RP:Some Beginnings End

Summary: A dream of her husband from her former life prompts Valrae to rush her return home. She mourns the loss of both Irenic and her former life before leaving it behind with a greater sense of finality.

Cenril

Golden light cast the world red behind closed eyelids. Breath feathered across her forehead. Somewhere beyond the walls a bird sang its welcome to the early morning. Slowly, she stretched her body up and out, lifting her back from the warmth of the tangled sheets. She held her pose for a breath before settling back down on a sigh. Her eyes opened to those of brown and unseeing blue. In the slanted morning light his bicolored eyes were illuminated, changed from the usual coffee and afternoon sky shades to more vibrant shades of silver and gold. His smile was crooked, almost dangerous on scarred lips and a handsomely angular face. He needed a shave but not badly, as dark stubble covered the sharp line of his jaw and pricked at her lips as she kissed it.

“I’ve missed you, love,” His voice was soft, only a whisper. She opened her eyes again to smile at him, to tease him for saying so when they’ve only been apart long enough to sleep, but something had changed the watchful lines of his face. The look he gave her now sent a phantom pain spearing through her chest. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Her voice sounded small and scared, even to her own ears. Irenic only smiled, his hand moving to brush the hair from her eyes. “Can’t a man look at his wife?”

The pain grew in her chest, as if a cold hand had fisted around her heart. “Wife,” She repeated the word, unsure of why her mind had snagged upon it. Suddenly, she felt as if she’d forgotten something important, as if she’d gone out of her home without her bag or put a pot on the stove without water to boil. Sorrow crossed his face like a dark cloud. “Don’t think too hard, love. Stay a little longer,” His hand moved to cup her face but she doesn’t feel it. The lack of sensation sent ice through her veins. She was up like a bolt, knuckles white as she clenched her hands in the sheets.

“Irenic?”

Her husband was gone. There wasn’t even a crease in the bed where he’d lain. The room was empty and Valrae was left with only the slowly dissapaiting scents of a home from another life, her memories, and an emptiness.

...

Valrae welcomed the remainder of the morning alone. She took her tea from a small blue cup, the partner to the very one she’d broken shortly after reuniting with Lionel, as she watched fat little robins hop around the lonely thin tree just beyond the window. As the sun rose high above the shimmering barrier and the tavern slowly stirred with the sounds of movement and life below and around her she thought of her lost life.

She thought of the home she’d left behind, where she’d worked and laughed and made love with Irenic. Where she’d cried and bled with her friends. Where she’d tried, and failed, to learn even the most basic culinary skills with Maude. She’d stained those floors, painted those walls and windows, filled the home with treasures and comforts that the orphaned street girl that still hid deep in her chest had always craved. She’d grown and enchanted a garden, ridden Fury and tended him in those fields. She’d drank too much wine and cast circles of magic in the living room with her friends… Irenic had started an addition for the hope of children of their own one day.

She thought of Maude, how she’d fled the day Valrae had made her spirit tangible enough to speak to Meri. She thought of Larket, of the camp and the witches she’d freed. How they risked exposure visiting the empty grave her husband and her surrogate mother had tended just to pay tribute to who they had come to call the Red Witch.

She felt her heart bleed as the memories flooded her, salt to a bloody and terrible wound. Would it ever heal?

When she finally dressed for the day it was nearing noon. She chose a conservative riding gown, the cotton thin and sky blue. Little white flowers dotted the skirt, loose bodice and sleeves. When she sat at the washroom vanity and combed her tangled dark hair she looked into the mirror and back at the face of a stranger. She lined her eyes with kohl, darkened her lashes and stained her lips. She plaited her hair and tied it with a silky ribbon of blue. In the end, the pretty stranger looking back at her was changed again with a magic glamour to hide her new identity. Looking back at her was a petite, freckle dusted woman of fair complexion.

She gathered her saddlebags, enchanted valise and oversized purse. She left a note on the bed without really thinking that Lionel would even see it before she returned.

With help from a dirty faced tavern boy Fury was saddled, much to his snorting displeasure, her bags were secured, and Valrae was heading out of Cenril.

...

Fury was the only thing Valrae had managed to carry from her former life. The stallion was a gift from the well known witch sisters Talyara and Lanara. She’d won a costume contest, which she’d attended with her former husband Irenic, and Fury had been the prize.

He was no regular horse, her Fury. His unusual size was sometimes the only indicator of that though. With a glossy coat and long curling hair of inky black, Fury most closely resembled a Friesian in looks, though he stood an impressive twenty plus hands high. While he resembled a draft horse his temperament was as hot-blooded as a thoroughbred and it wasn’t often he was without an attitude. The similarities to a usual horse ended there. Fury was a crimson flamed Hell stallion. Because of a deeply shared soul bond, Valrae could call him wordlessly and he would leap from the shadows or disappear into them just as quickly. His mane, tail and the long curling hair around his hooves were burning crimson flame when he was no longer at rest, smoke curling from his nostrils as he galloped into, or away from, danger at the witch’s will.

