Gone the finery, gone the care, her hair twisted back upon her head in a messy bun and secured by twine and pins, her dress more a sheath of simple, crumpled cream linen, free of embellishment. Her cheeks red from the many days travel, her eyes red from the many tears fallen, her hands red from constant washing. Gone the image of the woman she once was, gone perfection.
Barefoot she sits in the large wooden chair of her workroom, exhaustion at last getting the better of her, the stone tiles beneath her feet as cold as ice yet as pristine as the day they were set. It had to be done, everything scrubbed clean, top to bottom in her home, yet for all her efforts it never quite seemed enough. So vigorous she was that the coarse hairs began to part from the brushes wooden handle and after another purchased she carried on, upon her hands and knees, her sleeves rolled to her elbows. Countless trips to the well, bucket upon bucket of water sloshed upon an already perfectly clean floor. Queerly, the home was indeed spotless upon her reluctant return to it, but her mind saw only blood sullying every surface.
A body reluctant from lack of sleep and too much work, she rested and took to writing within a book. She could not do nothing, if she did, she saw him, a hulking mass of cruelty, the bloodshed and a path that might have been. There was the coppery scent of blood, of Emersons breath, she could feel his touch, his weight upon her, feel her hands coated crimson in the warmth of his blood. Lazily the nib of the quill scratched her words, words of hope, of despair, her thoughts.
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It has been some time my bard, since I asked you to leave my side, time that I have used in the way I saw fit. Your blossom was never perfect, blossoms are beautiful, delicate, but in time they fall, then fade. I feel older my love, beyond my years and more distant to the trivial matters that affect most in the town. It is to be expected I suppose, gone are the worries of whether my appearance entices those around me, to be replaced by whether a bolt shall be embedded between my shoulder blades when I least expect it.
My anger toward you has waned though. You have always been a prideful man who has been through much at my side, by choice I might add. Yet, you have tantrums like none other I have known, akin to a child being told he cannot have the final piece of pie, or the toy in the market. How you raised my ire, bought bile to my mouth with how you spoke to me, they were murdered, in my home, the man on his knees, my newborn nephew in his hands. Yet all you cared for was returning there, to that building, at my side, in that moment, not for what I had endured ..continue to endure, by the man who claimed he would have..
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She pauses, unable to carry on with her musings, yet after a moment of composing herself, continues
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…bound me in slavery, taken me at his whim, and perhaps killed me. Yet all you persisted in doing was demand we return there together. My pleas for you and Arithem to be certain the home was fit to return to, fell on deaf ears. Instead you berated me, you wanted thanks..all you wished was thanks..Do we not do things out of love and not for gratitude? I could demand thanks from you for all I have given, my heart, my trust, my coin, my home. I do not, I give you these things because, although we quarrel, although my heart hurts for what was said, I love you.
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Giving a cursory look over her words and between pursed lips a light breath of air over the wet ink, she allows it to dry before closing the books cover.
