A/N: A bit non-linear, but this was just something I wanted to explore in Ashaia's past and bring forth to her present.
There was a time between.
Between the entrapment within a toxic marriage and the initial bestowal of some purpose in a world that felt so hopeless. A year which nestled between the timely death of her husband, and her recruitment into the Bloody Dawn.
A year - for the Raven to truly awaken.
The bird had finally been set free from her gilded cage, allowing her wings to unfurl and spread to their full, magnificent extent. The Raven could, after so many laborious years, find herself in ways unimaginable. In ways she was unable to as a teen, given that she had married so young.
For the first time in her life, Ashaia was a free woman. Free to roam as she pleased - calmly and quietly. Or roguishly and promiscuously. However she deemed appropriate. There was now a world for her to explore, experiences to discover, a frozen soul to unearth. There was no curfew, no bounds, no excuses. She could do whatever, whenever.
And with it came vices and addictions. Alcoholism was beginning to plague her again, now a 'need' as opposed to a 'want'. Yet it was easily masked with other, more intimate distractions. As the Raven was now awoken and indulgent in life's sweetest pleasures, Ashaia was no longer tied to one sickly band around her finger and she could find love easily again - even if it were just for the night.
Her sexual prowess was unlocked, her libido on fire. She was ravenous for the risk, the danger, the 'what if' possibilities. Released from the resistance, she was empowered by her feminine wiles. The Raven was now undeniably desirable: tender flesh and ivy eyes.
Sweat-induced skin on skin, the heavy scent of lavender and sage acting as nothing short of intoxicating. At this point, her raven tresses now waist-length. A dark veil to protect the vixen from violent men, allowing only for the unruly rogues and seekers of hedonistic passion. Yet very few candidates were fortunate to draw close, for the Raven was cautious in her specific selection. She would not give herself so easily, her body was still sacred - despite the marks of birth and punishment.
And only one fellow, of the many who attempted to catch the Raven, would be the most definitive in such a playful, freeing haze of a single year. The memory of him, she often recalled sweetly. He stood out, for all the right reasons. A man who had experienced similar pain. A widow, a father to a child he would raise alone. Not some Prancing Pony ruffian or mercenary, but an honest man who did honest work. To survive.
Ashaia was sure that she would never see this man again after their initial departure. But a year on, in some fluke encounter - she would.
A busy afternoon in the market, to be precise. She hated this kind of bustle, and now wedged in the throng of townsfolk maneuvering to each other stall resulted in her fingers slipping out of the grasp of a much curvier older sister. The blooming bump of her stomach was certainly no aid to the situation, a gentle hand cupped under it protectively. The claustrophobia was creeping up the back of her neck, little hairs standing on end. Her lungs ached for more oxygen, to which she inhaled sharply. A shorter height than most, her sister blended in seamlessly and thus, was harder to locate.
A scuff of clothing, a brush against another body. And a final confused 'Ash?' was the only string of happenings to prise her from the determination of just removing herself from the overcrowded setting as a last resort.
Ashaia halted in her tracks, yet townsfolk continued to shift around her. It was a voice she recognised. A man, a step or so away, had imitated her actions. A tall, lean man with a crop of dirty blonde hair. The kind long enough for pesky strands to fall into ocean eyes, until brushed back again with a simple swipe of his hand. His cheekbones were high and a shadow of stubble grazed his jaw, adding to the overall effect of his definitive handsomeness. His smile was attractive and he maintained eye-contact like no other soul. A genuine intrigue for a woman so similar.
She stared at him. In fact, she gaped. His face was one to bring memories flooding in and obliterating her train of thought. She could recall it perfectly: the darkened room swathed in candle-light, the pain in her back from being pressed strongly against the nearest wall, the proximity of two bodies closing swiftly, the hunger for desire, the steady breaths of anticipation for rawer desire. Yet advances grew gentler, foreheads rested against each other. The sheer ghosts of her fingertips shifted several strands of blonde hair from obstructed eyes. He was careful with her at the reveal of her scars.
There came a second 'Ash?' to which Ashaia blinked, comprehending the here and now. She found herself already walking away, brisk distance put between she and him, swept away wordlessly in the continued search for her sister. It was definite in the moment - she cared not to revisit old flames.
For he was just a memory, from in between.
