Cold ash in the grate, Nemain sat and stared.
Vaguely she remembered times past, when the fire raged, the bustle of feast days. Smiling and laughter.
A leaf carpet where once were fresh reeds. Tapestries torn from the walls, burned in that very hearth. Animal carcasses thrown down the well, to poison their water – those left untouched by the slaughter then destined to die slow and painful.
Only 4, she was spirited away, silently.
2 score years later, it crept upon her. Pressing the small blade into her palm she swore vengeance for blood long spilled.