(everything above the last line is happened in the past and doesnt need to be responded to, the italic sections are excerpts from 'the little match girl'. everything important is under the second line.
ALSO: everything written in the past is written as if it were a human au, just assume that everything happened as animals in game. its prettier and easier for me to write when i dont have to think about paws and shit lmao.)

Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.

One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.

She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!

The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.

Snow had lain thickly that night, its freezing flakes blanketing all that had not yet been touched in the early hours of the morning. Warm hands, warm blood not yet melting away the gifts of the heavens bestowed metres deep. Instead, they slept away in warmer beds, and dreamt of even warmer islands. Where they might lay on the hot sands and cool off in the crystal-like beaches of some exotic land. Where they might build sandcastles fit for kings and queens alike, rather than the same dreary snowman with only half a face. Muddy and melancholic – why the children always insisted on his appearance bemused the adults of the town. But the familiarity suited the townsfolk best.

In fact, the only creatures disturbing this haunting peace could be noticeable in the faint scratches and chirps of ardent animals; they sought whatever sustenance this harsh winter had left to offer them. Juxtaposing the tonnes of snow inedible to these desperate beasts were the bare minimum sources of food dwindling every passing day. The nights grew longer too, winter’s dead drawing ever nearer. Harsh tongue had already eaten up once lush and verdant shrubbery, as its now bare and barren arms grappled with anything it could grip. Like a snare – if you weren’t careful enough it would entrap you. Trees way above fell to the same gloomy and glum fate at their bushy counterparts and created an image of butterscotch bracket encircling and framing the once picturesque bench in the centre of the run-down parklands. It was just such a sad sight. A sad sight in company.

Perched beneath the epicentre of two colliding oak trees was the frame of a small and youthful child. They weren’t dressed particularly neatly but appeared to be dressed to withstand the weather’s harsher climate. Thick coat hid underneath more and more layers so that the wearer may be shielded from this intense freeze; mittens sown together with love care that a father arduously crafted, a beanie knitted in similar fashion and a scarf old and tattered, but functional nonetheless.

sudden breeze carrying with it a chilly gust had the small child shivering into their attire, trying just as desperately to seek the last droplets of warmth their woollen coat had to offer. The human truly fit in with the natural fauna. Save for the one fact that this creature did not seek food – it could find that inside – but sought the breath of a wild tree and racked their mind to place meaning to the words that lay before their eyes and stared up at the child. They tried to tell a story, and the child listened eagerly.

In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. "Rischt!" how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but--the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.

She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when--the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.

Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-coloured pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when--the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.

Resting in the hands of the young child these words made sense, book tearing telling the story in which the child understood to a point. Why was this girl selling matchsticks? How was their magic sustained? Wonder and awe filled the welling up dark optics furiously scanning the pages set beneath them, scouring the words for an answer not there. Such a morbid thought, the child feared of a life like this little girl possessed. Didn’t pity her. Thoughts were now dormant of food and warmth and filled to the overflowing brim of the magical matchsticks and their absurdity. The young child just had to have them.

“Nikita!”

Startled right out of their reverie Nikita’s once wonder-full eyes glanced up from the torn pieces of cheaply manufactured paper, towards the sight of two similarly aged children. A boyish looking ball of scruff, and a more elegant looking girl. Both were older than the little Nikita, but that was to be expected from their older siblings, whose brash arrivals had shocked Nikita so much that the papers had escaped the shivering youth’s grasp. Nimble fingers shuddering in the sudden cry and as the papers fell with the grace of an angel, they elicited a groan worthy of a brattish demon. “Hey! Don’t scare me like that, it’s really mean.” A deep frown had found its way, etching its grim form into Nikita’s fuller face as the child reached down to retrieve the pieces lost in the bumbling of their sibling’s arrival, now dusted with the delicate forms of intricate snowflakes.

“Well I didn’t mean to scare you. You’re too sensitive Nik.” And instead of apologies of sincere regret, the frightened child was met with bemused grins and stifled chortles mocking the quick adverse reaction of the once absorbed child. Soon again bemusement melted softly into curiosity as the dark hues of the chortling brother drifted down to the pages escaping Nikita. Curious indeed. “Oh, so you actually read those scraps? They were in the old sweet’s store owner’s back pocket, so they’re probably just weird ramblings of his. Why even bother?” Fired words hit the air with formation of steam, filling the stagnant air surrounding the three siblings - venomous remarks earning the boy a quick jab from the still silent sister beside him. She seemed too small to be older, but her aura assured you that she was in fact much older than the two younger children.

