Breathe.

Irene glanced at the flickering candle sitting by her window.

The tiny fire that ignited on it illuminated her enormous, dark, and empty room.

A thin trail of smoke danced above it.

Fire.

Irene tightly clenched the finger-nail of her thumb in her teeth.

She nervously eyed the candle's melted wax streaming down its surface and landing on the metallic tray underneath it like small white pearls.

She had to be comfortable.

With her legs covered in a warm fuzzy blanket, shielding her from the winter's dreadful screeching winds.

And her body wrapped in a black, cozy woolen garment, keeping her snuggled and heated.

Everything was enough to keep her comfortable.

Then why did she feel so anxious?

Irene's eyes shifted to the opened glass window behind the candle.

It was a terrible winter, one that had choked all the greens outside to death.

One that had brewed a snowstorm, causing the lifeless trees to be wrapped in an eternal white and to sway hysterically.

Her heart hammered brutally against her chest. The grip of her fingers on the white silk bed sheet underneath her tightened by every fleeting second.

She prayed and prayed with all her soul that the wild winter winds entering through the ajar window could put out the candle's flame.

Irene prayed that the miracles of this world would collide and embrace her for once.

She prayed that she didn't have to do the chore herself;

That she didn't have to be the one to blow out the candle's fire.

Because today out of all days,

She just couldn't.

Breathe Irene, just breathe.

She deeply inhaled through her nose; her eyes now faced the ceiling.

One.

Irene's eyelids gradually shut as she recited the numbers in her heart.

Two.

She held the air inside of her.

Three.

And then exhaled through her mouth.

Let it out, nice and slow.

Only to end up coughing violently.

Her breath hitched; it felt as if her lungs had clogged.

The same old uneasy sensations and the murderous panic inside of her intensified.

She patted her chest repeatedly, panting desperately.

Her other free hand ran through her ebony hair, creasing past her flushed cheek and finally resting on her perspired neck.

Sweat?

It was all coming back.

Irene furrowed her brows as she gazed at her palm drenched wet with sweat.

It was happening again.

She rubbed both her palms against her dampened neck in a frenzy, struggling to get the moisture off.

Not this time.

Irene huffed tensely.

Small whimpers escaped her cracked lips which soon turned into screams.

Please not again.

Both her palms now landed on her throbbing temple, the vivid images of the raging fire blazing through the royal garden.

Get out of my head!

The vivid images of little Irene, frozen, and rooted to the ground.

Get out!

Even the horrific and loathful odor of burning flesh, Irene could still sense it.

She pulled her knees close to her chest and gulped.

The grim dizziness took over her being. Irene felt her head spinning round and round endlessly.

Why was the candle even left alight?

The fire outside her room was snuffed out; any hallways near her royal quarters were grim with the murk.

Alexander would make sure of it, he wouldn't allow the slightest wink of flames near her.

Especially not today.

The fire on the iron-wrought chandelier hanging above her head was stifled.

Irene winced.

Not a single candle lit aflame in her room but that.

She lifted herself off the bed, her bare feet touched the freezing, wooden floor.

Irene's hand landed on the chair beside her,

Her head still whirled in circles.

She knew if her condition were to get any better it would only be by eradicating the tiny fire twirling on the candle as if it was mocking her.

Irene didn't care if the flame had to be put out by tossing the candle out of her window, or by stepping on it with her bare feet.

It had to be gone.

She moved in its direction, stumbling here and there occasionally.

Her fingers reached for the candle, while her other hand pressed down on her forehead firmly to ease down the blistering headache.

If only she hadn't felt so weak and wobbly she would have tapped down the fire with her palm.

If only she wouldn't have tripped mid-way, losing her balance.

If only her muscles wouldn't have ached so awfully.

Or if her hand wouldn't have stumbled on the metallic tray under the candle, instead of the candle itself.

The silver tray tumbled down on the floor with a loud clunk along with the candle.

The blaring noise made Irene grimace.

Her quivering hand covered her ears and her brows knitted together in irritation.

But the booming sound wasn't the real problem here,

The fire that caught the tail of Irene's black woolen gown was.

