Every nerve in her body is electrified, making her forget the usual agonizing torture of her veins twisting and tugging together. Shallow breaths force themselves past her parched lips and tongue as liquid pools in her eyes.

The woman finally drops the knife with a clatter, splattering blood on her shoes. Her head throbs with power, but the pit in her stomach soon lowers the high.

The ache in her bones rivals the pain pulling at her heartstrings as her only daughter, small, yet fierce, clumsily picks herself up from the floor, dripping crimson and stubbornly avoiding her mother's shattered gaze.

The woman watches her wrench open the bedroom door with as much strength as a little girl her size can muster, black waves of hair and warm olive skin flailing about, before slamming it behind her with a choked whimper. The sound echoes and radiates through the mother's chest, and the weight of what just happened finally brings her to her knees. 

Sobs rack the mother's body and she shuts her eyes tight, letting the tears flow.

Left alone in the cold, dimly lit room, the woman hardly pays any mind to the muffled shouting beyond her closed doors or the black beetle that scutters along the bold, decorative carving that lines one of the many grandiose windows in her room.

She is too focused on the unyielding truth. 

Hidden beneath the regret, deep down, she savors what she did—the pain she caused, the tears soon to stain her daughter's pillow. The bitterness of it all makes her pulse quicken. Dark satisfaction burns into her very soul, and her lips threaten to curve into a sickening smirk.

And oh, how she hates herself for it.

Her nails dig into the skirt of her dress so tightly that she feels them stab through the fabric and into her palms, breaking the skin. She winces at the pain but continues to pierce herself violently, desperate to feel remorse, or disgust even.

Guilt resurfaces soon enough, but the knives are perforating her veins again and she screams.

Her purer emotions have returned, but it is also coming back.

She can feel it—the darkness pushes and pulls inside of her; it whispers, beckoning the woman to cut herself deeper—yearning for her to tear her body apart until she is nothing but blood and bone.  

She feels the blood pooling in her hands as her fingernails bite harder into her skin, but fear keeps the mother's eyes closed. She knows if she opens them, the darkness will strike her worse than before, somehow.

She thinks she hears someone call her name, but the heartbeat in her ears muffles the sound, plunging her further into insanity, and her skin is on fire, sharp and relentless.

The mother's dark thoughts in her head grow louder than ever before. Her withered shell swells with rage and panic. She wants to hurt herself. She wants to hurt them. She wants them all to drown in agony, the way she is now—

"Luna!"

The woman's eyes pop open at the commanding voice but don't look up. Instead, they're wide and focused upon the sight of her lap.

Blood black as night stains her rosy dress and bruised skin. Tears continue to roam down her cheeks but splatter dark against the stone floor.

She pulls her fingers out of her palms, one at a time, grimacing and shaking at the deep crevices her fingernails have made.

Black blood spills from the moon-shaped holes, but this is the least of her concerns when she notices the extensive, violent scratches marring her arms. The sleeves of her dress are tattered and soaked with darkness. 

She has no memory of doing this to herself, but she is bleeding, sitting in a puddle of blackness that only continues to grow in size. The Moon peaks through the window, beholding the sight and judging the mother with its gleam.

Black blood. Black tears. Black magic. 

She twists her hand around to view her wrists. 

Black veins... She decides they must be purified like the rest.

"Luna!" the voice shouts again.

Something grips her arms, shaking the woman violently.

"I have to bleed," she argues, breathing ragged.

Her hands are restrained and she screams again, releasing the pain built up inside of her.

"I have to! I have to!" She screeches.

"Stop!"

Two hands grasp either side of her face, forcing her to look up. "Look at me! I said stop!"

The woman's body stills when two blue orbs lock onto her frazzled gaze. Bright, bright blue they glow, light and ominous like spilled moonlight. A stark contrast between the black that oozes from her very skin now.

"Luna," a familiar, desperate voice grates softly. A voice like velvet.

She's lost for a moment before her mind finally gathers itself. Her vision feels as if it is her own again and she remembers her name. 

Luna.

Soft bandages are being planted across her skin, pacifying her further.

Glancing to her side, Luna notices the servants have surrounded her, tending to her wounds.

Only the room isn't covered in black, nor is her dress. Instead, the color red decorates her and her surroundings. However, the veins of her wrist are still considerably darker than ever, reminding her that the darkness will soon come again.

She blinks up at the man holding her face. Alberich Van Blake, her husband. 

His usual calm composure has been carved into worry and exhaustion, but a hint of relief glints in his eyes when his wife's hands find his. She squeezes gently, reminding herself of what is real.

He visibly relaxes, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Al," she croaks softly, throat burning, "I hurt her. I hurt our daughter, Alberich."

Her gaze drifts to the side, eyeing the bloodied knife beside them.

"Clear the room," her husband demands. "Now."

The servants scatter, fearful of a Van Blake's ire, grabbing their supplies and closing the doors behind them.

"Al," she pleads. "Go to her, please."

He shakes his head, pulling her against his chest. "Her wound has been tended to, and Atlas is with her now. She will be fine."

"No, she needs you, not Atlas. I-I would go myself, but under the Moon, I fear I may h-hurt her a-a-again." She sputters into his shoulder, guilt squeezing her throat. "She needs a parent. If not her mother, her father—"

"I will not leave you," he declares harshly against her neck, stubborn as always. "Calypso is strong. She will weather this storm, as will we."

Luna hiccups, choking on hopelessness. "But she shouldn't..."

Alberich holds his wife tighter, but his voice trembles. "She knows you meant no harm, mi guerrera. She knows it's the sickness. We all know," he murmurs. "No one blames you. You just... need some rest."

"Al..."

"I will check on her once I know you're okay," he reassures softly.

Her fingers curl into her husband's tunic and heavier tears flow. "I... It can't happen again. She's young, she could forget this with time," Luna rushes out with a sniffle. "But it can't happen again. Don't let me hurt her again, Al, please."

He nods against her, burying his face in her dark locks. "Never again," he agrees firmly. "It was an accident. Just... An accident." 

The subtle uncertainty in his voice doesn't go unnoticed, but Luna lets herself believe his words—wills herself to. However, this doesn't cease her sobbing, and it doesn't halt the lingering whispers that lurk from the shadows of their room, tempting her to abandon reality again.

Alberich shushes her, rubbing her back soothingly as her mind disintegrates further.

She lets him comfort her, despite her guilt. 

She lets him hold her until she can't cry anymore, although, she knows she doesn't deserve it. 

Not when she's the cause of all of this. Not when their son, who's too young to understand any of this, is trying his damnedest to console his wounded baby sister just a few rooms away.

Calypso should be in her father's arms, Luna knows this, yet she clings selfishly to the man before her, burying her tears and shame into his shoulder and waiting desperately for the Moon to take its place behind the daylight.