“Woo! If dad finds out you’re still stealing from that flaming store again you’re going to be in so much trouble, you know that?” Hushed whispers reached barely over a decibel over what was audible as the sister frantically rushed to scold Woo. Feverishly the older sister scanned the surroundings, as if the store owner himself were just waiting around the corner to confront the children, the police here to arrest the barely grown boy, or worse yet; their father. If anyone were to find out about this incident, then no doubt all of the children would be paying the price for months to come. Perhaps even years.

“Relax. As long as I don’t get caught, nothing bad happens. Right Nik?” A haughty grin brightened up Woo’s face, met only with the bemused dismay of Nikita staring back. Now that the smaller child had the pages back in tow they were ready to dig into their brother’s antics.

Deep sighs filled the chilled air with a show of steam rising in the pregnant pause, Nikita appearing to be conflicted in their response but ultimately remained honest to themselves. Of course the child loved the loot in which Woo brought back from his “loans” – which child would not? “I guess? But for father’s benefit I agree with Jiwon.” Huffing into the air another bellow of steam erupted from the rugged-up child, brushes rustling behind them as birds finally found something worth paying energy in. “And the papers – they weren’t anything weird; they’re pages from a book or something. It’s a story.” Dark optics blinked away the cold slowly, monotonously as Nikita defended the torn pages arduously – it’s story already gripping the frozen child tightly. “A story that you interrupted might I add.” And just to spite Nikita’s defence Woo blew a raspberry at his sibling.

“The hell you doing out here guys? It’s freezing, get in!” Another cry had broken the slowly forming veil of silence blanketing over top of the snow’s surface, eliciting a unanimous response from the trio of children who all reeled to find the source. Dark hues met with the larger form of their oldest sibling; she appeared calm, but the children knew more than to trust what they perceived. Wind blew around the family, the younger siblings sharing a cautious exchange of glances before they acted.

Scatter.

Giggles erupted from the trio, their buried legs working extra hard to push their little bodies around the snowed-in parklands and away from the scorn of their oldest sister. She even amused them for a while, pretending to chase her younger siblings like a cave’s strongest monster – the carefree children playing amongst nature’s watchful eye - but wouldn’t perpetually do so. Halting the game, the older sister grappled Nikita’s small legs, appendages flailing to wriggle out of their older sister’s grips to no avail as the bundled child was hauled over their sister’s shoulder. The youthful child’s adventures had come to an end.

“You brats want to miss breakfast then?” Accusations were filled with a hint of disbelief as the young adult queried her brothers and sisters’ actions haughtily, an eyebrow raised. The woman did not even pay a care to the tiny fists beating at her back, mumbles along the lines of weak and childish insults, attempts to escape. “Fine, no skin off my back.” Then as if those words just dark magic itself, the children began to placate themselves – lulled into the idea of being well-mannered by the prospect of hot food. It was Sunday, surely there were some meat scraps and hearty eggs to be had. Just the thought of the succulent meal had the children watering at the mouth, pushing at their older sister’s legs to move past her larger form and race back to the comforts of home. To the promise of food. The sight had the sister a mixture of completely miffed and benevolent, a sigh entangled with the hints of a chuckle escaping her parted lips as she moved along with the children to head back home. Nikita still in tow.

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

Homes in this neighbourhood had seen the days of winter and summer come tenfold, it was evident in their worn down and rotting skirting boards, in their roof’s sudden marbling of blacks and oranges. It was evident in the demeanours of the inhabitants – fit to suit the climate and stubborn till the end. Unlike their decaying houses, these people had adapted and remained unscathed by the harsh grips of the cold months. They were like statues – they were too hard to move.

