The undergrowth was immersed in a cozy quiet: only slight frills and intermittent humming interrupted the silence, when the woman emerged from the shadows. Wrapped in a dark mantle and with the head protected by a wide hood, she moved one foot after the other, with a slowness that to an outer eye would've appeared too much measured. Each step was equidistant from the other, never a few centimetres more or less, as if it had been necessary to maintain that calculated perfection - so much so that, when she was in front of some stone or fallen branch, she managed to deviate trajectory or, in the second case, she raised her hand in the air and to thrown them away or to make them swallowed by the ground.

The night was quiet and fragrant, a light breeze to shake the leaves of the trees. Few rays of moonlight managed to pass over the green roof above her head, illuminating at times her path. No one, except her and the animals of the forest, seemed to attend this place, so magical and so forgotten. So full of memories that the woman would've preferred to be able to erase, but that no one had the power to eradicate from her. Nothing but the arms of the Old Mother.

About fifty meters from where she was, the large dark leaves opened, letting a glimpse of the lake and its crystal clear waters, where she and the love of her life had spent unforgettable hours.

If she'd been more sensitive, she'd probably have burst into tears.

She stood there for several minutes, gazing at the water with sharp eyes, hidden beneath the shadows of the hood. Smelling the air, she felt she could still smell her perfume, the one that attracted her the first time they met, and that had always sent her in a dazzle, so delicate and enveloping. Mortals were such peculiar creatures.

Without a breath, the woman lifted her arms and gracefully untied the ribbon that tied the cloak. It fell to the ground, crushing some of the white flowers that hung over the edge of the pond. She didn't care. After all, everything had to die sooner or later.

As soon as she was free from the hood, the woman felt a shiver, now wrapped only by a semi-transparent pearl-colored petticoat that barely covered her. Long blond hair descended to her hips, blocked by two hairpins embellished with sapphires and four large rubies. The ears were pointed and jewelled by rings of precious workmanship.

For a long time she did nothing, merely looking at the lake as if it could answer the questions that tormented her. But there was no solution, except that provided by the lips of the same person who had been able to destroy her immortal heart in a few simple moves.

In the end she recognized that it was not even her fault, she hadn't done it on purpose, she was simply scared and ran away: as mortal her mind was weak, the fears stronger than those of a fae. And after all, how could she blame the terror of the world in which she lived? Nothing was safe and everything tried to kill you. It was understandable, the reaction she had.

Despite this, however, she couldn't forgive her choice.

Nor could she live with it, because the pain of that betrayal was too great.

Running away might have been enough, trying to destroy her by using her gifts, her secrets, but no. She wasn't like that.

Naria did not move when tears began to flow from her eyes. She didn't fall to the ground as she would have liked, she did not cover her face to hide her suffering and the human emotions and feelings that had infected her heart; it would have been useless, the Old Mother would have known anyway. And in any case it didn't make sense, because the Old Mother would have welcomed her anyway, whatever her heart was made of. She would've accepted her.

So she let the drops of her pain flow on her ivory cheeks and fall on the ground, where - in the places where they wet the grass - flowers grew, their petals completely black. Black as the emptiness that was now swallowing her from within.

Naria turned slowly, always with that voluntary grace, the same one that was exhausting her - because who cared anymore about whether she was perfect or not? But she couldn't shake it off. It wasn't her fault, she was born like that, she lived like that, and old habits are hard to die.

Once she had her back to the pond, Naria opened her eyelids, inhaling from her nose until her lungs started to hurt. Holding the hiccups was becoming increasingly difficult, but the Summer Court would fall before she surrendered to impulses not of her own. This too was also her lover's fault, but Naria forgave involuntary actions.

Her golden eyes fixed on the path she had taken to get there, on the leaves that a little further on seemed to serve as an entrance between the dark underwood and the illuminated lake, two separate worlds. As the two of them, the fae thought.

Lifting her chin she tilted her head back and blew in the gentle breeze, joining the scented jasmine of her breath to the smell of the forest and night. It was her gift to the world, a greeting that she hoped wouldn't be forgotten but that would travel far and wide, dragged by the wind.

She lifted her arms, shaking her left hand around the sealed letter, and stepping back she let herself fall into the water. Naria remained there, floating, observing with shining eyes the charm of the starry sky. The stars shone so strong that night, beautiful in their coldness. Sooner or later they would die too.

Carrying her left arm up again, the woman opened her palm and called for the breeze. The wind became stronger, but always warm, and slowly grabbed the letter, taking it higher and higher and to the sky. Naria gave her orders to hand it over to the person for whom her tears had been shed. And the wind obeyed. Within moments, both the breeze and the letter had vanished from her sight.

The woman hinted a sad smile, which caused her to shed more tears.

«Re mai Drena» she whispered at night. To my Love. «May the Old Mother forgive us.»

Then she breathed in deep and the crystal clear waters began to overwhelm her. The feeling she felt was of extreme lightness; finally the weight that had crushed her for days had turned into nothing but a slight dot, something more and more distant from her. The water was getting hotter and hotter the deeper she went, until it got boiling, but she preferred it that way.

Now she saw neither the forest nor the sky, only an expanse full of bubbles above her, more and more black every second that passed, and in her ears the call of the Old Mother, ready to welcome her in her arms forever, a place where she would be loved and never betrayed again.

And she hoped, with one last smile, as the water began to enter her lungs, that the letter would soon reach Ofelia, that she would read it, and that she would understand what her actions had entailed, that every choice made does not only change the destiny of one, but also that of the others. And especially that she would realize that she made a mistake and that she would learn, when she found someone else to love, not to repeat the same steps again. That there's no fault in being born a killer.

Perhaps the Old Mother would be understanding with her, after all her beloved had always been a great devotee and had always feared death. Maybe the goddess would have decided to be, for once, magnanimous, and forgive her for betraying Naria and taking all away from her. As already said, mortals were weak, everyone knew that.

The fae didn't know what would happen from now on, after all the world of the living was no longer her problem.

She finally found peace.

And maybe sooner or later they'd meet again.

Te drena, Ofelia. Good Luck.

*

Above the waters of the pond, in the shadows of the undergrowth, the breeze returned to blow, shaking the foliage of the trees, this time completely desert.