White [LeBlanc] (Flash Fiction)

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QDesjardin

Junior Member

02-01-2013

1

The memory which haunts her. It sometimes pursues her even in adulthood, gradually assuming a more and more indefinite shape. Every now and then, when she closes her eyes, it sings to her with a low, melancholic voice - a voice that would send her heart ballooning with joy, almost overwhelming her inside. Until one cold morning, when she cannot take it anymore.

When she wakes up, the first thing is the mildew of the depths. It is an obnoxious, sour scent, and all the sweet perfumes in her chambers cannot hide it. Her staff rests there beside the adorned chest.

She can almost see it; the faint clouds amidst that blue sky. The crispness of arctic air-- when you breathe, a soothing ice enters your chest. And the wandering contours of a permafrost canyon. She would enjoy losing herself between the white walls, brushing her hand to admire the slick surface, and feel the deep mystery it evokes.

If she remembers right, it had existed when Noxus had been a very different city, somewhere north of it. Her mama and papa would take her there somedays. They would lay out a blanket over the snow and have picnics, such as chilled fish and loaves of bread - or just to have a walk. Before they'd died. She had never visited there since.

"Madame?" Someone knocks on her door.

"Come in," she says, brushing her eyes, and in enters her entrusted lackey - Marc. He shuffles over to her by the bed.

"Ze Institute, they've just admitted you into the League," Marc announces. "Zey want your presence by zis afternoon to confirm it."

"Merci."

"Should I have a transport arranged and ready?" he asks, twiddling his knees.

Evaine pauses. The feelings are tugging at her, as if it could be her last chance to enact on them, before they disappeared forever. How would she manage this? Swain wants to see her in the plaza (to talk about a certain vengeful Vayne), just before the noon. She knows it's important.

"I can manage my own transport," she says, maintaining her cool veneer. Glancing at the top of her staff, the centrepiece jewel's half-blueness tells her it is only just the crack of dawn. "Also," she adds, "would you get a messenger to find Jericho Swain for me? If you may, tell him to meet me down here as soon as he can."

"Oui, madame." Marc nods, and leaves.

She will come up with something.