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The WeatherMaker Hearts Desire By Lady Lilium Characters: 5668

Updated: 2018-07-12 12:03

'You've always told me you like healing' Tristan said to Amaia one day.

'Yes' she answered flatly.

'I know of a temple where holy women heal travellers and those in need. They live in the temple, and lead peaceful lives helping others. Perhaps you would like to stay there? At least for the meantime.'

'But what if someone finds out who and what I am?' Amaia asked in a dead tone. 'What if someone finds out I'm a Weather Maker?'

'As long as you cover your green hair, and never use your powers in front of anybody, you will be safe. I promise.'

'Do you mean it?'

'I want you to be happy' Tristan urged. 'I want you to be free. And I will never imprison you again. Never. I've made that mistake once, and you were unhappy for the longest time…'

'I will go if you allow it' Amaia mumbled to the floor.

'Then I will allow it' Tristan said, placing a hand gently upon her shoulder.

And so, a short time later, Amaia was wearing the white robes and light blue sash of the holy women. She was given the false name of Layla. Her hair was covered always unless she was alone, and she never used her powers.

Here she stayed for a short time, until one day, a soldier grabbed her wrist.

Part 4

Chapter Sixty Four

After Years of Searching

'Defiled! Defiled! Our temple had been defiled!'

The dead soldier lay still bleeding, and Farrell turned to her.

'It cannot be' he whispered.

He fell to his knees.

'My prayers have been answered…'

'What?' she gasped uncertainly, her chest rising and falling as she breathed deeply, still in shock at what had just happened.

'Please…' Farrell breathed, reaching a shaking hand towards her. 'Please let it be you…my daughter.'

The woman drew away from him, getting her feet beneath her ready to stand.

She rose slowly, as if standing before a frightened deer that was ready to bolt. The man on his knees stared back at her, his eyes never leaving her face.

Amaia straightened up, her palms sweating, staring down to the man before her. Closing her mouth and biting her lip. She recognised him. It was the man in the painting she had seen in the home she had grown up in. The man that in the painting that had stood next to Ramana.

He looked different, older, greyer, more worn. But there was no mistake. It was definitely him.

She opened her mouth again to speak.


His face immediately lit up, and the tears he had been holding back spilled freely down his cheeks. He sobbed, biting his fist to control himself. Then he laughed. He laughed and laughed, tears still falling continuously.

'Kill me now for I must be dreaming' he said falling on all fours. 'Surely the gods would not bless me so after all the wrong I've done?'

Her heart felt as if it had leapt high into her throat. She held her hands over her mo

uth, feeling nothing but astonishment, and then an overwhelming sadness. A wave of emotions crashed over her like she had never felt before. She ran to him, falling on her knees and holding him tightly.

'Please tell me it's really you, please.' She let go of him, looking into his face; then embraced him again. 'I knew you'd find me….'

'Amaia…' Farrell sobbed into her shoulder. 'My daughter…' he pushed her back gently so that he may look at her, caressing her face with his crippled hand. 'I cannot believe this moment is happening' he said, both laughing and crying at the same time. 'You're so beautiful…you look just like your mother.' And then he hesitated, as if caught suddenly by mournful thoughts. 'Do you remember her Amaia? Do you remember your mother?'

'No' she shook her head, tears filling her eyes. 'I…I've lost my memory.'

'Come' he whispered to her, rising. 'Come with me.'

He led her across the hall to a fountain, walking with his arm around her shoulders as he did so.

'Sit with me' Farrell said to her.

Amaia sat beside her father, watching him with silent expectation.

'Would you like to hear about your mother?' Farrell asked her.

'I would love that' she whispered.

'Good' Farrell laughed, his smile almost reaching his ears. 'Now…let's see' Farrell began, feeling almost uncomfortable sitting next to her, his own daughter that had become so foreign. He wondered what he should say. 'Where do I begin?' he laughed.

He thought for a moment.

'Your mother' Farrell began after a time, '…she was quite a character. She was so happy all the time….well…most of the time…when she was in a bad mood, it was like the devil itself living inside our home. I remember…shortly after you were born….she practically threw me out of my own home…' he laughed nervously then. 'She was…very emotional' he spoke looking to the floor. 'I remember……..' he shook his head trying to think. 'She used to throw books at me when she was angry…she tried to throw a grandfather clock at me once.' He glanced to Amaia, who gave him a curious expression. 'But you don't want to hear about that I'm sure' Farrell said hastily. 'You want to hear the good side don't you? Let me think….oh, she liked to paint, loved to paint. She was very good at it too, oh and she liked to climb trees. She built you a tree house one day. Do you remember? You and your cousin Gracie found a bird that had fallen out of its nest….you called it….oh gods what was its name? I don't remember.' He frowned furiously. 'And that time you and your mother attacked me with paint in the house? Do you remember that?' he glanced at Amaia nervously, clenching his jaws as he did so. She gazed back at him, uncertainly. Farrell clicked his fingers. 'The two of you used to paint together? One day we all posed for a painting?'

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