Freya squeezed her eyes shut against the relentless downpour, each cold droplet striking her skin like a tiny, agonizing needle. The rain was as unwelcome as the storm in her soul, each drop fueling her inner turmoil, a liquid embodiment of her sorrow. A low moan escaped her lips, a sound barely audible above the howling wind.
“Mother…” she whispered, the name a long-forgotten caress on her tongue. A wave of profound longing washed over her, a visceral yearning for the one person who had always offered unconditional love and unwavering comfort. In moments of deep pain, it was always her mother’s memory she sought, the gentle guidance and understanding she had offered. The memory of her mother’s hand, warm and reassuring on her fevered brow during childhood illnesses, fshed through her mind, a stark contrast to the biting cold of the rain.
Tears mingled with the rain streaming down her face as a bitter question formed in her mind. “Why… why does everyone I allow myself to love… always end up hurting me?” She thought of Amelia, the passionate intensity of their early connection that had curdled into possessiveness and betrayal of trust. And now Myra, whose unexpected warmth had pierced through her guarded heart, only to seemingly vanish back into the life Freya could never truly share. Each instance of heartbreak was a fresh yer of scar tissue on her ancient soul, yet the pain remained as sharp as the first wound.
"Was it always going to be like this, Mother?" Freya murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Is it simply too difficult for someone like me to love… to be loved without causing pain or being left behind?” The weight of her immortality, the constant awareness of the fleeting nature of mortal lives, pressed down on her with crushing force.
A fresh wave of grief washed over her as she remembered her mother’s passing, a loss that had scarred her in ways that time could never fully heal. “I miss you so much, Mother,” she whispered, the words filled with a raw vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to feel. “You always knew what to say, how to guide me. You were taken too soon… and I… I couldn’t stop it.” The helplessness of that long-ago loss echoed in her present pain. The inability to shield her mother from death had been her first profound failure, a wound that continued to fester beneath the surface of her immortal existence.
Clutching her arms around herself against the biting wind and the relentless rain, Freya let out a long, shuddering sigh. The weight of centuries of love and loss, of hope and heartbreak, pressed down on her, leaving her feeling utterly desote and alone on the storm-swept mountainside. “And this… this cursed existence…” she finally choked out, the question she had suppressed rising to the surface, ced with years of unspoken resentment. “Why, Mother? Why was I turned into this… this creature of the night? I never wanted it. I never asked for this endless darkness.” The irony was a cruel twist: granted eternal life, yet perpetually haunted by the specter of loss.
A vivid memory, sharp and poignant, pierced through the fog of her despair. She was young, mortal, and surrounded by the familiar grandeur of Valerius again. A memory, both piercingly clear and deeply touching, sliced through her despair.
Her mother y pale and frail upon the rge, intricately carved bed, a shadow of her former vibrant self. Freya knelt beside her, tears streaming down her youthful face. “You can survive this, Mother,” she pleaded, her voice thick with fear. “Father… Father just died. Please, don’t leave me alone. You have to be strong.” The scent of beeswax candles and the faint medicinal aroma of her mother's sickroom filled her senses anew.
Her mother’s eyes, though weak, held a profound love. “My dearest Freya…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “You must… you must leave this room now.” Freya shook her head fiercely. “No! I will stay. I will take care of you. I will nurse you back to health, Mother. We will get through this, together.” She clung to the naive belief that her love and devotion could conquer even the most relentless illness.
A faint but resolute shake of her mother’s head followed. “My wish… my only wish is that you do not… that you do not succumb to this. I want you to live, my child. If you remain here… the sickness… it may take you too.” Her mother’s gaze flickered towards the doorway, and she gave a subtle signal. A silent plea for Freya's survival, a mother's ultimate sacrifice.
Almost immediately, two maids appeared, their figures strangely concealed in all-white, muffle-covered clothing. Before Freya could react, they gently but firmly took hold of her arms, their grip surprisingly strong. “No! Let me go!” Freya cried, her hands outstretched towards her mother. “Mother! Please!” Her desperate screams echoed in the rge chamber as the maids began to pull her towards the door, her feet dragging against the polished wooden floor. The sight of her mother's frail hand, reaching weakly in her direction, was a final, searing image etched into her memory.
From the bed, her mother heard the faint, heart-wrenching sound of her daughter’s cries. A gentle, serene smile touched her lips. My brave Freya. My beautiful daughter. You will become a wonderful woman. With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, she spoke her final thoughts into the silent room. “I want you to live, my love… and I… I love you truly.” That final decration, unheard by Freya, became a bittersweet anchor in her long, solitary existence.
Freya, back in the present day on the desote mountainside, felt the raw bite of the wind and rain as a stark echo of the anguish gripping her heart. The very immortality her mother had so desperately wished for her, the life her mother had urged her to embrace, now felt like a cruel and inescapable prison, isoting her in a timeless realm of sorrow. Each passing century, once a vast expanse of potential, now stretched behind her as a testament to endless loss.
"Mother, this endless life... is mine now." Freya whispered into the tempestuous wind, her voice barely a breath against the storm's fury. The words were not a boast, but a hollow acknowledgment of a fate she had never chosen, a life devoid of the natural cycle of beginnings and ends that defined the mortal world she still yearned for. The memories of her mother, once a source of comfort and strength, now inadvertently paved the way for an even deeper sense of isotion, a chasm between her past humanity and her present, unchanging existence.
As the storm raged on, mirroring the tempest within her soul, Freya remained a solitary figure etched against the rugged peaks of the mountainside. The memories of her mother were a poignant and persistent reminder of the vibrant humanity she had lost in that fateful transformation, a humanity that felt achingly distant and irrevocably gone. The endless night of her immortality stretched before her, an empty canvas painted with the shades of countless sorrows. She was a creature caught between worlds, no longer fully mortal, yet forever tethered to the memories and emotions of her human past.
The grief, a constant and unwelcome companion, clung to her with the tenacity of the storm's relentless rain. It was a shadow that her unwanted immortality could never outrun, a burden heavier than the stones beneath her knees. The gift of eternal life had become a curse of eternal mourning, a cruel paradox she could find no soce from.
