Back in the shadowed sanctuary of the antique shop, the carefully erected wall of Freya's composure crumbled like ancient stone. A raw, incandescent rage pulsed through her veins, eclipsing the earlier sorrow. The image of Myra and Gareth, the easy smiles and exchanged package, repyed relentlessly in her mind, each repetition a fresh stab of betrayal.
With a guttural growl, Freya strode to a hidden compartment beneath her desk, pulling out a small, dark gss vial filled with animal blood. She uncorked it with a trembling hand and drained the viscous liquid in a single gulp. A moment passed, but the familiar calming effect was minimal, barely a ripple in the storm raging within her. She grabbed a second vial, her movements jerky and uncontrolled, and drank it down just as quickly. Still, the burning fury persisted, fueled by a pain that ran deeper than mere physical hunger. It was a hunger for something the blood could not satisfy, a craving for the truth and for the lost connection.
“Lies!” she hissed, her voice raw with fury. “All of it… lies!” The tender moments they had shared, Myra’s whispered affections, the depth of their intimacy – now they felt like a cruel deception, a calcuted manipution. The trust she had tentatively offered had been thrown back in her face, leaving her feeling foolish and exposed. The vulnerability she had allowed herself felt like a fatal fw in her ancient being.
Her breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, her chest heaving with the intensity of her emotions. With a violent sweep of her arm, Freya sent the antique inkwell and quills flying from the desk, the ctter echoing in the sudden chaos. A porcein figurine followed, shattering against the stone floor. The physical destruction offered a momentary release, a tangible outlet for the tempest within her.
“How could she?” Freya choked out, tears of rage and hurt welling in her crimson eyes. “How could she look at me like that, say those things, and then… and then be with him?” The sense of betrayal cut deeper than any physical wound, a searing pain that threatened to consume her. It was a phantom limb pain, an agony stemming from a connection severed before it could fully heal.
She continued to sh out, scattering books, overturning mps, the elegant order of the antique shop dissolving into a reflection of her inner turmoil. The carefully curated beauty now y in disarray, a testament to the depth of her anguish. The pain of a broken heart, something she had thought herself immune to, had found its way past her defenses, leaving her raw, vulnerable, and consumed by a furious, heartbroken rage.
Driven by a desperate need to escape the suffocating confines of the shop and her own spiraling fury, Freya stumbled out into the night. The heavy, rain-den air clung to her like a shroud as she fled the vilge, her feet carrying her instinctively towards the rugged peaks of the nearby mountains. The darkness mirrored the tempest in her soul, the thick clouds obscuring the moon and stars. She ran not towards safety, but towards a wildness that echoed the chaos within.
Reaching a desote, rocky outcrop overlooking the valley, Freya finally halted, her breath catching in ragged sobs. A raw, primal scream tore from her throat, echoing through the silent mountains, a desperate release of the agony that consumed her. The tears that had welled in her eyes now flowed freely, mingling with the first heavy drops of rain that began to fall from the oppressive sky. The storm outside was a pale imitation of the hurricane within.
She sank to her knees on the cold, damp stone, the elements a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. The rain intensified, soaking her cloak and hair, but she barely noticed. Her gaze was fixed on the distant lights of the vilge, a painful reminder of the happiness that now seemed irrevocably lost to her.
“This pce…” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion, her hand clutching at the wet earth. “This is where… where she first kissed me.” The memory, once a cherished treasure, now felt like a cruel taunt. “She kissed me… first. And in that moment… foolishly… I opened my heart.” The vulnerability she had allowed herself felt like a profound weakness now, a foolish surrender that had only led to this crushing pain.
The tears continued to fall, indistinguishable from the raindrops that pstered her hair to her face. “Why, Myra?” she sobbed, her voice barely audible above the wind that began to howl through the peaks. “Why did you let me believe? Why did you make me feel… something I thought I had forgotten how to feel?” The raw ache of a broken heart, a sensation she had thought herself immune to, now gripped her with brutal intensity. It was a resurrection of feelings she had long tried to bury, a painful awakening.
Alone on the windswept mountainside, beneath the dark and unforgiving sky, Freya wept for a love that felt like a cruel illusion, for a vulnerability she regretted, and for a future that had suddenly become bleak and empty. The rain and tears mingled, washing over her, a cold baptism of despair in the very pce where her heart had dared to hope.
The storm raged around Freya, mirroring the tempest within her. The wind howled like a banshee, whipping her hair around her face as the rain pstered her cloak to her skin. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the gnawing ache in her chest. She huddled on the cold rock, her body wracked with sobs that seemed to tear at her very being.
“Foolish… so foolish,” she repeated, the words a broken mantra against the roar of the wind. “Centuries I have lived… and still I allow myself to be swayed by a fleeting human heart.” The weight of her immortal existence suddenly felt unbearable, a solitary journey punctuated by brief moments of connection that always seemed destined to end in pain.
She remembered the light in Myra’s eyes, the warmth of her touch, the breathless intimacy they had shared. Had it all been a lie? A cruel game? The thought was like a venomous sting, poisoning the beautiful memories she had cherished. The betrayal felt profound, a deep wound that echoed through her long, solitary existence. The echoes of Myra's ughter now sounded like cruel taunts in the wind.
As the storm raged on, Freya remained on the mountainside, a solitary figure consumed by grief and a bitter sense of disillusionment. The promise of love and connection had proven to be a cruel illusion, leaving her more alone than ever in the vast, indifferent expanse of the night. The storm within raged just as fiercely as the one that battered the mountain, and the darkness felt absolute. "Why?" she whispered into the wind, the rain washing over her face. "Why this endless life I never desired? Why make me a creature of the night, only to feel this human agony?"
