#meg encouraged me to properly write this out so here we are lmao

[sacrificialmaiid]

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖌𝖊 𝖂𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗, 1945. 

It’s cold. 

Were Milena a little older and a little bolder both, she might question the sense in having a public holiday in the midst of winter in an Eastern European country -- but she is neither of those things. She is small, and vulnerable, and her ear is still tightly packed with cotton, bandages wound around her head to keep it secure. She hasn’t been on her feet for very long after the accident and she’s a faded, wan shadow of a thing compared to the child she had been that summer -- laughing, sun-kissed, and whole. 

Her father had grumbled about ‘dragging her out to this farce’ when she was still recovering, but a flurry of relatives and neighbours - their friends - had insisted otherwise. This is an honour, and a young Milena Hofer, after her miraculous brush with death, surely is the finest little candidate amongst them to offer the Countess her flowers. 

The Countess, as a matter of fact, was newer to the village even than Milena was to the world itself. There have been comments about her, whispers quickly reprimanded, all hovering just above her downy head and far out of range of the one good ear that the Black God has blessed her with (though her father said that the Black God had nothing to do with that in the slightest -- that if the Black God had been present that day, surely it should have been that no ill should have befallen a playing child at all. Her mother had aimed a look at him over the dining table for that comment and when his eyes had come to rest once more on his eldest daughter, he had offered her a remorseful smile. She didn’t understand why he apologised -- she didn’t mind at all.) 

The snow is crunching beneath her little boots while she moves from one foot to the other, but the sound is flat and distant to her one good ear. She’s bundled up tightly in coats and jumpers that her mother had toiled over for days and in both mitten-clad hands she clutches a bouquet almost half the size of her -- one that has been carefully pruned for this very moment. She stands amongst the rest of them, and behind her she can hear her uncle, her father, and their neighbours talking in soft, gruff Romanian amongst themselves. 

“Aren’t you proud of your little Mi?” one of them presses her father, who makes a noncommittal sound. “The Countess will be happy to see a delightful child -- everyone is.”  She turns her head back towards them and he lays a fond hand to the top of her bandaged crown whilst her father tries his best to look encouraging through a tight-lipped smile. She smiles back with a great deal more enthusiasm, and her mother taps her shoulder and urges her to pay attention. In the distance, there comes the pounding of hooves and the rattle of wheels. 

At the sight of the carriage that pulls through their little subsection of the village, Milena’s heart leaps into her throat. She’s disorientated immediately by the furious rumble of hooves as a carriage led by four sleek, blinkered, black horses rolls into view, steam pouring from their flared nostrils with each aggravated breath. The only horse she’s seen so close before is the old chestnut mare that one of the villagers allows her to feed carrots to down the lane, and that lovely old creature is nothing like this troupe of beasts. The enormous wheels of the carriage, too, are frightening -- the last time she had seen a fast-turning wheel had been on the day of her accident, and these spokes are much larger and made of wrought iron, by the looks of things. 

She freezes and holds the bouquet tightly, even as the carriage slows expectantly. She can’t do it -- she can’t. She’s held in place by an icy terror. Distantly, she can hear words of encouragement being muttered just behind her shoulder, but she’s too frightened to listen to them properly. It’s only a firm push to the middle of her back that has her legs moving, pedalling forwards as though outside of her control. She moves a little faster, then, frightened of the carriage and the horses of course -- but more frightened of the trouble she will surely be in if it pulls away before she’s had the chance to fulfil her duty. 

The windows of the carriage are shrouded by thick velvet curtains, obscuring the figure inside, but they shift just a fraction when Milena approaches. A long, white-gloved hand appears between the fabric, outstretched with expectation and once again, Milena finds herself frozen. She almost entirely forgets about the bouquet in her hands, until the fingers of the hand twitch restlessly and she’s quick to remember, stretching her little arms upwards to offer the flowers. They are accepted, and one gloved fingertip accidentally brushes her hand during the exchange, chilling her very blood. 

When the bouquet disappears again between the curtains, they stay parted just a crack, and Milena’s eyes widen at the profile that she sees behind them; the face’s skin is mask-white, its nose upturned and haughty, its eyes obscured by the rim of a wide hat. Its mouth, painted crimson, parts and exhales a steady stream of smoke, reminiscent of the steaming nostrils of the horses, she thinks. She coughs when the face moves sharply towards her, bringing the smoke with it, and the curtains are righted, shutting her out. 

The horses pick up their speed once more and Milena goes stumbling backwards out of the way, pulled close by her father, stunned and unable to put words to what she has just witnessed. 

“That’s quite enough of that for another year,” her father states with finality, and begins ushering her inside. Her mother complains at the smell of tobacco, and insists on scrubbing her clean of it in their shallow tub and changing her bandages for fresh ones. Milena tries to ask them about the woman in the carriage, but her questions are flatly refused. The goings on in the castle are not for people like them to worry about, her mother assures her, and Milena accepts it. 

Years from now, she will find herself once again staring at that steady stream of smoke. She’ll roll over onto her stomach beneath silken sheets and rest her chin upon folded arms, and give a coy smile. 

“I saw you first,” she’ll whisper.