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Description
It's not a special day by definition. She'd like to think it's July 21st--a fitting day, considering they were phoenixes, firebirds--, but to tell you the truth? She had no idea what goddamn day it was. Things like the date seemed so mundane and unimportant when a megalomaniacal psychopath had taken control of the world and was trying to kill everyone. And yet, that sentimental part of her wanted to know the date of her mother's death. As if she could carve it on a fucking tombstone and bury the body with it.

But it would take too much time, be too dangerous to bury the body of the woman she had--loved? respected? admired? Bianca sucked at these kinds of things. Instead, it almost resembled a viking's funeral; the body going up in flames, the half-dead eyes of her last of kin. The urge to run swelled within the girl. Her mother was dead, along with pretty much the rest of her coven. What tied her to this man, this killer, this supposed "savior?" For honor and loyalties...had they not been thrust aside when he'd chosen to ram that pretty little blade of his through her mother's stomach?

"Phoenix." A hand clamping on her shoulder, a metaphorical shackle clamping on her wrist. Running would be futile, when the one you ran from was the Twice-Blessed. She fiddled with the lighter she had conjured for this occasion. If only fire would--could--consume this monster the way it did the corpse of the only person she had honestly trusted and depended upon.

She became his assassin, but the brief freedom those flames had given her would stay with her.

Description
It's not a special day by definition. She'd like to think it's July 21st--a fitting day, considering they were phoenixes, firebirds--, but to tell you the truth? She had no idea what goddamn day it was. Things like the date seemed so mundane and unimportant when a megalomaniacal psychopath had taken control of the world and was trying to kill everyone. And yet, that sentimental part of her wanted to know the date of her mother's death. As if she could carve it on a fucking tombstone and bury the body with it.

But it would take too much time, be too dangerous to bury the body of the woman she had--loved? respected? admired? Bianca sucked at these kinds of things. Instead, it almost resembled a viking's funeral; the body going up in flames, the half-dead eyes of her last of kin. The urge to run swelled within the girl. Her mother was dead, along with pretty much the rest of her coven. What tied her to this man, this killer, this supposed "savior?" For honor and loyalties...had they not been thrust aside when he'd chosen to ram that pretty little blade of his through her mother's stomach?

"Phoenix." A hand clamping on her shoulder, a metaphorical shackle clamping on her wrist. Running would be futile, when the one you ran from was the Twice-Blessed. She fiddled with the lighter she had conjured for this occasion. If only fire would--could--consume this monster the way it did the corpse of the only person she had honestly trusted and depended upon.

She became his assassin, but the brief freedom those flames had given her would stay with her.