The depth of the Lake.

[saint_zoe 97]

Spoiler

 

On the dark, cold night of 14th of The First Seed, 1777 Saoirse wandered.

 

First across the bitter soil of a burned down cottage.

Then to a hill in which she could look over the slow and passing traffic of the road.

Lastly, to the still lake, where the wind sung so quietly to her it brought a tear to the kind woman’s heart once more. 

The water, clouded with green and muck reflected the pale woman in all of her fragility. Inviting her with quiet splashes against the inhospitable shallows.

 

She would draw a dagger, carefully removing the fur shawl and cape which kept her so warm on so many nights before this one. Huddling on the piercing sleet as she stared at her graceful hands, and as the clear moon above illuminated her she would drag the dagged along her palms down her thin arms. Her carved hand reached to the thick over layer of her gown, hastily throwing it off.

 

“Take.. me back.” 

She would quietly beg.

Staring at her own warped reflection in the lake, she would collapse downward and into the abyss. 

 

“Saoirse.. You know this is not your time.”

“But I wish it to be.”

“Why, my child? There are those who would mourn.”

“I grow tired.”

 

In the numbing water she would feel hands touching her face, cupping her soft cheek.

The moon would shimmer over her frame, ethereal and melded in the water she wished to take her from her own growing torment.

 

In what felt truly like a lifetime, would be a matter of moments. Her blood had pooled slowly in the surrounding water, and a figure she could not make out reached for her cold body. Dragged from the depths, to the shallows, and then to the bitter earth once more. 

 

Her wish to rest had been rejected, and though it was not her time to go, she continued to dream of her own passing as she was treated for what she had done to herself.