Thirteen Lullabies | ✓

IX.II

"So you don't know her story?"

I shrugged, wanting to hear what you had learned about her. About you.

"From what I have researched and from what the palace historian has said, she was the daughter of Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Second daughter, I believe. When Octavian won the war he waged against them, he took their children and paraded them up and down the streets like animals." Your face scrunched up as you spoke, as if you had tasted something bitter or sour. "Anyways, Althaea grew up to be rather fierce and hated him." I nodded. So far, your story was just as I remembered it.

"One day, she snuck into Octavian's house. She knocked over a vase, though, and was almost caught. Apparently she was there to assassinate him, but she got away just in time." You pointed to the dagger in front of us.

"She was found with this dagger when she was killed. It was pretty brutal. Roman soldiers were told to kill her on sight, and they did just that. Octavian claimed it was a suicide, though. No one denied it." I blinked back the tears forming in my eyes, vividly remembering our second life together.

I wondered whether the legends ever mentioned me. Somehow I doubted it.

You looked sad. "I don't know why, but I feel incredibly connected to her."

Your head snapped up to look at me. You moved slightly to the left, flipping the page, and that is when I noticed the ring that had alerted me that I was speaking with Morrígan all those centuries ago.

"This is Morrígan's family ring. She was a Druidess. I couldn't find too much on her, other than she loved to prance around fires like these." Your finger touched the tall fire I had drawn in the center of the page.

"From what I have learned, she was caught during a Druid ritual, which was prohibited by the Romans at the time. They thought she was a witch and burned her in a fire much like the ones she danced around." Your left hand fidgeted with your clothing, showing me that you were nervous, though I couldn't quite place why.

"The Romans were awful, if you haven't noticed." Again, I nodded. I was getting choked up again, remembering the feel of your lips when you were Morrígan, remembering the smell as I watched you fade away from me for the third time.

I cleared my throat. "I hadn't realized my sketches had backstories." A lie. I should have just told you, but you wouldn't have understood. You thought of all of these strong women as just women from the past. You wouldn't be able to grasp the fact that each of them was actually you.

You eyed me again, like you thought I knew more than I was letting on, but moved to the left, again flipping the page. I looked up and noticed a piece of Brynhildr's shield. Looking even further, I noticed an Indian bangle and piece of a ghagra and Blanche's ring. All of the items I had kept from our lives together were here, with you.

Emotion rose like bile in my throat, and I closed my eyes so that I could continue listening to you tell their stories, as if I couldn't tell them to you by memory.

You pointed to the shield in my drawing, eyes moving between the sketch and the real shield before you. "The detail in this is precise. It makes no sense." Again, I shrugged, attempting nonchalance as best as I could.

"This is Brynhildr's shield. She was a queen back in the time of the vikings. She led men and women into battle, the most powerful shield-maiden in history. She went into battle fearlessly, just as courageous as any man. She is one of my heroes. I wish I could be as fearless as she was."

Before I could stop myself, Brynhildr's favorite phrase passed my lips. "Fear not death for the hour of your doom is set and none may escape it."

You staggered back a bit and I caught you. You looked up at me, though you didn't pull away. "I have heard that phrase before. I cannot quite place it, but I know I have heard it. Where did you learn that?" You whispered so softly that I could barely make out the words.

"I have no idea."

You pulled away. Standing straight, you looked at me. "Something is going on. Do you believe in fate, Francis?"

I nodded my head. Fate was my only religion at that point. It led me to you every time. You smiled a bit, shy and sweet, like you could read my mind.

You moved on to the ghagra. "Now this, you drew something similar, but not exactly the same. This was an Indian princess' marriage outfit. Her name is Rani, which, from my research, means queen."

Your finger tapped the picture of Rani. "No one is sure of what happened to her exactly, other than she did not end up getting married. She was meant to marry a king of a neighboring province to end tensions between their two kingdoms, but I have heard whispers that she fell in love with a foreign boy."

I gasped and you looked at me. "Apologies. Continue, please." Perhaps I had made my way into the legends.

"Well, apparently, they fell in love, but the king she was supposed to marry caught her and killed them both. It was a bloody and gruesome end to their love story." You smiled at me, sadness pooling in your eyes.

"I think it is quite beautiful, though. They loved each other so much that they were willing to die for each other. I could only ever hope to find someone like that for myself."

You had no idea, my sweet, innocent Willow.

"And finally, we come to Blanche. She was of the Valois bloodline, you know. One of the most powerful bloodlines in history. My family does not much like them though, seeing as they want Henry Tudor on the throne instead of my father." I raised an eyebrow, unsure of what you were talking about.

You waved your hand at me. "A story for later. Blanche was a wild spirit. She refused to marry, thinking of marriage as an institution that allows men to force their will upon their wife. That is the last thing she would have ever wanted."

Flipping the page to the portrait of Blanche, I noticed that I had drawn the ring before me on her soft, small hand.

"A man of about twenty-five came to their palace, claiming to be a nobleman's son. He asked for Blanche's hand in marriage, and I suppose she must have liked him enough for him to get that close. But, alas, they were not to be. The man had lied about his identity and Blanche had died of the plague. Everyone blamed the man, so they killed him."

Your frown turned to me, gauging my reaction. "I feel a connection to all of these tragic stories. To all of these strong women. Just as I feel the same connection to you. Something neither of us can explain, and yet, it is clear that there is something here."

You closed my sketch book, handing it back to me carefully. "Come, you must do the portraits my father wishes to have. Hopefully he will be back soon to admire them." I followed you out of the museum, still in shock as I cast one last look behind me. I would have to figure out a way to get those pieces of our lives back.