literature

Life Goes On

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Literature Text

……Two Weeks Later…….

Ross would be the first to admit that things had gone wrong. If the man was honest, he blamed himself. Laurel had always been one to push boundaries and out of all of them she was the closest to their late uncle. He knew his baby sister, and more than a small part of him felt he should have known the girl was meddling with things she didn't understand. Maybe if he'd explained it all to her…

" Ross, är du okej?" The melodic and soft voice of his wife, his queen, rose from the darkness.

" I-I'm fine, Arwyn; just thinking." Ross replied without much thought. So many had been hurt. So many had died. Laurel might not have as sensitive of a heart as others, but he knew such things would weigh heavy on her soul. Ross' fingers found their way into his long hair, royal tress expertly cared for and manicured, softer than lambs wool and smoother than silk. It was part of what joined him to the royal lineage of Bath. The extent of hair care that each royal had bordered on gaudy, even Wilson, the most down to earth and humble of them all, took a deeply hidden pride in his tress.

Despite the robes, despite the crowns, despite the gems, this was their claim. Even without any of their royal trappings, their locks set them apart, declared them royal without a doubt. And in the morning, Ross would have to cut off Laurel's.

He almost shuddered at the thought. For his sister, her hair was more than just a symbol of her royalty. For Laurel, her hair was her one great vanity. Her shield from the outside world. Her mask to hide what was within. And while other prides had grown within the girl's heart, Ross knew that her deepest pride was her hair.

He'd looked for other options. After all, treason is a high and horrible crime. And after all, there was no doubt that she was guilty. She confessed. She admitted bold faced that she brought about all that pain and destruction and death. And while her intentions had been good, the road to hell is paved with such frivolous things. It didn't matter that she meant no harm. It didn't matter that the people forgave her. She would still have to be punished. Such was the way of the law.

He'd spent days looking for a proper punishment. There was no way in Hell he was putting her in the dungeons. Ross might not like Maeve, but Laurel had had time to prepare and the king had no desire to learn that the mist folk woman had been slain in the night by magical means.

Nor could he bring himself to have her whipped and beaten. During the fall he'd taken his own fair share of lashes; ugly, raw welts ran crisscrossed along his chest and back, still barely healed and painful to the touch. He didn't think he could ever see another whip in his life, let alone watch them slice into his baby sister.

There were other punishments and tortures but none of them worked, none fit. He couldn't help but think that maybe he was just too soft for all of this. But that's when he remembered about their hair. If he were to cut her hair, if he himself sheered her, she would be excommunicated from the royal family until its length returned. She would not be allowed in royal meetings, she would have to relinquish her title of Keeper and she would not be permitted to handle any royal business until that time was over.

It was almost perfect. Ross knew his sister. He knew her mind, her habits, her stress and he knew that she needed time to recover. He knew that without this she would throw herself into her work, piling more and more on in an attempt to forget what had happened. She'd bury herself in it just to prevent herself from feeling her pain. To prevent the mourning. It had to be done. She had to feel this out. It had to be done.

"Kommer hon att förlåta mig?" He quietly asked the night. If he knew his sister, she would leave. She'd leave and brood and then maybe if the stars all aligned, she'd smile and see the world. But would that equate to forgiveness? Would she forgive being removed from the family, if even for a time?

The night answered, his wife's hand on his shoulder and her gentle words in his ear. " Hon kan i tid. Ska du låta henne gå?"

With a sighing breath he responded, "Jag kommer inte att ha ett val."
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