The blizzard storms raged, cold winds rising high across the vast white expanse. No sign of the scorching ball in the sky—only a vast white sheet painted the ground, as did the sky. Snow and ice formed the houses lined in rows. People emerged wearing the thick, worn-out hides of animals, their breath fogging in the freezing air.
"Father, I want deer meat tonight!"
"Me too!"
"Of course. Today, I will hunt deer for my two cute daughters!"
"Yeah! Yeah!"
The girls squeaked in happy voices, their cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. Children laughed, ran, and threw balls of snow at each other, their joy a small flame in the endless white.
But in the distance, a teenage girl watched. Her sharp green eyes followed the scene with deep interest. Her green hair flowed down her neck, and her gaze spoke of wanting—deep-seated, hungry, the need to secure and to hold.
"Imla! Imla! Where are you? Come inside!"
A deep, irritated growl called out to her. Imla's shoulders shuddered. Her hands quickly found her wrist and began stroking it with a soft, nervous touch.
She entered her house.
Her father paced inside, mumbling curses under his breath. The house reeked of alcohol and blood—the sour stench of a man who had drowned himself in one and shed the other.
"Just like her mother," he muttered. "Good for nothing."
He turned. His eyes found her.
"Bring your wrist."
Though her body trembled, she brought forth her hand. The man jerked her wrist toward him and began striking with a cold wooden stick—once, twice, again and again.
Imla didn't shout. She had learned that shouting only made it worse. She bit her lips, holding her voice and her breath, counting the blows until they stopped.
Huff. Huff.
The man threw the stick aside. Cursed.
"Just why are you alive and she is dead?" His voice cracked. "Just why? Why won't you both die at the same time?"
He slumped down, whining like a wounded animal.
"Father." Imla's voice came low and soft. "I haven't eaten in days. I want some meat."
Her plea was soft, almost a whisper.
The man lunged at her.
His hands closed around her throat, squeezing. "What did you say? Your birth killed your mother! After you were born, I became a joke in our tribe!" His grip tightened. "Not being able to hunt a mere rabbit now!"
Imla's eyes rolled back. Her hands moved frantically, grasping for anything. Her body dropped to the ground, but his grip held. Tighter. Tighter.
"Just die!" His voice broke between fury and tears. "You've lived too long for your own good!"
A pause. His voice softened into something worse.
"Father still loves you, you know. It's just… you should just die, my daughter."
He started whining again, his grip loosening just enough.
Imla's hand touched something cold and sharp—a shard of glass, forgotten in the corner. Her fingers closed around it.
She swung.
The glass tore through her father's hands. Blood spewed out, staining her green hair, his clothes, the ground.
"Fuck! You!"
Imla didn't stop. She took a sharp breath and ran.
The sharp glass had cut her own hand too. Drops of blood fell, painting the white sheet of snow behind her as she fled.
She didn't look back.
Her father's cries faded behind her—whining, cursing, trying to stop his own bleeding.
Where? she thought. I don't know.
Mother. Father. I don't have one.
What am I?
Imla.
The cold struck her face as her mind swirled in a whirlpool of thoughts. Soon, her legs gave out. She collapsed on the cold, white snow, crimson blood still painting the white sheet.
That's what I remember. Or, in the correct sense, that's what I believe now. What I choose to remember.
I collapsed from blood loss. That much is true.
But what is this strange cave? And the same-looking person in front of me?
"Do you accept them?" The voice was flat, monotonous. Her own voice.
If it can allow me to forget them… if it can let me take something for myself…
"I accept them."
There were trials after that. Training. A war in a pocket dimension. It was enough for her to carve out a new identity for herself.
I have things I want for myself. And more things I want for myself.
In a dark alley, far from the lights of the city, Imla stopped midway and entered sadhana.
Her breath steadied.
Her mind stilled.
I can't let anyone steal the things I hold now. I will become strong.
The same as Ashan.
If he wants to live, then I want to hold.