Autumn had finally decided to announce its presence, though she was fashionably late to the party. Maia found that after the particularly hot summer, the damp, rainy weather chilled her to the bone. Accordingly, she had taken to indulging in showers so hot it left her skin pink and the air in the bathroom as thick as soup. It just felt right.
The ambient sounds of the morning streets out the window mingled in their distant, abrasive way with the comfortable and intimate sounds of Harry in their kitchen, cobbling breakfast together as he often did. It was a curious symphony, and one that she had never contemplated she might know. For years now she had known it, and known it well. Years. When it occurred to her, the word weighed upon her in a surprising way.
Maia stood with a comb, fearlessly pulling the wet curls from their persistent unruly tangle. Drops rained down, some to land on her bare feet, some to vanish into the rug beneath her, still others on the towel wrapped around her middle as she worked. Pale, sharp eyes lifted to see her own image in the mirror beneath its thin glaze of fog. She paused, and leaned in just a little, thoughtfully. Maia better cleared a portion of the mirror with the flat of her palm and just stared.
Who are you?
The little thought was surprising in its volume. She frowned just a little and looked harder, even as the mirror began to haze over again. The streak of white was familiar, to be certain. The ever-increasing number of more independent wiry white brethren were plainly scattered through the otherwise dark ocean of chocolate-hued tresses; they were a great deal less familiar to her. The eyes, of course, were the same as ever: fierce and hard, sharp and unyielding, icy in color and in feeling. What was different, of course, was that beneath it all, there was something new, something unknown, something...completely at ease. It lived in the creases that had set in at the corners. It lived in worried lines that should have had a greater foothold in her brow. It was joy. It was comfort.
Who are you?
The towel fell away, and soon, she was looking at everything. Old scars remained as they always would. Like dog-eared pages in a favorite old book, they clearly marked the important parts. Each was a bad day from which she had somehow managed to walk away, and there were certainly more than her fair share. When those sharp eyes fell over them, though, she did not see things as she always had. Not immediately. Before, it was always a laundry list of places or people or things. Ralthian. Vampire. Tiria. Claw. Instead, many of those places and spaces had been reclaimed for the country of Maia by her most faithful and intrepid explorer, Sir Harold Lowe (fearless circumnavigator of the entire woman).
Once, she looked in the mirror and she only saw things that grieved her. The marks of the hunt, the signs of being hunted, a lifetime of adversity and battle and endless, bone-wearying labor. The faces of those that she failed. The echoes of eyes of those once-loved by the once-pirate, once living but now gone. Maia would see only her shell, a haunted remnant of the vibrant young woman she had once been. Once, she knew only who that person was.
That morning, she looked in the mirror and realized that she was not looking at a post-war wasteland, populated only by the memories of the dead. She was looking at a woman right smack in the summer of her lifetime, a leafy tree still very much in bloom. Sunrise at the lighthouse, where she and Harry spent their first few nights together (a very strangely hopeful thing in the middle of one of the more horrific experiences of her life), was always something to behold. When you watched it from up there, you could watch as the sky warmed its way slowly from the black of night to the brilliant blue of a crisp autumn sky. The smile that blossomed across her face happened very much the same way.
"Woman! Breakfast is on. Did I lose you in there?" She could hear the smirk in the Welshman's voice as he called to her through the door.
Quite the contrary, she thought...but she would wait a little while to tell him.
The ambient sounds of the morning streets out the window mingled in their distant, abrasive way with the comfortable and intimate sounds of Harry in their kitchen, cobbling breakfast together as he often did. It was a curious symphony, and one that she had never contemplated she might know. For years now she had known it, and known it well. Years. When it occurred to her, the word weighed upon her in a surprising way.
Maia stood with a comb, fearlessly pulling the wet curls from their persistent unruly tangle. Drops rained down, some to land on her bare feet, some to vanish into the rug beneath her, still others on the towel wrapped around her middle as she worked. Pale, sharp eyes lifted to see her own image in the mirror beneath its thin glaze of fog. She paused, and leaned in just a little, thoughtfully. Maia better cleared a portion of the mirror with the flat of her palm and just stared.
Who are you?
The little thought was surprising in its volume. She frowned just a little and looked harder, even as the mirror began to haze over again. The streak of white was familiar, to be certain. The ever-increasing number of more independent wiry white brethren were plainly scattered through the otherwise dark ocean of chocolate-hued tresses; they were a great deal less familiar to her. The eyes, of course, were the same as ever: fierce and hard, sharp and unyielding, icy in color and in feeling. What was different, of course, was that beneath it all, there was something new, something unknown, something...completely at ease. It lived in the creases that had set in at the corners. It lived in worried lines that should have had a greater foothold in her brow. It was joy. It was comfort.
Who are you?
The towel fell away, and soon, she was looking at everything. Old scars remained as they always would. Like dog-eared pages in a favorite old book, they clearly marked the important parts. Each was a bad day from which she had somehow managed to walk away, and there were certainly more than her fair share. When those sharp eyes fell over them, though, she did not see things as she always had. Not immediately. Before, it was always a laundry list of places or people or things. Ralthian. Vampire. Tiria. Claw. Instead, many of those places and spaces had been reclaimed for the country of Maia by her most faithful and intrepid explorer, Sir Harold Lowe (fearless circumnavigator of the entire woman).
Once, she looked in the mirror and she only saw things that grieved her. The marks of the hunt, the signs of being hunted, a lifetime of adversity and battle and endless, bone-wearying labor. The faces of those that she failed. The echoes of eyes of those once-loved by the once-pirate, once living but now gone. Maia would see only her shell, a haunted remnant of the vibrant young woman she had once been. Once, she knew only who that person was.
That morning, she looked in the mirror and realized that she was not looking at a post-war wasteland, populated only by the memories of the dead. She was looking at a woman right smack in the summer of her lifetime, a leafy tree still very much in bloom. Sunrise at the lighthouse, where she and Harry spent their first few nights together (a very strangely hopeful thing in the middle of one of the more horrific experiences of her life), was always something to behold. When you watched it from up there, you could watch as the sky warmed its way slowly from the black of night to the brilliant blue of a crisp autumn sky. The smile that blossomed across her face happened very much the same way.
"Woman! Breakfast is on. Did I lose you in there?" She could hear the smirk in the Welshman's voice as he called to her through the door.
Quite the contrary, she thought...but she would wait a little while to tell him.