Seven Deadly Sons

Ameline. (39)

I lied.

I did think of that traitorous bastard, far more than I dared to admit.

He was wrong and not human and uncaring and the embodiment of fury, for gods sake, among other things too, and I still thought of him.

I had slept through the night in his clothes, and though I had told myself on the walk home from Tierney that I would not think of him and his crow-black hair, even though when I settled to rest between two males both as aggressive as, but neither were him — I still woke the next morning hearing crows and smelling him on my skin. I had dreamt of him, too. In his room.

I dust of invisible dirt and pick at visible stains as I try to remember what happened in this dream, but it drifts away from me as quickly as any man ever has.

He is not a man. I had to recall this to myself for the first time in forever, and it makes me think of myself. Not literally, of course, my younger self. My doppelgänger. Melanie.

I think of the Melanie my mother, or grandmother or bedsitter or some female figure in my human days; a strong woman who told me of stories of even stronger ones. The first Melanie was a saint. So was her granddaughter.

No one ever spoke of her daughter.

I liked to think of myself as that Melanie, the one no one would ever speak of — the un-notable one for whatever reason. Perhaps that Melanie had been a killer too, a heretic. Names were often passed down daughter to daughter, son to son, so it was likely there were always three Melania's, the first to bear my name.

At least, that's what the woman in my life told me. Perhaps she was wrong.

My name was Ameline, anyway.

I wonder how old I would be if I went home to ask her.

I dismiss this thought immediately, its much to scary to even consider. And I did not deal in anything scary.

The Melanie alive today, in that cellar, was the saint Melanie. She could not hurt a fly even if it tried to lay eggs on her I imagine, and I had only known her a day.

But she still had the nerve to even consider trying to solve an impossible riddle. Of course, it was impossible for a reason — but that tidbit was in the fine details of the deal. No one ever solved the riddle, rumour had it Queen Delores had never even solved her own riddle, had simply traded something irresistible to the immortal king before her.

I remember Melanies riddle, anyway, recalling it without reason or means to;

struck by an arrow; how it starts,

it won't kill; but you'll wish it had,

feels like dying though still alive,

a battle even the strongest have lost,

the only fatal blow mortals risks again.

It truly is a waste of time. Such a butchery of the english language, I'd imagine they'd asked the court chef to dream it up. Did the court palace even have a kitchens for food?

I tried to forget everything, for a moment.

I readied myself, again, as if it would make the journey into the depths of Hang Woods eastern road any easier.

The ælfin called this road the path to the future. This was true both metaphorically and literally, I had discovered after my previous encounter with it. This path led directly to a creature lovingly called the crone of futures, sometimes our lady of fate if the ælfin were feeling nice. The lady part was entirely interchangeable with lord, but most of the species figured there were much to many males in power, and far too many witches.