╔══════════════════⟝• ⸰ °)☼(° ⸰ •⟞══════════════════╗ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ╚══════════════════⟝• ⸰ °)☼(° ⸰ •⟞══════════════════╝ And then she told herself, “Stop being so weak. Grow up and get over it.” And then she never felt anything again. The letter preceded a storm, both literal and metaphorical. The rain poured down upon the Kaeppler family estate as she sat within a large armchair before the fireplace. There were no more tears to be shed as her fingers curled tighter around the thin parchment paper. Inhaling a sharp breath, she pushed herself upwards; the room swam and spun around her as she swayed. Attempting to gather herself and what little strength that remained within her body, she trudged over to the living room doorway. Closing her eyes, she listened as the thunder roared overhead. Her fingers went slack and the paper fluttered to the floor, the militaristic slant of the script upon the paper had begun to blur together from the constant crinkling and touching of the words there. It was as if she were no longer in control of her own limbs as they moved sluggishly, her fingers refusing to move as quickly as instructed. Her whole body was weary from the grief and exhaustion that came over her in waves. And yet, she soon found herself carrying her body up a flight of stairs and back into her rooms. Yanking the wardrobe open, she reached a hand out, brushing over the fabric of the fine dresses and outfits that her mother often nudged her into purchasing. Surely, she enjoyed the swishing of the skirts and the feel of the fabric upon her skin, but this evening was not meant for these beautiful creations. Her fingers, which would often dance along the curves and trace the fine thread work, flicked right past the gowns and pulled forth the well-worn leather cuirass. Pulling it forth from the depths of her wardrobe, she made a soft ‘hmpthing,’ noise as her hands cradled the armor piece within her grasp. Her thumbs traced slowly over the roaring bear emblems upon the shoulder pieces. A sigh escaped her as she plunked it down onto the trunk at the foot of her bed, the leather chest piece giving a hearty thunk as it hit the other piece of furniture. Slamming the doors to her wardrobe shut, she slumped down and glared at the piece of armor. Raising her slippered foot, she aimed to send the sole of it against the trunk. The cuirass bobbed back and forth as the kick occurred, followed by another and then another. Soon enough, the armor piece fell onto the floor with another thud. Letting out a deep breath, she thudded her head back against the wood of the wardrobe. “Spirit have mercy.” Her eyes fluttered closed and wrapped her arms about her knees. Linking her hands together, she listened as the storm continued to roll in and the rain poured down upon the rooftops. As another thunderclap sounded, she opened her eyes and watched as her room was further illuminated by the flash of lightning. Her eyes focused upon the sparring sword that was leaned against the wall beside her standing mirrors; alongside it, another sword, a proper one at that, was sheathed as well. Straining her eyes in the dim candlelight, she let her hands fall away from her knees and she began to rise. Slipping her feet from her slippers, she yanked on stockings and proper socks before going to pull and lace up her boots. With fingers working almost mechanically, clearly used to this task, her boots were soon tight upon her feet. With a quick adjustment of her trousers and pulling the long-sleeved blouse she had discarded to the floor earlier that day, Theresia was soon lifting the fallen cuirass from the floor. Staring down at it, she let out a breath and pulled it on, tightening the straps and ensuring it was firmly yet breathable about her person. Moving to the corner of the room where the set of mirrors was, she stared at the tired and ghostly woman that looked back. Gnawing at her already raw and split lip, she rolled her head to the side, examining the green and yellow bruises that poked out from beneath the collar of her blouse. “We hold our ground, Theresia when we are opposed. We do not back down and we do not flee.” “We rise up with our claws barred!” “Good.” As her teeth continued to chew away at what little skin was left upon her bottom lip, she reached forth, fingers wiggling slightly in the air. Initially, she was reaching towards the wooden sparring longsword and as her fingers brushed over the wood, she retracted. Her hand shifted back and grasped the leather-wrapped hilt of the other longsword. Slipping it into place upon her hip with the belt, she tightened it and was soon moving out the door. Easing her door closed and listening intently as the storm outside continued to rage, she slowly moved down the stairs once more. Stepping carefully over the sleeping forms of her brothers’ canine companions that slept by the side kitchen door, she was soon out in the pouring rain, mud already beginning to coat her boots and trousers. Following her mud-coated boots and pants was the rest of her body, drenched in rain and soon sweat, but was there truly a difference. No, she decided as she had begun to swing and slash through the, also drenched, dummy. She bared her teeth as she hacked and chopped, sending bits of wet hay flopping to the ground. Meanwhile, the storm continued to whip and pour down around her. It didn’t seem to be letting up, and neither did the young Kaeppler. She was too angry, too bitterly angry and upset to leave until all of the emotions were out. Out and no longer boiling her blood. No longer making her upsetting her and making her lose her appetite. Her arms soon fell to her side as she had inflicted a sort of killing blow upon the water logged dummy. As hay began to sag out of the belly of the dummy, the young woman turned her head upwards allowing the water to just rain down upon her. A slow, haggard breath escaped her as she rasped, “Why. Why? Why… Spirit Almighty? Why?” She wasn’t one to beg or plead. But she had to know why it had to have been him. Her Frederick… With his brilliant eyes of forest green and coal locks, an easy smile and waggling brows. He was handsome, so kind. He was so utterly perfect. Why did it have to be him? Her hands were gripping tighter to the hilt of her blade as she yanked it upwards from its place in the mud. Her heart was aching, raw, just like her hands. Quacking and gripping hands. She stared into the distorted reflection of herself, squinting against the rain and wind. Lifting upwards, she focused once again upon the dummy. Her cry of war was drowned out by the clap of thunder. As was the cry that came tumbling from her throat and the crackle of lightning. It was the briefest of flashes and then pain. Excruciating and terrifyingly paralyzing pain. It was the thunderclap followed by the feminine screaming coming from outside that awoke him. Tossing off of the covers and lighting a lantern, soon alerting the rest of the household to his wakefulness, the eldest Kaeppler child was out in the pouring rain. His nightly dressing pants soon coated in mud as the scent of burnt flesh and hair reached his nostrils. Had he been a weaker stomached person, the contents of his stomach would have ended up within the mud. “Dear… Spirit.” Were his choked out words as he moved closer and a shout of, “SEND FOR A DOCTOR, IMMEDIATELY,” soon followed his initial response. His hands reached out, hesitantly at first, before gently moving to smooth down some of the hair that remained upon her head. A look of concern crossed over his features as the rain continued to come down around him. She did not feel any of this, however, as the pain had long since overtaken her and forced her into unconsciousness. It was short work of gathering her up and bringing her back inside, into the warmth and safety of the Kaeppler manor. It would be a long time until she awoke, near a week later to pain and agony. And it would be longer still until she was able to move properly. Lucky to be alive, it had been whispered amongst the small staff and those within the town that the Kaeppler manor was outside. Luck, she wondered as she laid within her bed, body healing slowly. Had it been luck? Or had it been by the grace of the Spirit that she lived to see the sun rise and another storm to come. By the grace of the Spirit that she was allowed to heal with the assistance of several doctors and a healer. Or, perhaps still, it was a message. A message she could not initially understand, but certainly learned as she learned how to live again. She had to live for herself and no one else. For then this second chance, as she saw it, would be wasted. And she would not disobey. Not this time.