She laid unhinged on the icy floor.

Her frail and feeble body did not have enough power left to scurry or dab the fire away.

The tail of Irene's dress was ablaze in one second, the edges of her silk bed sheets in two, and her fringe, red curtains in three.

The little flame was now an enormous inferno.

It roared so high and massively that Irene's vision became blurred with its sparking orange and blue hues.

Irene stayed motionless; she could feel the stinging heat of the fire on her pale legs.

She should have been worried right?

Worried about her body almost set on fire and her remains that would possibly burn to ashen?

But she wasn't.

The only hurricane of thoughts in her mind was that of her mother's.

It felt like Deja Vu, or as if she had traveled back in time.

To the 13th of December,

The day her mother was burned to death.

To the day she balled, yelled, and howled in absolute pain.

The day eight-year-old Irene lost all sense of time and happiness.

The day which was stuck in her memory on a loop.

The day the fire didn't just take over her mother, it took over Irene's eight-year-old mind, her soul, and her six-year-old little sister's life.

It was the day Irene couldn't age out from.

13th of December, today's exact date.

Irene's mother's death anniversary.

That time of the year which every living being in this godforsaken Palace feared.

Irene was sprawled across the floor like a dead rag doll.

The corner of her eyes twinkled with tears.

She was sorry,

So so sorry to her mother.

She wished she could have jumped down to save her just as her sibling did.

She wished she wasn't a statued fool, standing frosted, wide-eyed, and still as a stick.

And maybe she would have,

If her father's hand wasn't placed on her shoulder like a warning as he watched her mother flare in a fire-storm with a sinister look in his eyes.

Maybe if she didn't care for the King's alarming threats she could have joined her mother and sister in the after-life.

Maybe it was finally time for her too.

Maybe this way she could finally apologize to her.

Tell her how much she loved her and how much she missed her.

How much she dreaded waking up to an empty Palace each day.

How much she yearned it was her who would have burned in the place of her mother.

How much she hated stepping into the royal gardens time and again.

Or how much she desired to be in the place of her sister who was thrown into the dungeon for her revolt and starved till she passed away.

Irene felt the fire advancing towards her skin, her eyes steadily closed down.

This was better.

Death was better.

This was karma after all, for being a coward and useless older sister.

She deserved it.

The fire's body grew and grew until it encased her entire room.

She would have been smoldered by now if her dress wasn't so unbelievably long.

Tough luck.

Irene wanted to go up in smoke as soon as she could.

This was finally an escape for a good for nothing like her.

Irene sighed profoundly for one last time, her clenched fists now loosened and her body relieved itself of any energy that was left.

Strangely enough, the last person on her mind wasn't the man Irene claimed she loved.

It wasn't Theodore.

Neither was it her cruell father, his second wife, his advisor Alexander or her best pal Louise.

Strangely enough,

It was Emmett.

A small simple crept up on Irene's lips.

Him.

Oh, him.

He would miss her too, wouldn't he?

Like she would miss him.

In this whole wide world, he'll be the only person to long for her.

Maybe the only person to cry for her as well.

It wasn't just her dress now, the tips of Irene's inky black hair had kindled into flames too.

The scent of burned cloth, burnt hair, and her burnt-out heart.

It layered her entire room like an everlasting nightmare.

Half conscious and half unconscious, Irene slowly felt numb while her head tilted to the side.

Her lashes fluttered shut and the last view reflecting in her glinting eyes was that of a pair of black boots.

Wait.

Irene's eyes opened again.

Black boots?

Her gaze followed the dark pair of shoes sprinting towards her.

She felt the sturdy heel of the boot stomping continuously on the tail of her dress, attempting to puff out the fire.

Emmett?

"Irene!"

No.

It wasn't the same tuneful, sweet, and soothing voice.

Nor was it the same pair of honey-brown eyes she met when Irene felt strong, buff arms lift her off the floor.

It was his gravel, manly voice that echoed in the blazed up room.

And it was his round, chocolatey brown eyes that pulled Irene into recognition.

It was Theodore.

He drew Irene into a sitting position, his bare hands tapped on the torched up edges of her hair.

