They found her crouched in the corner of a dark alley, her golden eyes sunken, twisting and smoothing a raven’s feather over and over in her hands. She was naked and covered in the dirt of the earth she ran through for her escape. They stood over her destitution and hauled her off the ground. And with her head hanging low, she walked with them to the car.
The agents drove her back to headquarters. It was a building made with mirrored walls, making it almost invisible to the suspicious eyes flying overhead. During the drive, Furie kept her face hidden behind her long, dark, tangled hair; she hid the glint in her eyes and her snide grin.
They locked her in a glass cell, and she once again resumed her crouched position in the corner. Agents, superiors, doctors, and scientists, all sworn to secrecy, were brought to the cell to examine her, to try to figure her out. But she kept stroking the feather, stroking the darkness, the night.
During the nights, her golden eyes would burn with the flames of revenge. She kept twisting and smoothing the raven’s feather, twirling it around her finger to create a spiral of blackness. And when the feather was finally good and twisted, she entwined it with the lock of hair at the nape of her neck.
The next morning, she was gone. And the agents found her again in the alley, crouched, stroking an eagle’s feather. With the night on her shoulders and justice in her hands, she would smite all who looked down on her; beginning with the monsters in the alley.
(photo via Net-A-Porter.com)
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