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The WeatherMaker Hearts Desire By Lady Lilium Characters: 5193

Updated: 2018-07-10 12:04


As Amaia slid happily off the counter and skipped away, Ramana spared one last glance towards the door where Arlen had left, before following after her daughter.

Chapter Fourteen

Despair

It was a year later in the middle of autumn, when Bairn passed away.

Ramana began to grieve for her father. She spent many hours locked in her room, never coming out, and even going so far as to refuse her food. Day after day, several times the servants of the house tried to entice her out with delicious smelling meals. But day after day, each time they tried several times a day, they were ignored. If there was a way to perhaps slip food under the door, or into the room another way, they would have done so. But there was nothing the servants could do, and Farrell seemed disinterested each time the servants spoke to him of this. Even Amaia was ignored as she banged on the door, calling for her mother, crying out for her.

One day, after several days of being ignored, Amaia decided to get into the room herself. She climbed through one of the windows in the hall, edging along the ledge outside and into her mother's room.

What she found there shocked her.

Amaia with great effort pushed over the bookcase that blocked the door from the inside. She threw the bedroom door open and ran through the house, as fast as she could and towards the town.

Her muscles burned as she tore forwards, sweating and panting, but still she did not stop.

She found him, drinking at the inn, even now at midday he was swaying where he sat, already heavily drunk. Amaia grabbed his shoulder and turned him around; he surveyed her with bleary confusion, trying to focus his sights on her.

'What'r you doing here?' he slurred.

'Come home now!' Amaia cried. 'You must come home, mother needs you!'

'Not now' Farrell groaned turning away from her.

'Her wrists are bleeding!' Amaia sobbed, grabbing him again, her black hair falling about her face. 'Please! Please help her!'

He pulled his arm out of her grasp, turning his back on her for the second time and picking up his drink again.

Amaia stumbled out of the inn when she realised he would not help her, crying into her hands. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders and she looked quickly up at the figure. It was Arlen.

'Amaia' he said with fear in his voice. 'What's wrong?'

And so she told him.

Before she had even finished, he picked her up in his arms and ran. He was at Ramana's bedroom in an instant.

He leant over Ramana's still profile, touching her cold skin. Her cheeks were pale as snow. Arlen's heart h

ad stopped in his chest. He feared that she was already dead.

He touched her neck, feeling for life. It was faint, but there was a flicker.

'Get a healer!' Arlen called to the servants. 'She's alive!'

He turned to Amaia.

'She's going to be alright' he said to her squeezing her shoulders. 'Trust me.'

That night, Arlen sat by Ramana's side as she slept in her bed. The bloodied sheets had been changed to fresh ones, and her wounds had been cleaned and bound. Now, she slept heavily, in peace.

Arlen watched her, sitting on the wooden chair he had pulled up beside the bed. Next to him, Amaia had pulled up another chair, positioning it as close as she possibly could to Arlen's. She had worried terribly for her mother, and was deeply distressed by what she had seen. Now she was at peace, like her mother. She had fallen asleep against Arlen, leaning into him. She was utterly exhausted.

Arlen glanced down at her, thinking how she looked so much like her mother, and how she reminded him so much of her. They both had the same beautiful long black hair.

He placed his arm around Amaia, holding her for a moment. How he loved her dearly, she was so precious to him. There was little else in the world that mattered to him more than Amaia, and Ramana. Even though his relationship with them was distant, because they both belonged to Farrell, he felt so close to them, as if they were his own. He had loved Ramana, as she has once loved him intimately. He had seen Amaia when she was very young, had held her in his arms as a baby, and from a distance, watched her grow.

Like his own daughter.

Arlen placed his arm beneath Amaia's legs, and very gently, lifted her up.

He carried her out of the room and down the corridor, taking her to her own bedroom, and laying her down upon the bed. He tucked her in, making sure she would not get cold. He closed the windows, and the curtains. And just before he left the room, he paused, glancing back at her one last time, feeling so much love and care for her.

He closed the door, and returned to Ramana's room, where he spent the rest of that night by her side.

A few hours later, Ramana woke with the morning light. Sitting up she saw Arlen on the wooden chair beside her bed, having himself drifted off to sleep, he sat slumped with his head to the side.

She reached forward, whispering his name as she shook him gently.

Arlen jolted awake, blinking for a moment in confusion. He smiled when he saw her, reaching forwards he stroked her cheek, leaning towards her and resting his forehead against hers.

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