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.
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.