The creature never stood a chance.

You run from it, and you’re so busy running that you completely miss its demise, its ruthless destruction, guilty of the crime of starvation. You only know that, suddenly, there bodies all around you—large bodies, one of them with wings, and these are your heroes, Enyo, don’t know you know? They’re the ones who slaughtered the wolf in cold blood, for daring to run after the succulent bones of young. They’re here to rescue you! You should be happy! You should say thank you!

You do not. You can barely see as you stumble to a halt, surrounded as you are by all these adults; your vision is hazy and red with the blood that continues to throb in your veins, your head swimming with it, your heart still pounding pounding pounding so hard in your chest. You don’t immediately know what they’re saying to you, even though you can hear the low timbre speaking around you. Talking about you, as they should, of course. You cannot appreciate it like you should, though. Your heart is beating too fast, and the world is spinning.

It slows, gradually, as the dust settles and the situation begins to creep back behind you, sneaking itself into your head. The adrenaline that had been pumping through you lessens by the second, and you look up at the congregation around you, your saviors clamoring over themselves to make sure you’re okay. With the adrenaline gone, your body feels strangely winded, and it begins to fill the void of excitement (of near death) with sharper, more poignant emotions than blind fear.

And—despite yourself—you begin to cry. Hard.

It’s not a pretty cry, either. You could get away with a tear, a sniffle, and your eyes would puff a little but they wouldn’t become blotchy and red, ruining the soft, perfect golds of your iris. Only a few tears are needed to dust your eyelashes, giving you a frosted princess appearance. And the sobbing is cute, a little girlish thing to do, and it’s appealing for a little girl to cry (but not too much). It draws a crowd.

This is not that crying. This is honest and loud and messy, the aftermath of the raw fear that had surged through your body as you ran from the wolf. Now that your brain has caught up with your body, you are helpless against the wave, and as they ask you for your well being all you can do is stand there and cry, cry, cry. Can you blame them? You were so nearly killed this day—it’s natural for a little girl such as yourself to be blasted by the terror of it, the trauma of a wolf’s fang!

But that’s not why you cry, is it, little Enyo? We both know the truth.

YOU RAN.

You had looked into the face of your quarry, the creature that was to be your first kill—and you ran from it. You ran!. Like a coward! And see how easy it had been for these fine people to crush the creature straight to dust—but you, darling, messy, incompetent Enyo--you had ran.

The shame of it—it was choking you with loud, rasping sobs, drowning you with the tears that cascaded down your cheeks. You stood there with shaking knees and you cried so hard, imagining, in that moment, that Father had been there to witness your failure, that sister had been there, all along, watching as you ran like the coward you were from the young wolf.

You cried and cried and cried. Poor baby.

 "talk talk talk"