All was silent in the country, peaceful and content with its quiet mystery and beauty. The trees waved happily at the birds whose precious families they cradled in their arms, and the grasses of the plains bent back, enjoying the embrace of the warm breeze. All was right in this world; all save for one small place.

A small girl, the age of seven, sat quietly in the ruins of what had once been the storehouse. The place had burned down around her; in fact, to most eyes, it was a miracle the small child had survived. But not to her family. Her father and mother had adopted her when she'd been three, abandoned in a field. They'd hoped she'd be useful when she grew older, but she'd just become more and more of a hassle. The family did not love the girl; tolerance would be a more suitable word for what they felt for her. However, today their forbearance had been stretched to the limit, and then some.

Her mother rushed to her and scooped the girl up in her arms. "Honestly child! What have you done?!" She dropped the girl unceremoniously outside the detritus of the ruined building, stepping into the center herself. The girl slowly stood, her hands clasped behind her back, eyes turned to the ground. "I don't understand you! How could you do this to us, to your family?" The girl began to weep. "I don't know!" she cried helplessly, desperately reaching out for non-existent comfort and love from her mother. Her mother ignored her. "Gone!" she whispered in horror. "It's all gone!" Her mother began to weep as well, but her tears were not of sorrow, but anger and vengeance. "This has gone too far, girl." The girl raised her eyes to her mother's face, fear and pain apparent in her deep brown eyes. "Your father will hear of this, and we will decide your punishment in the morning." Those words said, her mother took one last look at the debris. "Gone." She shook her head and trod back inside, leaving the broken little girl with her tortured thoughts. She cried her poor, love-deprived heart out, and curled up beneath a towering oak tree. "Tem se flene Laila," she spoke, unsure of where the words came from. "Laila."

The morning sun found the girl still tightly curled beneath the loving, caring, oak tree. She stirred as the sun warmed her dew-soaked body, and she sat up carefully, looking around for her parents. Not seeing them, she rose to her feet and stretched, enjoying the feel of sun on her wet, clammy skin. She winced as she stretched the skin on her side too far, pulling on the tender new skin. She ran her finger along the new scar, and the memory of the day before flooded her mind, filling her soul with fear. She froze, hearing footsteps approaching. She began to tremble, paroxysms of fear and tears wracking her horror-struck heart. Her father and mother appeared a few steps away.

"We have decided on a punishment." Her father's voice was deep and menacing, reducing the child to a huddled, shaking mass at the foot of the great oak. "We can no longer keep you, girl. You are too much of a hassle." The girl slowly raised her head, a mélange of emotions coursing through her. Hope that her life might improve, relief that she wouldn't be beaten, fear of what lay ahead, and even a small tinge of sorrow; sorrow that she'd never receive love in her life from a mother. She looked at her father's stern and frenetic face, and all feelings save fear left her shivering in front of him. "You may take an extra change of clothes. Be sure to take a cloak as well; we wouldn't want anyone to think there's a freak on the loose," he sneered, tugging harshly on her newly developing wing.

The wings puzzled everyone that stumbled upon the small child. In her infancy, there had been no sign that she was any different from any other girl, and into the toddler years she remained so. It wasn't until she made her way into childhood that a difference from the other children could be distinguished. Around the age of five winters, her parents began to notice that the area around her shoulder blades wasn't developing properly, and she seemed to be developing some sort of deformation in that area. By six years, it was evident to all that she was no ordinary child; she was growing wings of the deepest black hue, feathers graced with a bluish sheen when struck with light at an angle.

"I don't know who or what you are, girl, but I'll be glad once you've exited our lives, you little brat. Go! Get out of my sight!" He kicked her, not too hard, but enough to leave a mark. "Get you gone, freak!" Her mother threw her a ragged pack of clothes and a patched cloak. "Go!" Her father lunged for her angrily, but she stumbled away, tears burning in her eyes. She took one last look at the place of her childhood, and fled down the path into the woods.

The small girl ran as fast and far as her short legs would carry her before she collapsed in an exhausted heap at the foot of a willow tree. She spread the thin cloak over herself and fell quickly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The sound of voices woke her the next morning. She rubbed her eyes tiredly then sat up. Two men stood on the path just outside her willow tree, deep in a heated discussion about a trivial matter. The girl sighed, heartsick, shook her head, and quietly slipped away, unseen by the very same men who'd thought to save her from her life of utter misery and pain.