Freya sank into a worn velvet armchair, the antique fabric soft beneath her. The silence of the shop was no longer just quiet; it felt like a low, persistent hum, a tangible manifestation of the emptiness surrounding her. The feeling of abandonment, sharp and unfamiliar, settled deep within her ancient heart.
A shaft of brilliant sunlight pierced through a gap in the dusty curtains, illuminating a small patch of the wooden floor. Almost involuntarily, Freya reached out a hesitant finger, drawn to the warmth. The moment her fingertip touched the light, a searing pain shot through her, forcing her to recoil with a sharp hiss. The brief contact left a faint wisp of smoke in the air and a lingering throb in her finger.
Her gaze fell upon her own hand, and a harsh, desote ugh tore from her throat. "And who could ever truly desire a monster like me?" she murmured, her voice ced with self-deprecating sorrow. “Bound to the shadows, unable to even bask in the simple warmth of the sun. What could I truly offer Myra? A life lived in the fringes of the night, forever hiding, forever fearing discovery?”
The realization hit her with a painful crity. The very essence of her being, the immortal nature that had once been a source of pride and power, now felt like an insurmountable barrier between herself and the human woman who had captured her heart. “Perhaps… perhaps she realized this,” Freya whispered, her voice barely audible. “Perhaps she saw the impossibility of it all and made the sensible choice. A mortal life with a mortal man… it is what she deserves, isn’t it?” The thought offered a sliver of a logical expnation, but it did little to ease the aching void in her soul.
A wave of bitter resignation washed over Freya, the pain of her perceived abandonment hardening into a fragile acceptance. “I suppose she made her choice then,” she stated ftly, her voice devoid of emotion. “She chose the familiar, the easy path… the men from her vilge. It is her right, her life.” The words felt like ash in her mouth, a reluctant acknowledgment of a reality she desperately didn’t want to face.
“I have to let it go,” she continued, her gaze distant, fixed on some unseen point in the shadowed shop. “It is her decision. I cannot force her to feel something she does not.” A sigh escaped her lips, heavy with a sorrow that spanned centuries. “I was a fool,” she finally admitted, the words ced with self-recrimination. “A foolish, ancient creature who dared to believe in the fleeting affections of a mortal. I should have known better.” The cold certainty of her solitude settled back upon her, a familiar shroud she thought she had finally cast off.
Freya’s mind, sharp and analytical despite her emotional turmoil, began to dissect the situation, searching for a rational expnation for Myra’s absence beyond the simplistic conclusion of her choosing another. It wasn't fear, Freya reasoned, recalling Myra’s bravery and her willing embrace of the unknown. And she seemed genuinely drawn to me, to the life I offered. The memory of their intimate connection, the shared vulnerability, felt too real to dismiss as mere fleeting fancy on Myra’s part.
Could it have been the blood? The brief moment when Freya had succumbed to her hunger, however controlled? Perhaps the primal nature of that act had frightened Myra, revealed a side of Freya that was too alien, too dangerous. Or maybe it was the encounter with Gareth and his friends. Their possessive attitude towards Myra, their assumptions about her retionships – could that have reminded Myra of the constraints of her mortal life, the expectations of her community?
The thought of Gareth himself lingered, an uncomfortable possibility. Had Myra felt obligated to return to him, to smooth things over after their public encounter? Or perhaps, Freya considered with a painful twist in her heart, Myra had simply realized the impossibility of a sting retionship between a vampire and a mortal, the vast gulf of their different existences ultimately proving too wide to bridge. Each possibility felt like a sharp shard of gss piercing the fragile hope she had held onto.
A hollow, almost hysterical ugh suddenly burst from Freya’s lips, echoing in the silence of the shop. “Why?” she choked out, the sound ced with a bitter irony. “Why am I like this? Reduced to this pathetic state of longing and self-pity over a mortal? This is not me!” Her crimson eyes fshed with a frustrated anger directed at herself. Centuries of carefully constructed composure, the stoic detachment she had cultivated as a shield against the inevitable heartbreaks of her immortal existence, had crumbled in a matter of weeks.
She stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room, her movements agitated. “I do not lose control like this! I do not allow myself to become this… vulnerable!” The depth of her emotional reaction was both shocking and infuriating. She, the ancient predator, the self-sufficient survivor, was now consumed by a longing that felt overwhelmingly human, a vulnerability she had sworn to avoid. The ughter returned, tinged with hysteria. “Foolish! Utterly foolish!” she repeated, the realization of her own emotional exposure a painful and unwelcome truth.
With a sharp, decisive movement, Freya strode over to the antique desk and yanked open the locked drawer. The sealed envelope bearing the Valerius crest y within, a silent witness to her tumultuous thoughts. With a swift, almost violent tear, she ripped it open, the crisp paper splitting under the force of her agitation. Amelia’s carefully penned script swam before her eyes, a welcome distraction from the raw ache in her chest. Whatever news the letter contained, it couldn’t be more unsettling than the turmoil she was currently experiencing. She needed a focus, something to pull her away from the relentless cycle of hope and disappointment that had consumed her since Myra’s departure. Amelia’s words, whatever their intent, offered a temporary escape, a different kind of entanglement to occupy her sharp mind.
My Dearest Freya,
The passage of time weighs lightly upon us immortals, yet even I find myself remarking upon your continued… absence. I trust this missive finds you in possession of your faculties, though your prolonged dalliance in that decaying repository of relics gives me pause. If these words meet your gaze, it suggests a certain… attachment to your current environs, a sentiment I find… curious, knowing your penchant for our little games of hide-and-seek – a sport, I might add, in which my victory has remained, shall we say, consistent.
It has been some considerable time since you graced the Valerius estate with your presence, and certain… familial obligations await your attention. Your departed parents’ mausoleum requires a visit, a gesture of respect that has been regrettably deyed. I urge you, my love, to consider your responsibilities. Return to me, Freya. Return to your rightful pce. Surely, you must realize where your true allegiance lies, where you shall always find soce and belonging. Do not allow yourself to be swayed by transient fancies.
Consider this not merely a request, my love, but a gentle reminder of the enduring bonds that tie us together. A word to the wise: do not test the limits of my patience, Freya. Your prolonged independence has run its course. I await your swift return. You know where your true home resides.
With anticipation,
Amelia Valerius.
Freya’s grip tightened on the parchment, the elegant script blurring slightly as a wave of conflicting emotions washed over her. Amelia’s words, steeped in their familiar blend of possessiveness and thinly veiled command, grated on her already raw nerves. The mention of her parents stirred a pang of guilt, a reminder of duties long neglected, yet the imperious tone only fueled her resistance.
“‘My love’,” Freya scoffed aloud, the sound bitter in the empty room. “Always with the pretense of affection, masking the chains she seeks to bind me with.” The letter, far from offering a distraction, had only served to amplify her sense of being trapped, caught between the alluring freedom of her brief connection with Myra and the suffocating expectations of her past with Amelia. The choice that y before her now felt heavier than ever.
“She thinks she can lure me back with sentimental ploys?” Freya spat out, crumpling the letter in her hand. “Using my departed parents as bait, dangling the weight of obligation to drag me back into her gilded cage? Never!” A fierce surge of defiance coursed through her. Amelia’s maniputive tactics only strengthened her resolve to remain free, to not be dictated to, to forge her own path, even if it meant facing uncertainty and the sting of potential heartbreak.
Yet, beneath the anger and defiance, a deeper ache resonated within Freya. The mention of her parents, however maniputive Amelia’s intention, still tugged at the frayed edges of her heart. A pang of longing, a bittersweet memory of their love and guidance, pierced through her resentment. The truth was, a part of her did miss them, the familial warmth that had been lost so long ago. Amelia’s cruelty y in her calcuted exploitation of this genuine sentiment, twisting a cherished memory into a tool of control. The conflict within Freya was palpable – a fierce rejection of Amelia’s dominance warring with the undeniable pull of a deeply buried sorrow.
