She felt it as soon she entered the line of fallen sentinels— an ache in her heart that grew sharper as she moved toward the forest's center. This had always been a sacred place, an instinct told her, and vague memories filtered through her mind like reflections on water. It was maddening, to be unable to fully grasp them. Walking here felt like walking with ghosts, and her ears swiveled as she caught the whispers of wind through the hollowed and burned trees.
Emaleth turned her head sharply, nostrils flaring to taste the air, as a low creaking sounded out in the distance. After a few moments' breath, she braced herself against the earth as it moved beneath her feet; the crash of the giant hitting the forest floor causing shockwaves. It was dangerous to stay here, she knew. But she thought, more dangerous not to.
Altering her course, she walked through the forest with a sort of reverence, until she came upon a clearing ringed with a circle of flowers. At this, a wave of memories flickered through her mind— too rapid to truly follow— and she fell to her haunches, overcome with grief.
She did not hear the other approach over the roar of rage-tinted sorrow that flooded her mind and body; but like the small buds of foliage fighting their way through the ash in the forest around her, there was relief and joy there beneath her surface, too. She felt the shadowy presence here, stronger than she ever had before, as her mismatched eyes took in the minute details of each flower in the fairy ring. A memory was there, just on the edge, I th... I think...
A chuff startled her, and the dark witch turned, white teeth flashing as the guard-hairs rose along her spine. Emaleth was prepared to attack, but the white fur stalled her— A white wolf, like in my dreams... and her posture began to relax ever so slightly. Except— no, it was too large, its eyes not green like the earth. She redoubled on her aggressive stance, rage now building and threatening to overtake her grief.
How dare he, how dare anyone deign to walk here amongst the sacred ring.
He did not stand down and Emaleth growled low in warning. Her mismatched eyes held his, the sea's fury churning within the ocean blue, the memory of the once-great forest burning in the emerald green. Once, the dark she-wolf might have disappeared between the trunks, wraithlike— a shadow playing tricks on the eye— but for all her self-imposed isolation, this place was hers, and the Morrighan had taken residence in her spirit. If she had not learned to become hard, resolute, she would not have survived all that time on her own.
I am not,
she assured him with a bitter snarl. Emaleth Claudette Mayfair was far from alright. She had lost everything, including herself, and the only thing she was sure of was that this decimated forest meant something of great import to her— and this fairy ring, something greater still. More softly, she answered, I think I was born here.
He moved a pace closer, and the dark witch reacted instantly. With the swift elegance of a dancer, her jaws were at his throat, tantalizingly close the the warm beat of his heart, breath tickling the fur there— but she tasted the sea on her tongue just before contact, and Emaleth abruptly froze.
He was unruffled by her teeth so close to his lifeline, barely flinching, and for a moment she considered clamping down and ending him rather than respond to his question— but in the unspoken language of wolves, this non-reaction was a display of trust and deference. She pulled back, closing her jaws as she did, so her teeth just barely grazed the skin of his throat. A warning, that she could and would fight him if a need were to arise, but... even she felt the intimacy of the action and shivered despite herself.
Her guard remained up, but Emaleth allowed some of her rage to ebb away, and she took a few step backwards to reintroduce a wall of space between them. She kept silent for a moment, considering how she might answer— she knew, somehow, that names held power. Such power could either be used against her, or it could be something she wielded. A different version of herself might have kept such power from strangers, but something about this place and interaction made her want to use it as a weapon.
I have most recently been known as the Morrighan,
she told him, though it wasn't likely he knew of the myth, but my true name is Emaleth Claudette Mayfair.
Her eyes closed as she breathed in the scent of the forest, and for a moment she was transplanted back in time, when the sequoias stood tall and she could hear the secrets they whispered to one another. She opened them again to gaze at him, then repeated more confidently, I was born here. This is my father's grave.
I set a plague of locusts upon this land, once,
she responded absently, unsure of where the memory had come from. This forest is littered with my hexes and curses. Perhaps that is what set it to ruin.
Perhaps that was why there was still so much she didn't remember; she didn't want to. And I could not survived alone for so long if I did not know how to fend for myself. Looks can be deceiving.
What did the stranger think death— the Morrighan— looked like? Death was unwanted by most. For it to claim what it desired, it needed to beguiling and seductive.
Deirdre. Her lips curled gently into a demure frown, for the name did sound familiar; but she could not place it. For all her certainty that they stood next to her father's grave, for all the fragmented memories this broken forest evoked, there were no images of flesh and blood. I don't remember much of my life here before,
she confided quietly.
She held her breath, waiting for some bell to ring— for the name to register in her soul and evoke a series of images, perhaps from her youth, but none came. Logic told her it was likely she was related to this mysterious Mayfair, but the dark witch relied on feeling; and there was no shiver of coincidence, no sense of foretelling. After a few miserable moments, she shrugged helplessly. This Deirdre could be her mother, sister, aunt, cousin, or— for all Emaleth knew— a complete stranger altogether.
Would you tell me about her?
she queried shyly. It felt strange, to ask someone she had just met to describe her family to her— this wasn't normal, not even remotely. About them?
And if they were some other Mayfairs, it hardly mattered; the stories the male told her would be stored away along the stories she told herself, and with no more merit.