He was a rest now, though he would toss his head to snort at Valrae every so often to remind her that he wasn’t yet over the insult of her saddle, bags or the damned bridle and harness he so loathed. If Fury had his way, he’d be full flame and full gallop as she clung bareback and he raced of into fields or battle. It was all the same to Fury, as long as he could run.

The witch did her best to soothe him as they made the ride to Larket together at a comfortable pace. She’d had to glamour him as well, her magic changing his dark and dangerous appearance to a softer, dappled appaloosa that was much less recognizable than her hell beast.

With her glamour and travel papers, Valrae was now Sara Grace Harron. The papers were courtesy of the actual Sara Grace that had once inhabited her body but died of hypothermia after being caught in a storm in Frostmaw. Both the identity and the body were Val’s now though, thanks to Meri and Hudson. They were the leaders of the Larket and Cenril’s seedy underbelly, respectively. With slightly skewed moral compasses and shady connections, the pair had gotten her a body and the final item needed for her revival. She was grateful, eternally, but also uncomfortable in a literal stranger’s skin.

Months had came and went and Valrae still couldn’t shake the feeling of being in someone else's underwear. Probably the feeling would never leave.

Larket

Her palms were sweaty before she even crossed Larket’s bridge.

By the time she’d made it into the Hard City the sweat had also beaded on her temples. Her hands were cold despite the summer heat and bright afternoon sun. Memories and fears crowded her mind, overwhelmed her, and she was in a fear and sorrow haze for the hardest parts of her Larket journey. Crossing the Vibrance river and slipping into the wooded outskirts had her so dizzy with relief that she almost fell from her seat.

The witch had to discourage Fury from breaking into a full gallop as they neared the hemlock grove that hid her old home away from the faded forest path. Her heart was caught in her throat, a painful and cold place in her chest not empty but filled with memories and a often ignored longing.

The cottage was dark but nestled comfortably in the wildflower clearing. The tower was crooked as it always had been, the sweet grass just as green and wild. Roses and ivy had climbed untended over the stone face of the house, almost cover the red door and wide stained windows of the kitchen and foyer. Fury’s stable was crowded with tangles of weed and grass. She led him the cottage.

Behind Hemlock Grove

The sun had dipped toward the surrounding line of trees before she rallied the courage to slip from Fury’s back. She unsaddled him slowly, dropped the bags, her purse and valise by the door but did not open it. The witch brushed at her stallions hair and pressed her forehead to his. He snorted, rested his long face on her shoulder, and cantered away.

There was a deep, indescribable pain that shredded through her heart. It was bright and clear and not without name. The rest of what she was feeling was not so easy to identify, harder to name and harder still to understand. It was tangled and dark and rested like a stone in her belly. She blinked at her familiar red door and still couldn’t open it and go in.

Her feet led her down the stone marked path to her garden instead. Grass, weeds, and untended flowers crowded the way. The garden gate was ajar. The idea of a tangled, untended mess Valrae had expected to find of her garden was shaken as she passed through the opened gate. The spirals of herbs, flowers, and vegetables were all neat and tended. Spices and flora scents curled to her thickly in the warm summer air.

The fountain that rested in the center was filled with cool, clear water that tumbled from the Goddess’s raised fingertips and into the wide, shallow pool below. Beyond it, the rowan tree stood tall. At first, she thought it might be blooming. It was the off season, sure, but that didn’t mean much in a witch’s garden. Most of the herbs and flowering plants that thrived here might have wilted in the summer sun on ordinary land.

Feeling strange but at home, Valrae unlaced her boots and discarded them by the gate. The rounded, sun warmed pebbles were familiar and comfortable underneath her feet. She walked the curved path toward the rowan tree and almost expected her cat, Nox, to come and weave through her legs as she passed the lavender and mint. The place he used to rest, a spot on the westernmost fence that had sagged a little after a storm, was empty and called to a bruised place in her heart.

When she made it beyond the fountain, Valrae realized that the rowan wasn’t blooming at all. The shades of red that dotted through the leafy branches were instead ribbons, some long and others short, tied in knots around branches at varying height and location. Some were silk, some were little more than twine, others had faded to pink in the sun and rain. They bobbed and danced with the leaves in the lazy breeze. Valrae had no idea what it could mean or who might have done it but tears bloomed and slipped down her cheeks anyway.

There was a stone bench and a grave marker covered in burned down candles, trinkets and flowers. Valrae wasn’t ready to see her own grave just yet, so she turned from the tree and walked out of the garden.

…

Dusk was fast approaching when she left the garden. Valrae used the rest of the slanted golden light to cast a barrier around the clearing. It wasn’t likely that stranger would wander too near, or even that Larket’s monarchy kept a close eye on her old home, but the witch decided it was better to be safe rather than sorry. The last thing she needed was to get careless and have someone come snooping around her old home, while she was in it, because they could see lamp and candle light flickering in the windows. Plus, it was as good an excuse as any to keep herself from walking through the door for a little longer.

The world was cast in dark shades of blue by the time she opened the door.

Dust reached her senses first. Her home had the settled, stale air that crouched in a house abandoned. She passed over the threshold and breathed flame into the long disused candle above the sideboard. Valrae carted her bags in and used her magic to call light the empty home and hearth.

