Because sometimes when your on the run and a village is full of laughter and happiness but a stray poster with your name makes you turn and enter the forest, bags heavy on body, world cold from behind, stars a light above and fire warm in front which should be a beacon but sometimes...

There are the days when the fire is crackling, turning into something bigger, something more real and dangerous and there are shouts, strong men lugging guns around like

like it was nothing.

like every single gun with bullets made to kill were nothing but simple objects in life and y'know what? Maybe they are, maybe the world is so screwed up this is the norm and maybe she doesn't want it to be the norm, maybe she doesn't other kids to have warmth slip away to cold, to then have to watch raging embers ignite and burn and know she was a hair's breath away from being apart of that.

And sometimes, when the days where the fire's rapid spluttering is loud in her ears, men's shouts causing her muscles to tense and each round of a bullet thumping as the same time of her heart beat.

Red.

Lotta red, red everywhere; red pooling in her mentor's mouth, red in her mothers hands and tear-stained face, red splatters that are her friends, her new friends fingerprints on her dress when he let go, cyan sea turning an incredible molten maroon and kings of the sea flocking, mouth open and swallowing but there are no screams, magma sizzling on the waters, red itself along with the fire, a blend of blood and light and dawn and yet so

so incredibly dangerous and maybe, sometimes it's warm but fire can be hot, hotter then that warmth and it burns.

Burning so bad, human stench in her nose, tears dribbling and yet eyes on the blue reflecting her face, guiding her, a soft blue of

of death

Death because it is this same blue that is the opposite of the hot, it is the cold and cool and slick and lying and guiding and freezing

really, really, really freezing and the cold that wraps around her when she leaves embraces, when words have been said and here is a statue of a great man and when the nights are lonely both home and not and even now, her not drawing to the flame because she is no moth

but she is Robin.

She is Robin who is half cold and half hot and never warm and alone anyway, flame mere embers here but strong men's shouts in her ears and round of bullets her heart and red her hands and blue her eyes and cold her back, burning her front.