Topic: Last Rose of Summer

Niamh Garridan

Date: 2010-10-05 05:34 EST
It was time.

Over a year had passed since the Sidhe had ventured forth to stake their claim on her soul. Over a year since the ties of love and self-appointed family had fought to keep that soul from being torn from them. Over a year since the ties of blood had rendered the old pact null and void. Over a year ... since Niamh had seen or spoken with her mother.

So much had happened in that time, so much that Carwen should have been a part of. A new battle fought, a bond made, a child concieved, blood kin found once more, a marriage. More laughter than tears, move love than hate, more given than taken.

It was time.

The summer was waning, still clinging to the land with her last breath, refusing to heed the ebb and flow of the cycle to allow autumn her turn. The signs of it were everywhere; in the flowers that still blossomed, the trees that still held to their greenery, in the sunshine that fought the rain for control of the skies. In the last rose on a dying bush, purest white against stark, dead wood.

All summer, as the child within her grew, Niamh had felt the presence of her mother each time she stepped out into the beauty of the glen. Carwen, the Summer Queen of the court of T?r na n?g, the Land of the Ever-Young, invested in that state of her own choice by the spilt blood of her predecessor. The leannan sidhe who had denied a bargain made for her own soul, and had instead promised the soul of her mid-winter daughter in her own place. It had been a battle fought by mortal against Sidhe that had shown her the folly of her pride, by proving that love, and the Garridan clan, would not give up its own so easily.

It was time.

Barefoot in the crisp grass, her swollen belly heavy with child, Niamh walked the old path through the glen, seeking out a place that she had not yet chosen to share with either husband nor sisters. It was hers, and hers alone, and the selfish part of her wanted to keep it that way. Here, off the beaten path, away from the meanderings of most who walked the glen, there stood a small bush.

Its leaves were still green, dark and rich against the browns of bracken and bark that surrounded it. The bell-like flowers that ordained it still were pale, yet still filled with colour, the purple hue that Carwen had loved so much when she had lived as a mortal in Eire. Over the branches of the bush were tied ribbons and token, splashes of bright, everlasting colour to revive and replenish as the wheel of the year turned. Each one had been placed there in love and remembrance by the woman who now knelt before it.

It was time.

A flat stone had been erected before the bush, used as an altar by the young mother who came here most often. From her bag, Niamh brought a handful of salt, murmuring words of blessing and wishes for protection over the crystals. With a sudden movement, she threw the salt into the air and, summoning her gift of Air, concentrated upon the shower as it fell. There was a susurrus, a stilling of the breeze that passed over her, and the salt crystal slowed in their fall, guided by the power she was still learning to tumble in a perfect circle about herself, her altar, and the decorated bush.

Niamh Garridan

Date: 2010-10-05 05:35 EST
Once more, her hands slipped into the bag she had brought, and from within it she drew eight candles; three of violet wax, three of white, one of red, and one made from the natural twist of honeycomb. Set aside for a moment, she continued to withdraw from the bag what she had brought with her. A perfect sphere of polished quartz, smokey in hue and the size of her fist, was set into a small hollow in the surface of the altar stone. A green hilted athame, two-edged and sharp, was laid beside the candles. An oil made from jasmine, lemon, rose, and sandalwood by her own two hands ... and the last rose from the bush that grew in her garden.

The oil was daubed tenderly upon the honeycombed and red candles in sigils known only to the practioner. Two drops of molten wax were spared to affix those two candles to the stone before her. As she lit each candle, her voice lifted to the stillness of the glen around her.

"I am here for m'mother," she said in a tone oddly respectful and authoritative. "And I willnae be leavin' until she answers me."

There was no answer, but then, she had not expected one. Concentrated on her intent, she took the first of the violet candles, and marked an ancient sign for spirit into the wax with the point of the athame. As her fingers caressed the sign with the oil, sparing another drop of wax to keep it upright, she lit it from the two already burning and spoke.

"Here do I light the first Lamp of Spirit. May its light reach out across the barriers from this world tae the next. May it make contact wi' th' Otherworld intae which we all eventually enter."

She was silent for a long moment. Then, taking the second violet candle, she repeated her actions with athame, oil, and flame, lifting her voice again.

"Here do I light the second Lamp of Spirit. May its light also reach out across the barriers from this world tae the next. May it make contact wi' th' Otherworld and help spread this light, illuminating th' path I would walk."

Another long moment of silence, in which it seemed even the glen had fallen still to listen and respect the ritual being performed in loving need. The last of the violet candles was brought forth, marked and anointed, and lit to stand with its fellows.

"Here do I light the third Lamp of Spirit. May its light also reach out across the barriers from this world tae the next. May th' light from these three lamps blend an' grow, dispellin' all darkness and lightin' th' way that Carwen, Queen o' th' Summer Court, may come tae me this day."

She bowed her head, laying her hands flat over the rounded swell of her belly, feeling the child within move beneath her heart. All around the little circle, the breeze ruffled through the trees, but within the circle, not one dark hair on her head stirred, nor did the candles' flames even shudder.

Again she reached down for the candles that remained. Each smooth white surface was now marked with the ancient sign for love, anointed with the same oils, and lit from the spirit candles, set upon the altar to finish the circle that now burned around the crystal ball resting in its centre.

"Here do I build Love. As these candles burn throughout this ritual, their power brings nothin' but love tae settle here b'fore me. Through this flame, there is truth in all that passes here."

