The Little General Who Could

[Flamebird]

The mind is a wicked place.

What twisted thoughts and horrid memories could be brought up to the soul who wanted to forget? Oh, what agony awaited the one who's head was sick like a black lung. Sleep was never peaceful, sleep was never restful. Physically, the body was well, but every day she awoke with tormented thoughts dancing around the fire of her psyche, dancing in the ashes of her joy.

Deadly, deadly were the dreams that made her toss and turn every night. She slept with reluctance, knowing at least her body needed to be ready for the days ahead. The town of Whitevale vanquished their foe, Arius the Wizard, but at a terrible cost. Now, she was mandatory in the stabilization of the Brotherhood's realm. It was ironic that inside, she was being torn apart all the same. Her mentor, her leader, the person she looked up to, was gone. It was not the first time. Vile memories churned into nightmares even more vile sieged her senses in her sleep. Torment... torment...

Her uncle, her cousin... both died out of her control. She survived, they did not. Her first teacher, Ashla, turned from a distant but kind woman into a murderous monster. Out of her control. She could do nothing... This loss of control, these events from her past, screamed at her every day with the loud clanging of broken symbols. Her dreams were a blur of memories, nightmares, and a mix of both. Eventually, within the echoes and labyrinths of her torture, she finally opened her eye.

In a sharp instant, she flung herself out of bed. As some sort of sound echoed in the background, the girl panted as sweat dripped down her frame. As her heavy breaths began to slow, she steadily came to. This place was familiar. In the darkness of what appeared to be night, several weapons were neatly hung on one end of the wooden wall. Turn around, there were a bookshelf and a wardrobe standing side by side. The bed, she turned to see again, was soaked wet from her sweat, tears, and spit. It stunk too. The sheets were knotted, tossed, and torn. The pillow had been flung across the room, no atop the wardrobe. At last, the girl turned to where she finally became more aware of the repeating ding in her ears. The rich, redwood grandfather clock had struck four in the morning, just as always.

Oh. The girl walked towards the mirror next to the clock. Time to get up.

She wore a loose, white nightgown which was soaked now, hung to her muscular frame. The girl sighed as she pushed her red hair, wet as a mop, behind her ears. Green eyes glared into the mirror. The look reflected was filled with sorrow, dread, and self loathing.

"Felicity," She spat at herself, "Wake up."