"Well, well, well..." came a voice accompanied with a slow, mocking clap, "you finally managed to get to us. I never doubted you, however. I have never once, in our entire history together, doubted you, min lille blomst." A thin figure appeared from the shadows of the next hall, revealing a man with slicked back amber brown hair, and glowing orange irises. He would give off an overly confident air to him, arms extended, palms facing up and out towards the woman, though he kept his distance. The male knew exactly just how much of a danger she truly was, and how little she would hesitate to slit his throat open. How easily she would stand over him as he bled.

Blood. It painted the cream colored brick walls and marbled laminate floors. The liquid slid between the brickwork, pouring over the edges before it joined the pool at the base of the wall. Bodies littered the once clean halls of the establishment, faces bloodied, internal organs exposed to the fluorescent lights, reflecting the rays back towards the ceiling. Despite the messy display that laid before her, the tall, stoic woman--cheeks adorned with the warm crimson fluid of the vile humans that lay lifeless on the ground--carried forward, her black leather gloves dripping with blood that trailed down her thumb and onto the hilt of her sword. The murder weapon. The blade that slew these filthy maggots in two. Underneath the viscous, carmine splatters, her features were apathetic, though her square jaw was tensed, emerald eyes seething with unadulterated rage.

Still, she smiled. Teeth being bared as she tilted her head to the side, blonde hair grazing the back of her neck as she did so, some strands sticking to her face, soiling the platinum with sticky red.

"Ah, I thought I smelled a steaming pile of shit approaching me," she replied, eyes narrowing, though her sinister smile remained plastered upon her harsh features, "how awfully brave of you, Skovgaard." With a flick of her wrist, her weapon was rotated in her hand, pointing the tip of her arming sword towards him.

The sides of his nose twitched, daring to scrunch in disgust at her blatant disrespect. After all he has done for her and her mother. His dark brown loafers scraped against the laminate, blood catching the soles, a smear following his step.

"It appears I have to reteach you some manners that that little bitch made you forget."

"My, isn't that an awfully big dream for such a pathetic little puppy! Allow me to smother those dreams like you have done to many others." Without allowing him even a second to process her words, or provide him the privilege of thought, she lunged at him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive to her appointment was long, the blonde woman occasionally gazing towards the vast amount of forest that surrounded her as she drove along the variety of roads. She lived out in the countryside, more so in the mountains, with her wife and child, and she made sure the property couldn't be surrounded by neighbors, and that it was heavily surveillanced, to the point she would get alerts on her phone the second the security system detected unusual movement, or a face that wasn't anyone within the home. Maren couldn't risk losing them again. They put up with enough last year, and she refused to allow them to go through such trauma again. And she thought that she, herself, would be fine continuing on without needing to talk about the events that occurred. She had been through much, much worse during her childhood... but Agatha, her wife, had become concerned for her when she awoke in the dead of night from a nightmare. They stayed up that night and talked about the former assassin's nightmare. For the first time in decades, Maren's eyes spilled tears, and the soft fingers of her wife wiped them away. In order to prevent anyone from feeling guilt, Maren set up an appointment with a therapist, the one that knew well of their situation--the one who was still seeing her wife and daughter.

Pulling into the parking lot, she found a spot close to the entrance, putting her vehicle in park. She didn't want to go in immediately. A stiffness formed in her stomach as she sat, her body lightly shaking as her car idled, her inked and scarred hands gripping the steering wheel, fingertips anxiously rubbing against the rough surface. All these thoughts and feelings were still new to her, she had; been denied basic humanity for years of her life, all she ever knew was to take away and smother any connections one may feel. Get rid of any, and all, attachments. Just be what they made you.

She shook her head, strands of soft blonde gently waving in front of her eyes as she did. Now was not the time to think about that. That moment will come.

Another intake of breath.

Turning the key in the ignition, the car quietly died out, the clicking of the locks immediately following, and the jingling of keys ceased as Maren pushed them into her pocket. With a heavy step out on the pavement, she moved herself completely out of the vehicle, taking a brief second to stare towards the building and other cars within the parking lot before she shifted, shutting her car door in front of her. In the reflection of the car window was herself staring back, the mirror image almost taunting her. Eyes felt judgmental, mocking, and she thought she saw herself snarl. This wasn't how she was raised. Going out of one's way to ask for help.

Forget it. It wasn't like that anymore.

The female closed her eyes, huffing softly to herself before turning, pressing the button on her keys to lock the car as she walked away from it, heading towards the intimidating building.

