She dreamt again of snow. Though Eola had never seen it true, not once in all seventeen winters of her life. Her dream was so vivid; the snow was crisp and flecked with blood.
The scarlet petals led to a woman kneeling over the body of a man. She was sobbing so awfully, clutching a gauntleted hand tightly to her chest. "Please," cried the woman, "please don't leave me..."
Eola couldn't make out their faces, but the girl felt their pain so acutely that her earthly body struggled for breath. The woods surrounding were deep and dark. Eola woke with the howling of unseen beasts still ringing in her ears.
Eola sat up in her bed, exhaling slowly. From the single round window of her attic room, she could make out the grayish light that signaled the coming of dawn. It was too early to rise, and yet, what could she do? The dream realm was done with her for now.
She said her morning prayers and took her time getting washed and dressed, taking extra care to braid her thick golden hair and pin it up like a crown. Even done up so neatly, stray curls unfurled here and there from their pins, the wildness of her hair a contrast to the precise symmetry of her delicate features.
She was breathtakingly pale for a southerner, milken skinned like a babe still. The sweetness of this and her wide amber eyes flecked with gold, offset the stubbornness suggested by her sharp chin, full pouting lips, and fine nose peaking in the slightest upturn.
She donned a simple pale green dress. It was perhaps somewhat outdated in style, more modest than what girls her age wore these days, giving away that the garment was a hand-me-down that had been altered to fit her smaller frame. Still, the fabric was good cotton and spoke well of the station of the lady who had owned the gown before her.
In spite of all her efforts to prolong her morning ritual, Eola still beat the cook downstairs to the kitchen, who came only after the girl had already stoked the fire and put on the kettle.
"You shouldn't do that, miss, you know how my lady doesn't approve of you doing such things." The cook, Agatha, shooed Eola away from the stove. "Go on now, miss. Breakfast will be in the garden today. You go on and I'll bring out a your tea to start."
By now, Eola knew that protest was futile. As she made her way out to the garden, however, she was surprised to find that she wasn’t alone.
“Aaron!” Eola beamed. “You’re up already!”
The young man who had been seated at the table did not rise. “Mmm,” he said, returning his attention to a missive before him. Eola took a seat beside his and rested her head on his shoulder.
“What do you have there?” she asked, looking over the parchment in his hands.
Aaron shrugged her off. Eola tried to hide the sting with another smile. She knew she couldn’t be imagining it, this distance he was forcing between them. It was breaking her heart that the one person who truly felt like family to her in this house was closing himself off to her.
The youngest son of the Windells, Aaron was still a good three years older than Eola. But they had grown up as playmates and Eola still longed for the times they would sneak out at night to catch fireflies in jars.
When she had confronted him about his growing coldness towards her, he had simply told her that it was time to grow up.
“Well?” she asked again, sitting back in her seat and folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Any news?”
“I’m going to the city to greet our new warden,” Aaron said. He flicked the parchment onto the table and tilted his chin towards it to suggest Eola could read further for herself. Eola did so, eyes widening.
“The capital is sending us a replacement for Sir Galahn? Why now after all these years?”
“I doubt even the Great Mother knows the ways of our northern politicians, Eola.” Aaron gave her a bit of his familiar grin, but they fell into silence after that as the rest of the family arrived to breakfast. Eola focused on her food, not speaking unless spoken to, as was expected of her.
Her life in the Windell household wasn’t unhappy. Not exactly. She was fortunate to be taken in by the wealthiest family in Whitscar. The lord of the house, Alesandor Windell, served as mayor of Whitscar. His wife, Magus Ondrea Windell, was the daughter of none other than Magus Sarya Morten, who had served the last queen of Alaria. The servants still told stories of how as a girl, Magus Ondrea had played at the feet of the queen.
It had been Magus Ondrea, who had found Eola as a babe in a basket in her rose garden. With three strapping sons being groomed to follow in their father’s footsteps, the Windells had no need for another child, much less a girl child who couldn’t even serve as proper companions to their sons.
Yet, they took her in, by the grace of the Mother. Eola was fed and clothed and provided with tutelage equal to their sons. But she was neither daughter nor servant, neither loved nor hated. She was simply there, but for no conceivable purpose.
Eola looked up as a bluejay perched on the high wall of the garden. It flew off the moment her gaze fixed upon it, leaving her to stare at nothing more than the sturdy stonework, mossy with age.
(( ))
Hello, I'm rings. This is an old post of mine for an SL that never quite took off because, frankly, I can be a fickle b*tch. I'm trying to work on that, but I'm afraid time has only made me pickier when looking for a writing partner.
First, I ask that you be 21+, no exceptions.
If you're interested in continuing this SL with me, please PM me with your reply. If you can't possibly imagine writing a response without more information, then I'm probably not the partner for you.
If you're interested in writing with me but this is not the SL for you, please PM me with your best writing sample and some information about what you'd like to write with me instead.
Though I like to be direct about what I'm looking for, I'm a really lovely person if I do say so myself. If I'm not interested in writing with you, please know it's nothing personal; I'm just not the right partner for you.
Thanks for reading. Happy writing.