*Trigger warnings for very minor details of suicide and miscarriage.*
The turning of the leaves was perhaps the most definitive proof that a sense of change now lingered in the air. The regal colours of orange and magenta were beginning to pattern the nearest oak trees like jewels inlaid within a crown.
A rather apt simile when the Raven, herself, was perched so close by.
The crumbling stone seat upon which she had found herself was both hard and cold, reminiscent of her own demeanour as her green eyes switched from that of an unfolded letter within her lap and the ghostly yet pristine petals of the white rosebush in front of her.
The flowers held a certain significance to them, as did the letter for that matter yet judging by the calmed nature of her expression, the moment could be chalked down to little more than a quiet minute to herself.
The business of returning from the excursion at High King's Crossing had been a rather intriguing affair, now a staple in her life which brought with it the beginning of a new chapter. That, coupled with the usual meanderings of mothering a small child and teaching all she had pertained in her own experiences to young misguided girls, a second alone had presented itself as a rare commodity these days.
Ashaia stared towards the bush, the letter crinkling under pale digits as a white, October sun shone down with a rather weak intensity behind the overhang of grey clouds. A wisp of a memory lived in this shrubbery at the corner of the Lafaye House garden, undisturbed yet well tended with the changing of the seasons.
Ashes spread at it's root, the babe she could not see to full term, immortalized forever in the twisted stems of white roses. The miscarriage had brought with it lies and deceit. A separation, a loss. It had almost killed her. All of it. And often had she considered that she was still deserving of that fate.
To the subject of the letter poised in her hands, it had given nothing but grave news, depending on the perspective of who had received it. For Ashaia, it had been a long time coming.
Her mother was dead.
In the swirls of black ink, written by the subject herself, the contents of said letter did not detail the specifics of the incident but rather give vague indications to what exactly had befallen the matriarch of the Bancroft family. What Ashaia did not know, however, was that her mother had filled the depths of her pockets with heavy stones and walked serenely into a bottomless lake, taken now by the water and given back to the earth.
Some would argue that it was inappropriate to feel a sense of relief for the passing of a supposed loved one. Yet then again, those 'some' were very much uneducated on the matters of the tumultuous relationship between Ashaia and her own mother: a woman both feared and resented.
The Bancroft matriarch was a cruel, unyielding witch that thrived on the belief of being entirely correct when predicting the outcomes of her children's endeavours. Ashaia reached up to touch her cheek, reliving the familiar sting of receiving an unforeseen slap to the face, tasting the blood of her own mouth as it collided sickeningly with one of her teeth.
Her mother had berated her for the pregnancy which had gifted her own son, Arthur. For of course, he had come from the seed of a good-for-nothing womanizer. Ashaia rolled her eyes at the thought.
"Well, mother..." She murmured to herself with something like bitter triumph, "...I married that man." Her attention shifted from the rosebush, moving now downwardly towards the wedding band around her finger, appearing so strikingly gold in the dullness of the afternoon light.
She had found it by accident as he slept, for naturally he was charmingly unprepared and she was forever perceptive. In that moment, there was a note of panic stricken upon his features as he awoke to find her holding it but recalling it now was almost comical and she smiled fondly at the recollection, angling her newly adorned hand to perceive the union from every angle.
A new chapter. As spurred on by everything that had happened during the trip. High King's Crossing, the catalyst.
They had walked this path before. The Raven and the Viper. Both once married. Both once widowed. He had lost everything in the fire. She had lost everything in the shackles of an unloving, older man.
He lay in the remains of a burned down cottage, illuminated by the embers of singed wood and cracked stone. Death he would have gladly received as he clutched on to the lifeless vessels of a wife and daughter.
She had given her life away once. At nineteen, now a wife. A dutiful, silent wife. Back then she was the Swan adorned in white, green eyes fragmented by the delicate fabric of a veil. She walked that aisle, unknowingly giving herself over to a life of his hand firmly around her throat as she begged for mercy.
Neither was broken, no. And each could fix the other. Each was a remedy, a medicine for the other. They had found solace and comfort in this union. A feeling of being settled, finding precisely what they had yearned for for so long. Between raising their son together as a mother and father or appreciating each other later against the dust-covered bookshelves in the library as a husband and wife. A future was right there on the horizon, like the glow of daybreak, and it had never appeared so bright.