She approached the building's entrance, unknown anxiety coursing through her fingertips as she reached for the door handle. Maren hesitated, staring at her war-worn hand as it softly trembled around the metal pull bar. She's never talked with someone about her trauma, never in great detail, and she never had the option to do so before... or was this her way of trying to convince herself that she was okay now?

No. She had to do this, if not for herself, then for the two sweet faes that she held near and dear. They would all live happier, healthier lives if she did this. They could finally start healing together, as a family. With those two beautiful faeries in the forefront of her mind, she steeled her resolve and opened the door, well-polished boots crossing the threshold of the towering structure. She paused once the doors shut behind her, emerald gaze taking in the new environment. The lobby was decorated with muted colors; dark brown was the most prominent, being the primary color of the chairs and ottoman. The walls were painted beige, the trim a russet accented with white flora, the floors were a wenge wood paneling, the welcoming rug a pitch black. Beside the various chairs were dark oak tables, atop every other one were lamps giving off a soft, warm yellow glow, while the others were home to various magazines and newspapers. There was a faint clean linen and vanilla-lavender scent that filled the air, something that stood out most to Maren. They reminded her of home, bringing her a sense of comfort, and further reminding her just why, and who, she was here for.

She inhaled slowly, deeply, straightening her back before she extended her leg, the sole of her boot coming into contact with the wooden floor, the woman sparing no further glances around the area. She would take the few steps to the reception desk, green eyes immediately scanning the young woman behind the desk; her cheeks were full, softly dusted with a light pink blush, her brows were finely penciled, her chocolate brown hair pulled tightly into a bun, and her eyes an echoing chamber of the endless sea. It took her a moment to notice the blonde, tapping away at her keyboard before she turned her head, her plump lips pulling into a friendly smile as she ceased her rhythmic typing, pivoting in her chair to face her.

"What can I help you with?" Came her voice, soothe and sweet like caramel.

With a quiet clearing of her throat, Maren began, "I am here to see Doctor Kalijulaid. My appointment is at one today." Short and simple. She attempted to make her voice as friendly as she could, though her deep tenor voice made it a bit more difficult than she would like. It often intimidated her students, as well, despite her efforts.

"Alright," she replied, turning back towards her computer, "may I have your name and date of birth?"

"Astrid Sjøli, March sixteenth."

The receptionist nodded, quickly typing in the information, getting the woman checked in before she turned and smiled, gesturing towards the waiting area, "Mrs. Sjøli, please take a seat and the doctor will be right out for you."

"Thank you, ma'am." Was all she said, turning and making her way towards one of the single cushion chairs, allowing her full weight to sink into her chosen seat. It was surprisingly comfortable, compared to a regular doctor's waiting room, where they had hard plastic chairs with a thin pillow as a pathetic excuse for a cushion.

All that was left to do now was wait. To wait quietly while subtly staring at the other people here to be seen, here to talk about whatever was going on inside their minds, inside their lives. Maren could only ever wonder about their stories, but, still, she took a moment to analyze some of them more than others. One gentleman had a plain, black patch over his left eye, small white metal adornments decorating the edges, and his clothing consisted of loose faded blue jeans and a white, oil-stained v-neck with the sleeves torn off. His eye was sunken in, dark bags carefully lining the underside, as if trying their best to hold it in the socket, and his beard was haphazardly shaven down to rough stubble. In another chair opposite of the former assassin was a petite woman with medium brown skin, eyes downcast at her cellphone, the light reflecting perfectly into her golden eyes, though revealing that she had been crying, and her curly hair was tied into two identical poms. Her attire was a pale purple dress with small, red rose patterning near the hem. From what Maren could see, her cheeks were still a bit puffy from her previous crying, and she would take a strong guess that the skin around her eyes was just the same.

The stories that people unknowingly share just by their body language alone. She has known many horror stories told through the way someone had carried themselves. It was almost pitiful, she thought, how easy some people are to read, and, yet, they remain unaware of that fact.

What was her own body language saying about her? Right now, at this moment?

She was slumped in her chair, legs spread apart, the heels of her boots digging against the floor and her wandering eyes; the deep emerald eyes that sank into the bags underneath them. She would say she looked exhausted. From the years of death and lies, from the endless years of torture and ridicule. From a past that she knew she could never truly escape, no matter how hard, or fast, she ran from it.