"Irene get a hold of yourself!"

Worry.

This was the first time Irene had seen him so worried.

She remained hushed and stared at him blankly.

Theodore's veiny hands shook Irene's shoulder, he scanned her from tip to toe.

Touch.

This was the first time he had touched Irene in such a long time.

"Irene! for God's sake -"

Theodore moved Irene's coal-black locks from her face, his fingers stroked her scarlet cheeks gently.

"Don't touch me!"

She smacked Theodore's hand with hers.

The tears that twinkled in the corner of her eyes now long gone.

Irene strived to stand, constantly trying to push past Theodore's hold.

"You would like me dead wouldn't you?"

Irene spoke bitterly, her voice broke in torment.

"You're so selfish, aren't you?"

She stated as a playful smirk loitered on her lips.

"The only time you'll care for me is when I'm burning up?"

Irene grabbed his collar roughly; her face close to Theodore and her eyes shooting daggers in his.

"Let me die, Theo, make it easier for both of us."

She shoved him aside, wiggling on her fragile legs, attempting to stand yet again.

Theodore let out an exasperated sigh as he gagged from the fumes and exhausts that flooded her room; his arm sneaked their way around Irene's waist and his other one under her legs.

In one swift motion, he swept Irene off her feet and darted out the door.

Irene peeked behind his broad shoulders, the royal guards were tossing buckets of water on her fuming room.

She peered at her bed, all scorched up and smoked.

Everything was in ruins.

The same fire that captured Irene's room now conquered her mind.

She thrust against Theorodre's chest again, kicking her legs in the air.

Her efforts bloomed as her small frame slipped out of his grasp and flung on the floor with a thud.

Irene hurled back to her room, staggering now and then, only for Theodore to tow her back with both his arms.

He hugged Irene from behind, his mouth close to her ear mumbling comforting and calming words.

Her feet were almost hoisted above the ground.

He massaged her arms lightly.

Her stiff, warm body now leaned against his, relaxing into his embrace.

Her breathing stabilized by every passing minute.

The gush of tears in her eyes brimmed again, and flowed down her face, dripping past her chin and settling on her collarbone.

Irene forced her palm against her mouths as she sniffed, trying to muffle her wails.

The look in Theodore's eyes softened.

A pang of guilt and regret flew by his heart.

He did things to Irene that disturbed the peace of her soul.

He ignored her, gave her a cold shoulder, and shut her out completely.

Heck, he wouldn't even glance in her direction.

But that was because a part of him held her accountable for everything that went wrong in his life as well.

And if there was any relationship that was left between them, it was of sympathy from Theodore's side and nothing else.

Because he knew that the day her mother died was the day Irene died as well.

It was the day she never grew up from; she was still a little kid, a little eight-year-old desperate for her mother's touch.

"Im sorry Irene."

The words spilled out of Prince Theodore's mouth came out as an almost inaudible murmur.

"I'm sorry that things had to turn out this way."

Irene's wails now turned into sobs and hiccups; her eyes blood-shot and completely swollen.

It wasn't just Theodore who had witnessed Irene's sorrowful breakdown; it was the entire palace.

The shocked maids, the concerned Queen Isadora, baffled Alexander lurking in and out of her room and checking up on her from afar.

It was dumb-struck Louise with her hand resting on her heart; it was startled and shaken up Emmett.

And it was bewildered and almost terrified Ella.

"Look at me."

Theodore tugged Irene even closer to him, placing his hand below her chin, forcing her to turn towards him.

"We will do it for you."

Theodore's eyes shifted from crying Irene to shocked Ella.

"We will avenge your mother's demise for you."

His piercing gaze locked with hers, with so many emotions and so many unspoken secrets, that she couldn't figure out.

Ella's hand rested on her hips as she tilted her head returning his stare with a calculating one.

Her eyebrow quirked in confusion.

"We"?

What the hell did he mean by,

"We"?

A/N : Poor irene, i cri :(. Poor girl is still eight in her mind, that should explain her temper issues and obsession with prince Theodore.

Also medschool is sucking the life out of me, so updates might be slower. Sorry about that in advance.