed a tunnel of escape for the lonesome pair. Although Emerentia’s favorite mural was painting on the ceiling of the art room which Natalia had claimed as her paradise. There the eldest requested a song of true emotion; wrath, pain, misery, distraught, joy. It was a song which the young Menza labelled this wretched melody ‘The Storm’. It was a havoc of emotions that she endlessly played as the storm was painted onto the contour of the surface above them both, causing the girl to silently shed tears as a flurry of azure feathers fluttered about her and decorated the floor as they ascended ‘til they could no more. As the young fledgling no-more placed her heart and soul into the tune the ravaged bird above forced her flight into the tip of her brush as it soar against the canvas and forged a storm so furious and raw it spoke of every pain the lonesome woman had endured in her isolated cage years ago. Once the scene had been painted and the song concluded they both stared up side-to-side at the tableau above the youngest bird flinched as the eldest placed a palm on her back - for now it lay akin to the scarlet feathered bird - raw and naked without any feathers anymore. 

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Emerentia groaned as she awoke upon the cushioned sofa in their foyer as the sound of lightning bolted the woman from her deep slumber and morbid dream of birds. She hoisted a hand upright as to rub at the crusted cosmetics from her complexion as she sat upright to see the flock of servants silently tidying up the remains of a party. With a stumble to her feet she groans in her tiresome state, grabbing onto the glass of forgotten gin as she pivots into the dining hall which lay with carcasses of birds, remains of fruits and pastries, and emptied glasses of liquor. “Nat?” The younger Kovachev had called out with the accompanying clash of thunder as she entered the art room with Natalia in its center, working on a canvas silently. “What are you painting now?” The girl questioned, glancing at the woman who only hummed and displayed the scenery; a simple sky with lively clouds as a pair of birds fluttered within it; one red and the other blue. “Menza, do you recall that little bird we rescued in our youth?” The eldest Kovachev had asked, sparing a glance back to the youngest. “I believe I do. You had assisted me in aiding it back to its health, why do you ask?” No response was given as the pair were left in the darkness with the occasional streak of light provided by the waltzing bolts above. Eventually the girl would move to the side of the room and hoist up a small viola, cradling it as she would begin the melody of  vague memory and jubilant recollection as the other girl painted. The birds now no longer having the ability of flight sang their sorrows as they opened their hearts in that isolated cage.