Homes in the neighbourhood were packed with them; grandmas, grandpas, mothers, fathers and children too all struggled to fit into their tiny decaying homes, but did so without complaint. They weren’t disadvantaged here, they were the norm. As the youthful child’s weary eyes looked out on to the sight of neighbours vivaciously tearing at tree stumps to provide their families with the warmth of a fire, Nikita was brought back to the story of that matchstick girl. Their mind wandering off to daydreams of magical matchsticks and ferocious hunger. Did the girl in the story not even have the comfort of a woodfire? How could she have not? She would have surely died that night, in the lone company of a single matchstick. What a pitiful end.

Curled up in the crooks of the window pane, dark optics shifted ever so slightly to track the people’s movements – watching carefully as their muscles worked in tandem to provide the force to split in two the lumps of wood before them. Fascinating thoughts. The empty space directly opposite of the child only remained so until the familiar form of Woo filled in the air, a huff escaping his lips as his slightly shivering form placed itself directly opposite of the younger sibling. Similarly shaded optics scoured the face of Nikita – as if Woo were trying to pinpoint what exactly his sibling was finding so fascinating. The silence held only for mere moments more, not awkwardly, peacefully. “Niki.” At the sound of their brother ardently trying to grab the attention of his brooding sibling, Nikita’s gaze dragged along the window’s more interesting scene to meet with the gaze already staring deep into Nikita’s own.

The snarky ‘what?’ wasn’t spoken, but felt. Woo reacted as if it were. “Why are you looking so glum? Like I get it’s partly just your face, but staring out the window makes you look like you’re trying to be a dramatic actor in a film.” To Woo’s teasing words came a tongue stuck out his way from Nikita, their expression still just as plain and stagnant. A snide “whatever” barely audible from the younger child’s parted mouth.

“I was just... I... I was thinking about that story again.”

An eyeroll was quickly followed in surprising succession by the huff of the older brother, his dark gaze shifting off from Nikita’s form to also gaze outside in a grand display of disappointment. “Seriously Nik? It’s so boring though – you’ve told me what, like a thousand million times already!” Huffing indignantly Woo stared outside for a few moments longer, the silence between the siblings dragging out longer as the pair sat in silence. The house beneath creaked under their weight, the birds still chirping, but the pair of children only sat in their own silence with their sounds of their heartbeats and their family in the distance filling their soft ears.

In a few moments more it was broken yet again, by the miffed sigh of Woo escaping his lungs as the boy finally gave into his younger sibling’s indignant vow of silence – hating how it felt between the pair. “Fine! You know you’re the one who’s so mean right?” Words of surrender dragged out from the boy with a childish tone laced on top, his gaze drifting back to rest on the familiar form of his sibling before him – still curled up in the corner of the window frame. “What is it now?”

A gentle smile broke out on Nikita’s soft features, chocolate hair shifting as the child drew their gaze and head from the window’s clear frame to meet the one of their brother’s pained expression. “Why this story? Why rip it from a book? It’s such a sweet tale, so then why tear it from a book so that you can’t read it no more?” As the questions drawled out from Nikita’s mouth, overflowing with curiosity ardent and passion aflame – Woo’s reaction was more than lacklustre to Nikita.

“Who knows? Who cares? Maybe that old fart stole the pages from a book in the bookstore in the first place? Maybe we’re just karma?” With a quick shrug of his shoulders the boy huffed his response dismissively, his legs moving anxiously to get this bland and boring conversation over, so he may get to the real juicy information he was just bursting with anticipation to tell his sibling. The smooth wood allowing his twitching feet to slide gracefully across the pane’s wooden frame. Nikita’s gaze looked on in dismay at their brother’s dismissive tone. Of course he didn’t get it.

“You’re just karma, and I- “

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Before the awe-filled child could once more drabble on about their newfound favourite topic, their words were interrupted by Woo’s obnoxious voice drowning out the shrill voice of his sibling’s. Nikita’s optics briefly filled dark with annoyance, but ultimately they succumbed to listening to whatever Woo really wanted to share with them. The troublesome boy wasn’t spared childish huff though. “Thanks,” Haughtily Woo flashed a grin at Nikita’s grimacing expression, the boy not caring to waste any more time Nikita could very well use to turn the conversation back to that silly story once again – he began the news. “We’re going to live in England! Brighton more specifically!” The sheer excitement in which Woo held could not be contained the very words he spoke, his face brightening in the light of it as he spoke with wonder. Woo leaned forward too, hands reaching down to the soft plush carpet below to support his weight so that he may etch closer to Nikita’s curled up form, Woo eagerly awaiting the excitement that he could share with his sibling – but he was puzzled with the odd lack of so. “It’s by the beach, it’s so much warmer there and everyone so much richer in England. Come on! Isn’t this so amazing? Aren’t you excited?” Further Woo leaned in to where he could even feel the bated breaths of Nikita on his cold cheeks, warming

