Alistair Grail two years after the loss of his son and heir, along with his beloved wife was walking down the halls to his surviving daughter’s room. Pushing away the thoughts of what happened to his wife and son in that very room.
He could not have beared to look at her since the death. She looked too much like his late wife with her eyes, hair and nose. And the face of his son, her twin Cloven. The ache of the loss, of not being there to protect his wife and son, to protect his daughter weighed heavily on him.
As he reached the hall he gave a start at one of the maids’ horrified screams. Shaking it off he lumber forward toward the sound. Shoving the doors forward drowning out the sound as they crashed against the wall.
He stood there frozen in time as the scene played out in front of him. Blood pooling on the floor, stained on the white bed sheets. The body pooled on the floor limp, red hair sprawled around her, emerald eyes dulled, lifeless. Though his eyes could pick up the faint rise and fall of her chest.
It was a picture of a time before, but instead of two bodies sprawled out it was one. There would be no daughter to be found safely hiding in the closet this time. His daughter was here, bloodied and dull eyed, seemingly in a parody of her mother.
Somehow, he spoke demanding the maid to go, to fetch the family’s doctor, to do it now.
He watched it all standing by the wall until the healer arrived and started to tend to her, before he left the room. He knew she was dead, yes she was breathing, her body worked, but she was dead.
And so, he sat, drinking tired and bitter. He knew that this was his fault. This was his fate. He would not see her again. Not to see his wife’s eyes dull and lifeless, not when he did this, not when this was his fault again.
He has lost his wife, his son, and his daughter. ‘Now’ he thinks as he drinks ‘I will lose myself too, in this bitterness.’