"She cut her hair as flowers fell. She no longer wanted to be seen as pretty."
The woman fled from her home and from her worries, her grey skirts billowing like thunderclouds as she raced into the darkness outside. Her shoulder was still wet from the tears of the other Claith who had sworn he'd never forgive her if she didn't return, never ever. Strands of curly red hair stuck to her damp cheeks despite her many attempts to get it off and soon enough she went into a desperate frenzy- blaming all her issues on the hair clinging to her tear stained face.
The young mother threw herself onto a bench, her hand shoving into her pocket and removing a pair of sharp knitting scissors. Her knitting had been left behind for when she'd heard her son cried awake, she'd shoved the scissors into her pocket to hurry to comfort him. Now the duel blades were raised into her fingers and she stared at them a moment, turning her left hand to examine them. Then, in a moment, her frenzy returned- panicked and afraid and she began to yank the rest of her hair free from its bun with her right hand before pulling it in front of her in a white-knuckled fist.
The scissors snapped loudly as she cut through her Claith curls, ridding herself of the offensive locks. They were the first sign of her to her enemies, everyone knew the redheaded witch- her hair as fiery as her magic. Her hands finally dropped after some time of her frantics, leaning forward as wisps of red hair floated onto her lap. Her once rather pretty hair now rested at her shoulders, sliced short in a crazy woman's ravaging. She let the blades fall from her fingertips as she raised her hands once more to her face, looking through the cracks in her fingers towards the banished locks sitting on the grass around her and gathered in her lap.
"What have I done," she whispered like so many times before.
Like when she left her husband.
Left her third child's father.
Cheated again on her husband.
Gave their only daughter away.
A sob escaped her as she thought of her sweet daughter, vanished until she got the courage to travel to the countryside. So many mistakes in so little time. How could anyone like her.
How could her husband be such a fool to stay, she should never go back, she should run away and let him be happy with Cadwen. Yet she knew if she left, Cadwen would find his way to an orphanage. The tales of a father and son would not exist in that home, there would only be an orphan in the end- an orphan with a wealthy twin. Merina wondered briefly if her son would follow Winifred should she and Shane die, but the thought of that squeezed her heart painfully and brought another sniffle from her.
Slowly, she finally rose from her thoughts and the mage began her hike home. She looked like a mad woman- an evil witch from fae tales. She was hunched from the weight of the world, her ragged hair flowing in the slight breeze of the Regalian Spring night as a collar glittered around her neck from the streetlamps. Scissors hung limp in her fingers as she traveled, eventually reaching the quiet door of her home. She tested the knob before sighing at realizing it was unlocked; she had sworn she'd run away if it wasn't. The door was pushed open by her, the room inside dark as the lanterns had been put out. Though she quickly noticed that the couch had a form on it, the woman shutting the door swiftly before creeping forward towards the sleeping man on the couch, who's unconscious expression even showcased grief.
Merina, in a moment of panic, imagined herself raising her knitting scissors and driving them into her lover's neck to free him from her antics- before she shook her head, repulsed by her own thoughts and considered driving them into her own throat. Eventually, though, she dropped the blades to the table before the couch and crawled onto the couch besides Shane, hugging him with a sniff. The older Claith gave a sigh and returned the hug, bringing her close to him.
He did not notice her ragged hair, nor did he see her thoughts of suicide or murdering him in his sleep. He did not see her fingers flex like they had been holding the duel blades nor did he notice the new tears that dripped down her face; perhaps it was better to be unnoticed.
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