It took her another hour to clear the dust and cobwebs from the foyer, kitchen and living room. The witch was surprised to see her home intact, nearly the exact way she’d left it. Bookcases and tables filled with her books and crystals and treasures, an arrangement of wilted, dead flowers on the mantle.

She dusted the cases lovingly, remembering the time she’d come home from Cenril’s beach and found Irenic putting them together for her. He’d stopped midway, scooping her into his big arms and loved her to pieces. Valrae had been in a state after her first solo encounter with Kahran, cold and frightened and more than a little drunk. Her husband had recreated a ratatouille dish from their honeymoon and held her all night.

Maybe she cried again, alone in the heart of her empty home as she plucked only her most treasured books and things to organize them in her enchanted valise.

There was a small statuette, a beautifully crafted figure of a woman cupping her hands to the sky and holding the thumbnail moon. Irenic had nearly fought a man for it in a dusty flea market, all because she’d said she wanted it. There was a brightly patterned throw Maude had stitched her over the high back of a chair still stained with Hudson’s blood. There were books that had belonged to her husband, some that still held messy notes and places where he’d dog eared pages.

In the kitchen there were cups with corny slogans and Irenic’s silver flask. The first time she’d ever met him he’d let her hold onto his flask. Up the stairs Maude’s already spartan room had been cleaned out. She’d left only a handful of hair pins and a nightgown. She took the hairpins and left the gown.

Her head was aching and her nose was running by the time she made it to the empty project room that Irenic would never finish. Valrae would never paint the walls yellow, or maybe a soft green because they hadn’t yet agreed on the color. Irenic would never build a crib. They would never go shopping for toys, Maude would never knit a blanket. She would never be round with child and feel his hands searching for the movement in her belly. She wept again, this time instead for all of the things that never were.

By the time she reached their room a numbness had settled over her. Her head still ached, it felt heavy and empty all at once. She stripped the dust covered duvet and left it to air out over the banister railing. She spent a long time going through Irenic’s clothes. She ran her hands over his shirts and pressed them to her tear streaked face in an effort to breathe him in one more time.

Eventually, she gathered her clothes, and some of his, and put those in the valise too. She took the coin from their shared safe and tucked it, along with her jewelry, makeup and other vanity potions in her purse. She found his ring on his nightstand, it was in a dish beside her wedding set.

Valrae slipped all three rings onto a golden chain and hung them around her neck.

When she was finally satisfied with all she’d gathered, and even her enchanted valise was full, she shrugged out of her clothes and pulled one of Irenic’s shirts over her head. She shook out the sheets, collected the duvet, and curled onto her husband’s side of the bed and screamed into his pillow until her throat was raw. When she finally drifted off to sleep, she’d stopped crying but her heart was still drowning.

…

It was late in the morning when she woke. She knew because the sun had already slipped beyond her window and would be beaming in the living room windows by now. At this time of day, the light would be just right to catch the scene of fairies she’d painted on the wide window and cast patches of color across the glossy wood floors. Valrae let herself slip into the memory of lazing on the couch in those colorful patches of sunlight, wrapped in Irenic’s arms as she watched him sleepily trace the pattern that rolled over her arm. She relived the moment until she thought the pain might actually kill her.

Sometime around noon she managed to pull herself away from the bed and make herself food. The witch managed to put together granola and mushy oats, the only thing that had lasted over the months of household neglect. Afterward she drifted around the house aimlessly. It was exactly as she spent most of her time as a ghost. Only now, she was alive and all of her memories were what remained out of reach.

Valrae tended Fury, meandered around her garden and relived the night of her and Irenic’s handfasting. She still couldn’t near the grave marker. The sun sank low on the horizon and the witch decided she’d wasted enough time to warrant another night’s stay.

…

Three days later Valrae had given up on thinking she’d make it back to Cenril before Lionel noticed her absence. She’d also run out of excuses for staying and food to eat. Every morning she would wake up in Irenic’s clothes, wreathed in the scent of his soap and aftershave, and tell herself this was the day she’d go. Every night she’d fall asleep crying into his pillow.

She’d worked through enough warring emotions that thinking about it could make her feel motion sickness. She’d been angry. Angry at Larket, angry at fate, angry at the gods and angry with Irenic… Mostly angry with herself. She felt cheated because there had never been enough time. She felt ignorant because she’d always somehow believed there would be more. And when she clawed through all the anger all she had left was the profound sense of loss. And acceptance.

The woman that had recklessly sacrificed herself and her life for her people had died and haunted these halls as surely as her reborn spirit did again in the flesh. Even still, Irenic wasn’t going to return. Though the bones of their home still stood, it was empty and the heart and love that once was would never exist there for her anymore. The Valrae that tended her garden, took morning tea with Maude and would stomp around the kitchen burning cookies her husband would longsufferingly eat could only ever live in the past. But like her love, her home, and her own soul, nothing was lost.

Valrae slipped the chain that held their rings around her neck and looked into her old home, her old life for the last time. She sent a small prayer of thanks to the universe, to Irenic for the time and love and memories that would carry on with her.

And finally, Valrae closed the door.