And finally, the rose was lifted, held between her hands as she looked across the burning cirle of candles to the be-ribboned evergreen that was her own. Her fingers brushed tenderly over soft white petals as she breathed in the delicate scent that clung to their velvet surface like the last breath of a dying man clings upon his lips. Taking one in her fingers, she pulled it free, letting it wither and burn in the heat from the candles.

"For Carwen, Queen o' th' Summer Court, I offer th' last rose o' summer," Niamh intoned the ritual words with a slight tremble to her voice. "For Carwen, m'mother, I offer m'blood."

And she wrapped her hand around the thorny stem, barely hissing as the thorns cut deep into her pale skin, slicing into her palm and fingers. The blood dripped from her hand into the circle of fire to stain the sphere of smokey quartz held within.

Niamh Garridan

Date: 2010-10-05 05:36 EST
Silence enveloped the little circle. Beyond, the world continued on, but within, there was no time, no sound, no movement. Only Niamh, and the words she spoke to the woman who had given everything for her, should she hear.

"I miss ye."

Simply saying the words brought the tears to her eyes, the tightness to her throat. Under her unblemished hand, the bairn stilled, sensing perhaps its mother's pain as she spoke to someone who would never now be more than a spirit to them both.

"These past months I've felt ye near me, I've seen yer hand in ev'rythin' around me. Mama?, if ye were here, flesh and blood and bone, I'd tell ye ev'rythin' that's in m'heart, ev'rythin' ye've missed since last we met. Th' best o' it all came from ye - th' gift ye gave me, th' magic I have, it helped tae bring about a bond 'tween Brishen an' meself that willnae easily be broken. An' better still, it has gi'en us a child."

She looked down at her belly, smiling through her tears at the shift of skin and cloth that betrayed that child's restless motion in her womb.

"I've a name tae pass ontae this bairn," she went on, lifting her eyes to the flowering bush before her once more. "'Tis a name I've taken fer m'own. Garridan, th' name o' m'husband an' his kin. They've took me as theirs, Mama?. I had nothin' when I came here, and now I've family once more.

"Shauna is here, tae, though I dinnae know what 'tis she does wi' herself. Says she has a job that sets her goin' about, says she'll be here fer when th' bairn is born. Lilli and her ma, Melina, they'll be here tae. But I wish ... I cannae help but wish that ye could be, as well. Tae see th' wee grandchild that yer sacrifice has gi'en us all."

She closed her eyes, letting the moisture drip from her nose and chin onto her belly. And in the instant that those tears fell free, she knew she was not alone. An unseen hand reached out to catch the salt from her eyes before it could stain her womb, turning to touch her belly in silent blessing. She knew that touch so well, it made her heart ache with remembrance.

That same hand lifted to uncurl her fingers from the thorny rose, letting it fall into the circle of fire, and Niamh opened her eyes as the by-now familiar surge of power from the child growing inside her took hold. Under that power, the cuts across her palm and fingers healed, leaving only smears of her blood to stain her pale skin, and she felt the astonishment of her unseen mother at the strength of an unborn child.

A voice whispered in the silence of the circle, audible only to Niamh, and even then, only the barest hush of summer's last breath.

"T? mo chro? istigh ionat, a st?ir?n ..."

Once more, Niamh's eyes closed, and she bowed her head over her belly, embracing the rounded swell as her tears welled up, loosed without reserve in the mourning she had refused to allow herself until now. Over a year since the loss of her mother, and yet she had clung to the hope that somehow Carwen might yet be restored to her. But now, here in this place, she knew that she would never again look upon the face she loved so well, nor feel the love of her mother's arms around her when she needed them most. Carwen, wife and mother, was lost to her and her sisters. Carwen, Queen of the Summer Court, was not theirs to lose.

As she cried, rocking herself to the calm that would come after the storm, she was unaware of the bush before her blossoming once more, the bell-like flowers opening to jingle softly in a breeze that did not touch her where she knelt. She did not see the suggestion of a face within those petals; a face so like her own, dominated with silver eyes and crowned with thick, dark hair. She did not hear the blessing bestowed upon her child by the grandmother it would never know.

But grief, as with all things, must pass, and with the drying of her tears lifted the burden of pain from her heart. The goodbyes had been said, the sorrow of farewell felt and given up. With the last rose of the summer, all desperate clingings to the mother who had gone from her life so many months before were released, and she was renewed, made ready in her own time to be a mother to the unborn soul resting beneath her heart.

The sounds of the glen returned, bringing with them the breeze that extinguished the candles, quenching the circle of fire that had brought heart to heart for the last time. The rose was gone, taken as it had been offered, and with it, so was the blood spilled for the same purpose. The candles were burnt to nothing, leaving only the smokey crystal and the athame to be retrieved and placed back in the bag with the little bottle of oil.

When, at last, she rose to her feet, Niamh was calm. There was peace in her heart, where before there had been a knot of pain she dared not touch. Her eyes lifted, finally, to the little bush, and she smiled to see the open blooms there, knowing that what she had felt was not a dream conjured by an eager will. Of all that had gone before, one last thing remained to be said.

"I love ye, tae, Mama?."

Drawing in a breath, Niamh released the circle of salt that had protected her during the rite, watching as the crystals whirled away in the breeze. This little part of the glen was no different now to the way it had been when she arrived, fulfilling the instruction given to her when she was a child. Leave only footprints, take only memories. She turned to leave, bare foot in the crisp grass, her swollen belly heavy with child. Her heart ready to begin again, enfolded in the love of her husband and kin.

And behind her, the last trace of the last rose of the summer lingered on the wind, a softly sweet scent that would return when spring called for her.
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