Return to Aingarth

(Note: Naiia recently learned she was named after a nun that her mother had known in the cloister. For more on the original Naiia, read this.)

Home .. in the months since she'd left for Valys, how many times had she wished to return home? Naturally, when Roselynne left to pay her respects, the littlest had been quite eager to accompany her despite the squalling babe.

But once there, she recalled the reasons she'd left. There was no Father to join for a hunt, no one with which to spend an afternoon in the forest simply observing in natural silence, no evenings listening to his lessons, and only the barest hint of the perfume that had been Mother. Not even her shade appeared to walk at Naiia's side through the long hallways, though she roamed all of them. No little nook went unvisited, the youngest exploring it with new eyes, hours spent studying the tapestries that lined the walls. They told stories, that she knew, for she had finished the last of them, but just what those stories were and what they meant, she had only the barest glimpse. Attend too closely, and they slipped away.

It was not the tapestries she'd come to see however, and eventually, with some steeling of her nerves, she ventured into Mereavus' private sitting room. Her heart raced when she entered the room without specific invitation, and even once inside, the sensation that she was invading lingered with her. It was so unmistakably Mother's, more red than any place else in the sprawling estate. Surely Mother would emerge from deeper in her quarters to inquire why Naiia was in her room, and the girl's emerald gaze locked on the far door while tension gripped her shoulders.

Of course, it never opened, and she was alone in the room of exquisite tea sets and lush furniture. A chill swept over her, and Naiia wrapped her thin arms about herself, thinking it merely her own nerves until she realized no fire was lit on the hearth. Anxious laughter threatened to rise, but she swallowed it down before forcing her gaze to the simple urn on the mantle. How had she never noticed it before? The modest beauty of the piece, lacking the bright colours and ornate trappings of the rest of the room, made it seem a thing apart.

Silently, she lifted it from the mantle with reverent hands and embraced it, her head bowing over it. No word passed her lips as she prayed for the soul of the departed woman for which she was named, hopeful that when her body had passed through the fire, God had received her into his arms.

With the urn still held protectively to her chest, she turned to leave the room, pausing only to kiss her fingertips, offering the affection toward the fireplace. She said not a word as she passed the serving folk in Aingarth, the youngest Alexston's face still pale though her shivering lessened with each step she took.

She swept out into a secluded area of the garden where two slim birch trees grew. Beneath them, she knew, spring would bring a riot of wildflowers, but for now, she'd simply cleared away the snow to expose the brown vegetation. For several long moments, she knelt on the snow, oblivious to the cold seeping into her gown. As if study of the urn could give her insight into the woman whose name she bore or perhaps herself, she stared at it, fingers stroking tenderly over the curves of it.

Drawing a deep breath, she lifted the lid. As she tilted the urn toward the exposed earth, a small breeze fluttered through the air. Vision blurred with the grey ash in her eyes, and for a moment, she swore there was a woman before her with the sweetest face she'd ever seen. When she smiled, keen joy and warmth flooded the littlest, then the woman turned and was gone with the shift of the wind.

Be at peace, Naiia.