them but not quite melting the ball of ice he felt in his stomach every passing second his sibling did not speak. Dark gaze shifted along Nikita’s face, scouring their expression for clues to what guarded emotions lay behind the silence façade. “Aren’t you?”

Distant, almost scared eyes suddenly drifted off from the intense stare of Woo’s, drawn to that serene image of the villagers and their wood for the harsh winters. Was Nikita just supposed to give that life that they yearned for away? “No. I’m not.” Slowly the words escaped the brooding child, their sound causing the child to further curl into their comforting ball of warmth and refused to meet the no doubt disappointed eye of their brother. He was upset yes, but should he rather Nikita blatantly lie to his face. Besides, Woo was too well versed in Nikita’s mannerisms to believe such a weak lie.

“Why- “

“Because I like it here; I’m Ukrainian have you forgotten?” Harshly Nikita spat back at Woo with venom the brother had never seen in his baby sibling ever before, sending him reeling. Leaning back Woo nervously bit the insides of his cheeks – he wasn’t going to engage with the fiery child, that wasn’t wise. Instead the young child decided to just leave whatever information he had left to give and maybe just leave the brooding Nikita alone. The pang in his chest was enough to make him not regret leaving.

“Well… We’re leaving as soon and yours and your mum’s documents are sorted.” Standing up silently, Woo paid no glances towards the still crouching mass beneath the window’s frame before he made his move. Best to not push his luck. If Nikita was going to be difficult he’d leave that to his father to sort. “See you later.” With that Woo vanished, leaving behind the still silent, still vacant young child.

Woo didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. As much as Nikita hated thinking about it, they knew that he would always be foreign and could never understand what Nikita felt to the land. They acted so much like it, but their blood was just too different from one another; they were only siblings in concept. Biology, genomes, everything else about them screamed stranger.

"Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.

She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.

"Grandmother!" cried the little one. "Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!" And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety--they were with God.

But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall--frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendour in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.

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


Time crept up quickly, and musings engulfed Venus as the young teen let their mind wander back to the time in which they had shared in their home - their real home. Not that trivial beach-side town in which "father" had dragged Venus and their mother to, not Tanglewood. Somewhere where truly Venus belonged to the land and the land belonged to Venus only. Where the nights were cold and unforgiving, but it was comforting. Could Venus return to that place where in they were accepted by everything that watched, then they would in less than a heart's beat. But they could not. So the feline had to settle for what was second best in their opinion; somewhere in which Venus did not belong, but could be tolerated. Back to the toxic hell-hole that was Tanglewood. Should the familiar face of some resident grace the teen then their spirits would brighten. Well.. Brighten as much as one could in the face of those dysfunctional mutants. Ecto-boy was still probably leading too. Maybe he had already regretted telling Venus when he founded the makeshift group.

Neck stretched to the clouded skies, sapphire hues closed over to escape the humid heat which hit them but could not quite breathe oxygen without taking a whiff of that horrible stench of absolute Tanglewood. Still as gross as ever. Perhaps it would be interesting to witness the change in flora and fauna in the time Venus had left, and how it has adapted to the new residence taking the land of the mutated creatures. It was best to think of the few positives then dwell on the many negatives in which Venus dreaded to face.

Nothing much had changed on Venus' part actually; they were still smaller than an adult - betraying their youthful age -
fur long and thick but were lightly matted in areas that made Venus slightly self-conscious. Most surprisingly of all changes was the bandage wrapped around the feline's left paw and leg, no blood seeped through but it was looking less than pleasant to the eye. But you had to give credit where credit was due for competence in bandaging your own appendages.

Never changing was the arrogant and disdainful expression plastered to Venus's soft features as they impatiently awaited someone to let the Angora back to their former home.