She would sit for a few more minutes, her attention towards one of the generic fashion magazines that littered the table next to her. Nothing about it was particularly interesting to her, but it was enough to keep her attention, the woman even running across a select few articles of clothing that would look adorable on Agatha and Aurora, that thought alone made her crack a smile, the scar that stretched from the center of her chin to just under her left nostril thinning as she did. That small moment of bliss would fade when she heard her name being called, the Abnormality taking a deep breath, carefully tossing the magazine back into it's place before she rose from her chair, almost like a monarch from their throne. Crossing the room, she would follow the assistant into the doctor's office, green eyes flicking around to take in the entire set-up. A large, dark oak executive desk was placed in the center near the back of the room, the window silhouetting the chair that sat neatly behind the desk. On either side of the window were several bookshelves, filled with self-help books to murder mystery novels, and on top were various potted plants, leaves framing the edges of the shelves perfectly as they dangled. In the absolute center of the room stood a dark red chair with a high back, the arms set low, a black chaise lounge chair off to the front right of the tall red one and a brown coffee table set just the right distance between them both. The floor was carpeted, plush underneath Maren's boots as she made her way across the office, seating herself on the lounger.

"I see you've already made yourself comfortable." Was all that was said after the door to the office shut once more, the blonde woman's attention turning towards the source. Doctor Kalijulaid. An older woman entering her sixties, though she barely looked her age nowadays, standing at an average height. In terms of Maren, at least, who stood at six feet, two inches without her shoes; since the last time Maren had stood next to the doctor, the top of her greying head came to the assassin's chest.

Maren only smirked at the older woman, leaning back against her seat, her right ankle resting atop her left knee, her arms thrown over the back of the chaise lounger, stretching her pressed button-up at the chest as she did so, her fitted slacks slipping out of their place from the tops of her boots, "You have quite the cozy office, Doctor," she retorted, tapping her right foot against the air as she closed her eyes briefly, attempting to look smug and unbothered, "I see you haven't aged a single day."

The elderly woman had managed to make her way to her red chair, seating herself, delicately crossing her legs over one another, her long gray pencil skirt rolling up just slightly, her spindly fingers wrapped around a clipboard. She really didn't look much different. Her hair was still the same, a deep black with scattered strands of gray, all gathered together and tied neatly into a low bun, the kind that sat on the nape of one's neck. Her clothing was loose, but not unprofessionally so, her black blouse tucked neatly within the waistband of her skirt, her nude pantyhose unwrinkled or torn, and her shiny black pumps resting upon her feet. The air around her had changed, however. Maren could tell. She seemed kinder now, though she still had an arrogance to her. A fierceness.

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Fisker, especially after so many years," the doctor started, clicking her ball-point pen, jotting down a few things onto the paper in front of her, "given that you have found yourself in my office, I take that as a sign that you are finally ready to work through what you experienced?"

A pause followed, the kind that if it were amplified, it would be a screaming silence. A few ticks from the round analog clock on the wall above the door would fill that void as the two women stared at each other. It wasn't as if Maren was simply here for a friendly chat; to catch up on old times.

A shift would erupt from the blonde woman, her arms moving to rest her hands into her lap, her gaze falling towards those scarred up hands, thumbs gingerly caressing each other. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and she released a hefty sigh, the few strands of blonde that dangled in front of her face blowing with her breath.

"Yes. I am."

"Why?" Was the doctor's immediate response. She, of course, knew the why, but she wanted to hear Maren say it for herself. To openly admit it to herself and, by proxy, the world.

Maren's hands pressed flatly against her thighs, fingers tapping mindlessly against them. Her eyes searched the floor, as if hoping that the response would be lying there, waiting to be picked up and given to the other woman in the room. But no such thing would happen. The answer was on her mind the entire way here. The answer was at the very forefront of her mind when she entered the building.

The answer was her entire reason for changing.

"For my wife and our daughter," she stated in a soft voice, lifting her head to stare down the doctor, "I am afraid that I have made Agatha worry about me, to the point it hurts her. And I have hurt my darling too much already, I do not wish to see her, my precious little songbird, in pain ever again."

The scratching of the pen followed Maren's every word, filling the smallest of voids between her words. Doctor Kalijulaid remained in silence for a mere second, her thin hand holding the pen over the paper, the point of it barely touching the paper itself, her eyes soft and inquisitive.

"That's understandable, and quite noble of you," she replied, shifting her body slightly in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, "why don't you begin by telling me how you first met your wife, Agatha, hm?"