Time: May 2, early morning
Place: St. Stephens Green
@hyacinth-s
Sister. She recalled her mother using the word, once. When Maeve, bright-eyed and precocious, was settled at her feet, clutching an old tome with tiny hands, flipping eagerly through the illuminated pages, vivid panels of reds and oranges, splashes of greens, purples and blues, the edges of the pages fluttering around her fingers, caught in the crisp summer breeze.
“Your sister loved doing that as well.” Maeve’s eyes flickered up to her, her expression curious, lips parting as she mouthed the unfamiliar word. Sister. Then her mother’s eyes clouded over, the same grey of an impending storm, and she had never spoken of it again.
Her father, his eyes always far-off, unfocused, had frozen in his seat the moment Maeve had mentioned the word, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. He turned his unseeing gaze towards her, skin stretched taut over the bones and hollows of his face, and Padraig has scooped her up and whisked her away before she could say another word.
She got the story from Padraig in bits and pieces, the others from an old, beloved nursemaid, a Fae so terribly ancient that few could bear the weight of her regard. She learned of her name, Ailis, fleet-footed and clever, the pride of her mother, the treasure of her father. They beguiled her with tales of her adventures, the lands she’s seen, the people she’s met, and as a young Fae Maeve had drank it all in, expression lit with wonder.
She recalled their first meeting. She had hidden in an alcove once she heard of the news, listening intently as Ailis greeted their mother, all but trembling with excitement. The moment Ailis had taken her leave of her, she only had seconds to think before she tumbled out of her hiding place, right into the folds of her skirt, her laughter spilling, voice brimming with delight as her “I’m Maeve!” burst forth from her lips. She remembered how Ailis set her onto her feet, her actions gentle, her words soft, certain, calming. Removed, polite, indifferent.
So when she heard of whispers of her sister’s return this time around, a tumult of emotions blossomed in her chest - elation, impatience, longing, but underneath it all was a disquiet she couldn’t shake. A disquiet she could not understand.
Maeve had prettied herself for their meeting, a picnic of sorts on St. Stephens Green - arranged by Padraig on her behalf - but her usual unshakable confidence had quickly deserted her as the hour wore on, her heartbeat a live, fluttering thing in her chest.
“My lady.” Padraig murmured, when the rustling of leaves alerted her to someone else’s presence. Maeve felt her bones turn to liquid, a rather unsettling sensation, before she breathed in deeply and stood in one graceful motion, a happy smile gracing her face as she turned towards her.
