Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints WHO Aisling WHATPrompt: Forgiveness WHERE Rosewood Manor WHEN September 10, 2015; dawn RATING none
Aisling lay listlessly on the divan that had been placed under the window, watching the dawn break over the town. After her near-death in the sudden August storm, she had acquiesced when Flynnwood had asked if she wanted move into a room in the manor proper. The thought of staying in the cottage by herself was overwhelmingly upsetting.
Because of the nature of her injuries, her recovery had been slow. Even now, a month later, she struggled with fatigue as her body tried its hardest to rid itself of the last remaining iron particles that had stayed behind after her impalement. The wound had closed, leaving no indication that it had ever been there. But still, Aisling found her delicate fingers drawn to the site, tracing the non-existent scar over and over again.
Flynn checked in on her, but she had little to say to him. She had little to say to anyone, other than politely declining meals and issuing a strict order that no one at home be informed of what had happened, especially her father and Malachi. They would almost certainly demand her return at once, and she was terrified that it would mean she would lose her brother all over again, even despite the fact that he had been the one to ultimately save her.
She had survived. She had lived, when Aidan had not. He was a soldier, she had told herself over and over again. He had sworn to protect you at all costs, including his own life. But still her nights were broken by the sight of his lifeless eyes, his motionless hand still reaching for hers. When she had energy to do little else but sleep, she was robbed of the opportunity by dreams that reminded her that it was her fault.
This morning’s dream found her standing before a mirror, the reflection staring coldly back at her. The image that she saw looked so much harsher than she thought herself to be, its frozen heart betrayed by the white locks that descended around ivory shoulders. A visage meant for Winter, not Spring, Aisling thought. Was that to somehow be her fate? Would she become so lost in her own grief, her own guilt, that her spirit would leave behind the warmth of Spring for Winter’s frozen embrace?
“Is such a thing even possible?” she wondered aloud, the window pane fogging at her murmur.
She knew of faeries wasting away, but she had never heard of one whose strength shifted from one season to another, even after marriage or being banished. Still, that was no definitive proof that such a thing could not happen; although she suspected that if it were possible, it would be Cavan whose strengths would shift long before her own did.
The Bloody Prince. He had come to pay her a visit; she had tried to turn him away, but even Flynn had suggested she receive him, if only for a short while. They had mostly sat in silence, Aisling for once having very little to speak of. His inquiries were met with short, non-committal answers, if she even responded at all. It hadn’t been long before she had excused herself, feeling a need to retire. It hadn’t been an untrue statement; for as much mistrust as she held for her eldest brother, she could never lie to him. Her near-constant fatigue had simply served as a convenient justification to end their visit. She had not seen him since, although she had long since lost track of whether it was due to her self-enforced solitude or his lack of interest.
Outside, the rising sun painted the sky in wide swaths of red and gold as the deep dark of night faded away. The rosy hue made her feel uneasy; she recalled an old rhyme she had read somewhere in the town’s library. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning. Her stomach dropped at the thought of another storm ripping through the town. That the sky was otherwise clear did nothing to soothe her nerves; after all, it had been clear that August morning as well.
In her agitation, she didn’t realize that she was causing the vines along the facade of the manor to grow and thatch together, until the window had been completely blocked by them. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she tried her hardest to relax, sending the vines back in retreat. Before long, the window was clear once again, haloed now by blooming roses in pink and a buttery yellow. Her gaze dropped from the sky to the grounds below, her little cottage visible a short distance away.
It hadn’t been that long ago that she had enjoyed another storm in early summer, listening to rain as she sat out on the wisteria-covered front porch with Aidan. It seemed a lifetime ago, that they had been so satisfied as to enjoy something so simple. Why couldn’t I have stayed content? she wondered, letting her eyes drift closed as tears began to brim, rolling down her cheeks. Why did I have to go searching for adventure?
You should have been happy with what you had. It was not her voice, but the voice of the icy reflection from her dream. You should have stayed where it was safe.
“Aidan knew the risks,” Aisling found herself murmuring aloud. “He was dedicated to me.”
He loved you. And this is how you repaid him for it?
“He knew he had my gratitude and my love for his service.”
Did he?
She felt the burning in her abdomen again, her fingers finding the unmarked skin. Her chest felt tight, her breathing shallow. And there he was, his blood smeared across the cold, dirty floor as he reached for her.
Her eyes shot open as her chest heaved in a short sob. The sun was high in the sky now; she didn’t remember falling back asleep. There was a soft knock at the door, one of the maids Flynn had assigned to her slowly pushing it open just enough to look in.
“Milady, would you like some food?”
Aisling’s gaze slowly rolled toward the door, her shadowed eyes meeting the maid’s for a moment before she returned to looking out the window.
“Not today,” she murmured. She knew the maid would give an unsurprised, but concerned, sigh as she shut the door again. Flynn would likely be along soon to try and coax her into eating something. She hoped by then she would be asleep again.
How would Malachi feel if he knew that you were wasting away in guilt over the death of a guard?
“He would understand. He is nothing but compassionate.”
And yet, you don’t want him to find out.
She stirred herself awake again, unable to discern how long she’d managed to stay asleep. The reflection’s words stayed with her as she watched the sunlight filter through the gauzy curtains. Normally, she would have told Malachi everything in a letter, although lately she’d begun to doubt the security of such correspondence. But even so, perhaps she was fearful of him finding out what had happened. She had been selfish, she had been foolish, shen had been unfaithful.
She knew that his reaction would be to take her in his arms, to kiss her and make love to her and assure that he held no fault against her for what had happened. It should have been a comforting thought, to know that despite everything that had transpired, everything she’d done, he would still love her. But she felt undeserving of such trust, of such affection.
Perhaps she was undeserving of Malachi altogether. Arranged though their betrothal may have been, it was a widely accepted fact that their impending marriage would be an act of true love. But what if his faith in her had been misplaced? After all, what kind of princess willingly put herself and her guards in harm’s way?
Her eyelids felt heavy again, and she let them close again, preparing herself for the reflection’s continued abuses. But they did not come. Instead she relived the August day again and again and again, never able to save Aidan or tell him she was sorry or beg his forgiveness.
She was beginning to doubt she would even deserve it.