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The WeatherMaker Hearts Desire By Lady Lilium Characters: 4864

Updated: 2018-07-12 12:03


'I feel like there is a void inside me' Amaia said one day. 'There is something missing in my life, something dear to me, something I had before….but for the life of me I cannot remember what it is.'

Carl had tried to comfort her, but she was beyond even his reach. She was not the same anymore, and began to spiral into depression, despite all their exhaustive efforts.

Nothing worked.

One evening, Farrell invited her to his home. The two of them sat alone at the table in the dining room, the fire crackling happily warmed up the room around them. Farrell brought Amaia her food; then sat at the other side of the table with his own, watching Amaia closely.

'Amaia?' he said after a time when she hadn't moved.

Amaia stared in silence down at her plate, her food untouched.

'What's wrong?' Farrell asked her.

'I feel an absence beside me' she answered, 'a presence I lost and a name I cannot remember.' She furrowed her brow, teeth gritted in frustration. 'Who is it?'

She bowed her head, her long red hair falling over her face.

'You know what I am' she said to Farrell. 'I am a Weather Maker.'

'Yes' Farrell replied uncertainly. 'Yes I know.'

'A Weather Maker can only be reincarnated a certain number of times' Amaia went on. 'I am on my last life.'

Farrell raised his head, but she said no more.

He looked down at his plate.

'Could you get me some wine?' Amaia asked him.

'Yes' Farrell faltered. 'Yes of course.'

He rose from his seat, turning his back to her as he went to the drinks cabinet. Amaia watched in silence as he poured them both a goblet.

He brought hers over to her, placing it before her.

'And can I have a napkin?' she asked of him.

When Farrell turned away to oblige, Amaia pulled a tiny vial from her sleeve, tipping the contents into her goblet, before returning the vial again to her sleeve.

Farrell returned with the napkin. He held it out to her in his crippled hand.

'I don't want it' Amaia said shortly, not looking at him.

Farrell lowered his hand, staring at her uncertainly.

He moved slowly away, returning to his seat and sitting, watching her closely.

Amaia began to eat. Farrell followed suit.

They ate in silence for a time, until Amaia at last spoke.

'Where is uncle?'

'Arlen is…at home probably.'

'And Carl?'

'He's….probably at home too.'

Amaia took another sip from her goblet.

'Will you tell them…

.' she hesitated. 'Tell them I am grateful for everything they have done, and I'm grateful for everything you have done' she said to him. 'I wish I could repay your kindness.'

'What do you mean?'

'I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted me to be' Amaia replied miserably.

She leant forward on the table, head in her hands, becoming still.

'Amaia?' Farrell asked her, worry laced his voice. 'What's wrong?'

The fire from the candles upon the table flickered slightly, through the window beside them the sky was dark, and nothing could be seen outside. Rain pattered gently on the window panes, the only sound now in the room besides the sound from the burning hearth.

Amaia's elbow slipped and she fell from her chair. Farrell rose so fast his chair fell back as he rushed over to her.

'Amaia! Amaia what's wrong?'

She was unresponsive, lethargic. He noticed then a tiny vial on the floor that had fallen from her sleeve. Uncorking it and sniffing it, he rose swiftly and went to the table where she sat, picking up her goblet and smelling it too.

'Poison.'

He turned to her in realisation as she lay half on the carpet, half on the wooden floor, the flickering light from the hearth dancing on her still profile.

'You poisoned yourself' he moaned in shock and disbelief. 'How could you….why…?'

'My mother' Amaia whispered weakly. 'Ramana………..I will see her again……in the afterlife………..' She sighed. 'There is no place for me in this world…'

'No!' Farrell screamed picking her up and cradling her in his arms. 'No Amaia! You can't do this to me! I can't lose you again!'

'Move back!' came a sudden unfamiliar voice.

Farrell was so shocked by the presence of the strange figure that he did not resist as the figure knelt and took Amaia in his arm away from him.

He was lean, young in appearance and slim-faced with almost feminine features. His slick black hair was handsome, and a long fringe hung low over his face. There was a severe injury in his left eye, and scars all over his body. He had been tortured.

He bent over Amaia, placing his mouth over hers.

The stranger breathed inwards deeply. As Farrell watched, the figure's body began to pale to a sickening shade; black cracks appeared all over his skin. But he still did not release Amaia.

Amaia was in a strange place then, a place that felt incomplete, yet safe. She walked forwards, but saw nothing around her.

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