Winter

Swimming has never been my favourite pastime. Dipping my toes into the warm water is enough to make me scowl, and it's not a fun ordeal for me. But part of me just wants to enjoy it again. The swimming, the pools. I used to.

I work up the courage to slip into the water, gliding through the warmth. It's misty and hot and makes my skin sticky, all the hot air, but it's strangely pleasant. It's quiet here. It's somewhere I can think.

I swim over to the window, and then dive down. The water is hot, but it is quiet down here. Serene and pleasant. I can think when I'm down here, just holding my breath and not needing to work or talk or do anything for anyone. Just do something for myself.

It's not like I'm not selfish. I think I've been plenty selfish, in my youth. But it's like what my father always said; "Don't get caught up in selfish greed, Winter. The day you take my place, is the day you stop caring about yourself."

So I stopped caring. I didn't need selfish desires, I didn't need to be driven by personal success. My father made sure I knew that from a young age.

I resurface and flick my heavy head of hair behind me, wiping strands away from my face before I accidentally eat some. In the water, my hair turns a shade of grey as it darkens from the damp. I wipe my hand through it.

It isn't the same. It isn't the same as when it's touched by another. Someone specific. Someone special. I haven't had that for so long. And I can't let myself have that.

I swim a little longer, trying to wipe away the thoughts of private touches, private whispers, private stolen moments so long ago that I miss and yearn for. I long for, I long for them so deeply and desperately that I can hardly breathe sometimes. It's the kind of longing that keeps me awake at night, wondering if my father was right, doubting my life's motto since a youngster. Is it truly so bad, to be selfish? To want?

I swim back up and lean against the side of the pool, staring out of the window. That's my kingdom, I remind myself. My land, the land I hold a hand over, the land I control with my fingers and my words. Not alone. With an inner circle, an inner circle that works for me and does most of the practical work. Things behind me so I don't have to get my hands dirty.

But sometimes I want to. I want to be seen, to be known. But on my father's terms, that would be selfish.

But he isn't alive anymore. I find myself thinking, more often than not, that perhaps he was wrong, his views outdated. That being selfish isn't so bad at all. But every time I think it, my mind circles back to the same thing: remember your training, Winter.

The bad choices and the good choices, the things that fell apart. My mistakes. The mistakes every faerie makes, and the ones exclusive to me. The ones that hurt the most.

I feel as if a fire is fading inside of me. A fire that has been burning for so long that suddenly it is being extinguished by something I cannot control, and now I am scrambling to keep it alight. Like I need it to survive, like a beacon amongst a starless night. So I can find my way.

Without my path and without my light, I'm stumbling in darkness. And I have to hang onto the things that keep me grounded.

But what are those things? I used to know what they were. I used to know exactly. And although today, yesterday, and for centuries, I have denied it, they have remained the same. Those things I feel comfortable with. Those things I feel like could light my fire again, those things I could feel safe with.

Dark hair. Blue eyes. A smattering of freckles. Faint olive skin.

I blink quickly and sigh. The mist has fogged up the window, as always, and I reach forward to rub a circle of vision. The jewelled trees glitter in the midnight starlight, and I can see pixies flitting in and out of leaves that could scratch anyone with skin that wasn't made of diamond, as well. They are a beauty to watch dance.

I watch their dances for hours, some days. They are beautiful and practiced, and they know exactly how to dance from the moment they are born. Like I knew how to shift into a wolf, like some fae know how to fly, like some fae know how to control water. Like some know that they need blood to survive.

We're all different, but so painfully and clearly similar. And the way the war went, the way my father died... I seek to change that. But I can't change anything if I'm not happy. I can't change anything if I'm struggling to get through a simple work day, struggling to get through every day. Struggling to get through it alone.

Adras is good company. He's kind, smarter than I think anyone gives him credit for, even me. He's good company, good enough, but not perfect. Not the company I need. I miss that company.

He's the perfect faeling, though. He's sweet and kind. He's ready to learn, he's curious, he's bright. And I'm very glad he came with me. And I'm excited to see how he continues to grow.

But I can't sit here alone all night. I could, if I wanted to. But it's night, and it's cold, and it's something I miss having company in. We used to sit here for hours, talking, laughing. I miss those years. I miss them more than anything else in the world. The fact remains, the fact I try so hard to avoid.

The fact that I'm avoiding Morel. And I'm so helplessly, incredibly, irrevocably in love with him.