Violence.
Anastasia thinks on the name, wrapping her primitive brain around the meaning of it—the things it could mean. Her life was not devoid of violence, but she did not hunger for it as her companion did. Don’t mistake, she enjoyed it. She liked the rush of fear when she was hunting—the way that their blood hammered in their throat when she sunk her teeth into their flesh. She appreciated the massacre and the kill as much as the hunt; she liked feeling the tension like lightning rods in the air when she appeared out of nowhere. It fed some part of her, soothed her, reminded her of the control she had.
But she did not put a name to it. She did not crack bones and suck their marrow for its sake so much as she did it because that is who she was. She was created from the shadows and molded by her father. She was taught to harness her abilities and unleash them, rain them down on others like unholy vengeance should the mood strike her. So it was not a hunger so much as a need. Part of her. As much as the dark.
She tilted her head at the question, confusion displaying blankly on her face. “How el-se wou-ld I be?” she croaked. It was difficult to grasp other possibilities: that in some other reality, she might be as pretty as her name. That in another reality, she may soften and sweeten. It was an impossible question for her and therefore a stupid one.
“Dumb,” she snorted finally, shaking her dark black head, eyes narrowing.
Without thought, a portal opens to her left and she steps through, coming up Violence’s side, sniffing at her like a wild dog. She pushed back her mane, bumping the mare’s neck. One time, she had sunk her teeth into another mare here, but the mare had tasted of rubber and death. She was hesitant to do it again. “How we-re you born?” she demanded, wanting answers now that they were being asked of her.
like the moon, we borrow our light
{I am nothing but a shadow in the night}