Epilogue
PRINCESS DAVINA
“Unable are the loved to die,
for love is immortality.”
— Emily Dickinson
D arkness pulls me from one abyss into another, and I’m jolted awake. I blink, struggling to clear the fog from my vision. The world is a haze, every sound and sensation feeling distant and surreal.
Trees blur past in a rush of green, and I realize I’m being carried.
The gentle sway is oddly soothing, a contrast to the crushing weight of despair that lingers in my chest.
The world tilts as I try to focus, and my eyes meet the warm glow of red hair cascading down in front of me.
I gasp in shock.
It’s unmistakable.
“Mother?” My voice comes out as a croak, barely a whisper.
It feels like a half-remembered dream.
Her eyes—so like mine—are filled with a tenderness that brings a wave of tears to my eyes.
I recognize her from the portraits I’ve seen, the way her eyes glimmer with an ethereal light, her hair the same red that seems almost alive.
“Davina,” she says softly, her voice like a balm to my aching soul. “You’re safe now.”
The words make little sense, my mind too disoriented to grasp their full meaning.
I glance around, my head still spinning with confusion. “Where... Where are we going?”
“Shh, it’s alright.” Her expression softens, a sorrowful smile touching her lips. “I’m bringing you home.”
Home.