Maeve has never liked storms, for as long as she can remember. They would threaten the world with their high winds and beating rains as they brewed four hours, only building the terror before they would finally fall, unleashing their wrath upon all who had been unable to seek shelter. Maeve knew that in storms tornadoes could hide, their sound like a freight train, and swirling clouds, high winds. One of her foster mothers had thought perhaps teaching Maeve how to locate storms, track them, or even just learn about them would help her overcome her fear, but to no avail, if anything it only worsened her trembling as she realized how truly deadly they can be. Lightning striking, wind uprooting trees, floods whisking away cares. It was all such a nightmare that Maeve would continue to stay huddled within a blanket each time a storm would come.

She remembers during those times thinking how she wished she could have wings and had been blessed with the ability to fly. For if she had wings she would be able to sail above the clouds, away from the vicious storm clouds and the growl of thunder. Maeve could fly with the bird, allow herself to be carried away by the breeze, her imagination endless in what sort of views there were to be seen from such a great height. No doubt endless landscapes would unfold before her. Maeve could fly herself away from foster homes, from pestering siblings, and cruel hearted school children. She could sleep on a bed of clouds, with rainbows to light her life, raindrops to quench her thirst, and the birds to keep her company. It would be a perfect existence.

Her mother had wings. She remembers, when she had met her. She had kept them hidden for the most part, knowing that flying could lead to her being easily spotted, which was not a good thing with a dark hunter hot on her trail and ready to take her out. Maeve had thought her wings to be so beautiful. They were, for the most part, nearly invisible to the naked eye, but when they would catch in the light, they shimmered and shined like the sun reflecting off the snow. They ere so entirely captivating that Maeve had nearly been hypnotized by the entire spectacle of it all. She had asked her mother if she would gets wings some day and her mother smiled. "You know, I did not get my wings until my ninth birthday, so perhaps in a few years yours will come too," she had said to the then six year old Maeve. At that point, the fairy child had been in the foster care system for nearly four years, and the thought of growing wings and flying away had seemed entirely too irresistible.

After that talk with her mother, Maeve was bound and determined to get her wings. She remembers thinking one time, that perhaps she would be able to trick her own body into spontaneously growing her wings. One of her foster homes, a large children's home, with a dozen children or so, had a large backyard. And in that backyard, there was a rather tall shed. What better way to induce flight then to just jump off a tall place? Well, at least this was her six year old logic. Maeve believed that if she put herself into a situation where she would need wings to survive, they would magically appear and catch her, like the cartoons whenever they would open an umbrella to slow their fall. And so the girl with pale golden locks had climbed up the tree beside the shed, before scrambling up onto the roof. She could feel the wind pulling slightly at her tendrils of hair, the breeze gentle and warm. A perfect day for flying no doubt. The pale child then closed her eyes, violet color falling underneath long, dark lashes before she threw herself over.

Needless to say, no wings appeared, and Maeve certainly did not fly away. In fact, if one of the older boys in the home had not seen her and rushed out of the house when he figured out exactly what the creamy haired child was up to, Maeve very well may not have been alive today. Never the less, even in spite of nearly jumping to her very young death, Maeve still wished on every star she saw for her to one day have very beautiful wings, just like her mother, and that she would be able to sly just like the butterflies she sees flitter from flower to flower.

Unfortunately, Maeve remains very much so on solid ground. More specifically, on the ground, behind a dumpster. Her creamy hair is now a mess due to having been running and now sitting in a squished together position, her tresses spilling over her shoulders. She can feel her heart racing inside her chest, and it only begins to beat faster as she hears the sounds of someone coming closer and closer to her. There is footsteps against pavement and Maeve hides her face within the confines of her arms, attempting to make herself as small as possible. One hand goes over her mouth in an attempt to quiet her breathing, suddenly aware of how loud she is being, ever little movement sounded as if she were setting off an explosion. But as the feeling of eyes watching her creeps up her spine like a spider crawling up a drain pipe. Violet eyes release themselves from the smothering of her arm crease as she looks up to the meet the were with his bright hazel eyes and kind face.

He assures her the officer was gone, but Maeve only tucks further into herself, those multifaceted violet eyes timid. "Are you sure?" she says with silvery tones. She moves slightly in her hiding place, attempting to look around the dumpster to ensure that she was not being tricker to come out. The fairy child would rather stay hidden behind a dumpster then ever go back to another foster home. She brings her hand up to shy tuck a strand of creamy hair behind her delicately pointed ear. He crouches down, and as the tall man lowers himself to her level and assures the fairy child that he will not hurt her, Maeve feels a kind and genuine smile touch her pale lips. "You promise?" She asks sweetly, peering up at him through long, innocent lashes.

Finally, she crawls from the spot in which she had been hiding, coming to stand beside the kneeling man, her violet eyes looking to him one again with that steady gaze of hers. "My name is Maeve," she says in that gentle, feminine, soprano voice of hers. She hears the wings of a bird take flight nearby and the girl jumps closer to the man, so willing to trust, so willing to believe anything that he says that is good because the child, despite her difficult past, thinks the world is so innately good, stubborn to believe otherwise. And in a rare moment, in this world where people break trust so easily, and find it with such difficulty, it is beautiful to spot a moment where a quiet, little girl and a fierce, lion find each other. It is a moment of peace in the wild world, trusting each other so easily. She rests her small, child hand on his shoulder before she whispers, "Thank you for helping me, Roman," her little voice rings out like little bells chiming against a summer breeze. Then the fairy child threw her arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder, her entire heart so open and so willing, as she suddenly feels so tired, so very tired.