Her mother was a woman with the sweetest red hair, but life changed when the cherry red of her flowing locks matched the splattered crimson that seeped through her favourite ruby dress.
Louisa was a gentle soul, a woman with a caring spirit and loving heart. Nothing was more important to her than her first born, the little nine year old the light of the woman's rather empty life. She schooled her, taught her to cook and clean, and spoke to her only in old Gaelic. So to have her be the one to find her, attacked and in labour, the woman's heart ripped in two. She had been caught when she was most vulnerable, and this, this would be the last time she laid eyes on her daughter, covered in her own blood and failing to give her a baby sister.
"Mamaí?" the small girl would query, pushing loose blonde strands of tatted hair from her face. Deep hazel eyes landed on the young mother's green ones, wide and filled with confusion. The labour pains had stopped; in fact, all the pain stopped, becoming a numb ache within her chest. "Tá sé ceart go leor," the redhead whispered with a heavy exhale, begging whatever god was up there to be allowed these final words with her beloved child.
The small brunette inched towards her mother, kneeling down and gently resting her hand on her mother's. The crimson stuck to her skin, the sticky substance drying between her fingers.
"Cad a tharla, Mamaí?" were the words that accompanied small tears that cascaded down the girl's pale face, cleaning away a line of dirt in the process. But the woman would not waste her breath telling the child of her unfortunate end. She turned her hand, clasping her daughter's between both of her own, hardly any strength in the woman's once strong grip, an even weaker voice whispering those few last words of encouragement she would ever give her daughter:
"Fan láidir, mo Conán. Ná bíodh eagla ort."
And she never would be.
