(no subject)
He was gone when she woke up.
And for the fourth time in her life, Isolde's heart stopped and died in her chest, buried in that bed where he had been and where she now lay.
Jamie was still sleeping, but she got up from the bed, standing and looking at the window for a moment to make certain that the world was still existing. It was, and it was nothing but sun. White heat and blazing sun. She should've known.
That finished, she walked to the corner where Tristan's sword lay wrapped in a coat and half-forgotten and lifted it up, dragging it across the room and laying it on the table, unbinding it and staring at it for a moment. No thoughts of death filled her mind, that wasn't what she was born for, who she was, and rather she did what she intended all along and took off the ring on her finger, dropping it onto the fabric next to the sword.
All her loves left her, and Isolde remained. She was a woman of Ireland, she would continue.
In the wardrobe, she found the only white thing she owned, one white dress with no sleeves and down to the ground that made her look like an angel when she had been stuck as one, all that time ago. There was nothing to do, no tears to shed, and she wasn't certain if she was being strong on purpose or because she'd just forgotten how to cry. It was just wasted water anyways.
Jamie hadn't though, and he started to cry, little arms moving and she picked him up, hushing him, settling him in their morning ritual, and pulling down a carved horse from a shelf. One thousand horses couldn't give her want she wanted now anyways.
"Come on, wee Jamie, wee Ciaran, my boy, we have things to do," she said, walking towards the door and out into the sun. "We have to walk."
And so she did.
And for the fourth time in her life, Isolde's heart stopped and died in her chest, buried in that bed where he had been and where she now lay.
Jamie was still sleeping, but she got up from the bed, standing and looking at the window for a moment to make certain that the world was still existing. It was, and it was nothing but sun. White heat and blazing sun. She should've known.
That finished, she walked to the corner where Tristan's sword lay wrapped in a coat and half-forgotten and lifted it up, dragging it across the room and laying it on the table, unbinding it and staring at it for a moment. No thoughts of death filled her mind, that wasn't what she was born for, who she was, and rather she did what she intended all along and took off the ring on her finger, dropping it onto the fabric next to the sword.
All her loves left her, and Isolde remained. She was a woman of Ireland, she would continue.
In the wardrobe, she found the only white thing she owned, one white dress with no sleeves and down to the ground that made her look like an angel when she had been stuck as one, all that time ago. There was nothing to do, no tears to shed, and she wasn't certain if she was being strong on purpose or because she'd just forgotten how to cry. It was just wasted water anyways.
Jamie hadn't though, and he started to cry, little arms moving and she picked him up, hushing him, settling him in their morning ritual, and pulling down a carved horse from a shelf. One thousand horses couldn't give her want she wanted now anyways.
"Come on, wee Jamie, wee Ciaran, my boy, we have things to do," she said, walking towards the door and out into the sun. "We have to walk."
And so she did.