Chapter 43-The rain
I can still hear the storm.
Even with the balcony doors open only slightly, the sound fills the room, wrapping around me like a familiar blanket.
Rain strikes the stone terraces below in endless waves while thunder rolls across the mountains beyond the palace walls.
The wind howls through the gardens, bending trees and tearing petals from flowerbeds, carrying the scent of wet earth and fresh grass all the way to where I stand.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
The smell has always been my favorite part.
Rain changes the world.
It washes away dust and dirt and leaves everything feeling new.
The morning after a storm is always beautiful.
The soil smells richer. Flowers seem brighter.
Animals emerge cautiously from their hiding places.
Birds sing louder. The entire world feels as though it survived something difficult and came out stronger for it.
I suppose that is why I love storms so much. They remind me that survival is beautiful.
That pain ends. That even after destruction, life continues. The rain crashes harder against the palace roof.
Most people seek shelter from storms. I seek comfort in them. Especially now. Especially tonight.
These days had left my body weak.
My throat still burns whenever I swallow. Some days even water feels like liquid fire sliding down my throat. My muscles ache constantly. Walking across a room leaves me exhausted. Everyone watches me now. Every servant. Every guard. Every physician.
As though I might break.
As though I am made of glass.
But storms remind me that surviving isn't the same thing as being unbroken. Sometimes surviving means standing in the rain with your wounds exposed and refusing to fall anyway.
My hand drifts slowly over the curve of my stomach.
Over my daughter.
Because I know she is a daughter.
I do not care how many arguments Achille starts about it.
I know i just refuse to give him the satisfaction of being correct.
And one day, when she is old enough, I will bring her outside during a storm.
The thought makes my smile grow. I can picture it so clearly. A tiny hand wrapped around mine. Little boots splashing through puddles.
A dramatic complaint about getting wet.
Then laughter.
Gods, I hope she laughs loudly.
I hope she laughs without worrying who might hear.
I hope she grows up feeling safe enough to be foolish sometimes.
I hope she never learns how cruel the world can be until she is strong enough to survive it.
I hope she inherits her father's stubbornness and his terrifying talent for making grown men cry.
A soft laugh escapes me.
The sound disappears into the storm.
Then my smile slowly fades.
Because storms always make me think of my mother. The memories come easier when it rains. Not because I remember her clearly.
I don't.
That is the cruelest part. I can no longer remember her face properly. Sometimes I think I can. Then I reach for the memory and it slips away again. I cannot remember the exact shape of her smile.
The color of her eyes.
The curve of her nose.
Time stole those things from me.
Her voice is gone too.
I know she sang.
I know she laughed.
I know she spoke my name.
But I cannot remember how she sounded anymore. The realization hurts every single time. Because she was my mother. And I am forgetting her.
Little by little.
Year after year.
Until all that remains are fragments.
Pieces.
Moments.
Feelings.
The storm helps me hold onto those pieces. Because whenever rain falls, I remember her hand in mine.
I remember warmth.
I remember laughter.
I remember freedom.
I remember being a little girl in a tiny village before crowns and kingdoms and politics.
Before betrayals.
Before court.
Before war.
Before becoming queen.
Back when I was simply Ophelia.
Back when my biggest concern was whether I would slip in the mud while trying to copy my mother's dancing. She loved dancing in storms. Every time rain started falling she would grab my hand and drag me outside before anyone could stop her.
Barefoot.
Laughing.
Spinning beneath dark clouds like she had completely lost her mind. At the time I was absolutely convinced she was embarrassing. Now I would give almost anything to watch her do it one more time.
I remember asking her once why she loved storms so much.
She had smiled.
The same smile everyone says I inherited. The smile my stepmother hated. The smile my father could never stop looking at. And then she told me something I never forgot.
"When you're sad, go outside."
Rain had soaked her hair completely.
"When you're hurting, go outside."
Thunder had echoed across the hills.
"When life becomes too heavy, scream into the storm."
I remember staring at her in complete confusion.
She laughed so hard she nearly fell over.
Then she crouched down in front of me and gently wiped rainwater from my cheeks.
"Let the storm carry away your pain."
The memory makes my chest ache.
Because now, as an adult, I understand what she meant. I understand why I sometimes found her sitting alone in the rain when she thought nobody was watching. Why tears mixed with stormwater on her face. Why she stared at the sky as though speaking to something only she could hear.
Perhaps the storm was where she put her grief. Perhaps it was the only place she felt safe enough to cry. Perhaps it was the only thing strong enough to carry her pain.
The one memory of my mother I wish I could forget.
The one I never will.
Was the storm that brought my mother's death.
Rain fell that night too.
Heavy.
Violent.
Relentless.
I remember blood. So much blood. I remember screaming until my throat felt raw. I remember guards holding me back while I fought them with everything I had.
I remember reaching for her.
Begging.
Crying.
And through all of it
She smiled.
Gods.
She smiled.
Even while dying.
Even while blood stained her clothes. Even while life slipped through her fingers.
She smiled because she was trying to comfort me.
Trying to make me less afraid. Trying to protect me one last time.
The rain washed blood from the stones.I can still see it.
Red disappearing into the earth.The sky crying with me.
I remember her reaching toward me.
Her hand shaking.
Weak.
Cold.
And I remember her final words.
"Let the rain wash away your pain."
A tear slips down my cheek.
The storm steals it immediately.
"Give the soil your tears," she whispered.
Her smile never faded.
Not once.
"Just as the clouds give theirs."
I was crying too hard to answer.
Too young to understand what goodbye meant.
"I love you."
The last words she ever gave me. Then darkness took her. The storm continued. And the warmest place I had ever known disappeared forever.
For several moments I simply stand there.
Listening to the rain.
Letting it fall against my skin.
Letting it carry away tears I hadn't realized were falling.
Everyone always says I look like her. Sometimes I wonder if that is why my stepmother hated me so much. Because every time she looked at me, she saw the woman she could never erase. The woman my father never truly stopped loving. My father used to tell me I was exactly like her.
Too kind.
Too trusting.
Too hopeful.
A perfect copy of the most beautiful thing he had ever loved. At the time I thought it was criticism. Now I understand it was grief.
My hand rests against my stomach again.
Against the future.
And suddenly the sadness hurts a little less.
Because one day I will tell her about her grandmother.
One day I will take her outside during a storm.
We will dance barefoot through puddles.
We will spin beneath dark clouds.
We will look completely ridiculous.
And I will teach her everything my mother taught me.
How to smile through pain.
How to find beauty after loss.
How to stand back up after life knocks you down. How to let the rain carry away sorrow when your heart becomes too heavy to hold it alone. Maybe that is how people survive death. Not by refusing to grieve. But by carrying pieces of those we loved forward.
My mother lives in every act of kindness I offer. Every moment of hope. Every time I choose compassion instead of cruelty. She lives in me. And one day, a piece of her will live in my daughter too.
The thought warms something deep inside my chest.
A quiet promise.
A future worth surviving for. Eventually I step back inside.
My clothes are damp.
My hair clings to my cheeks.
My body aches.
But somehow I feel lighter.
Nathaniel quietly closes the balcony doors behind me, sealing out the worst of the storm. The room immediately grows warmer.
Safer.
I remove my coat and drape it over a nearby chair before moving slowly toward my desk.
The pile of reports waiting for me is absurd.
Kitchen inventories.
Supply requests.
Budget reports.
Refugee housing updates.
Enough paperwork to make most people cry.
I smile anyway.
Because life continues.
People still need food.
Families still need homes.
Children still need protection.
The world does not stop because we are hurting. So neither will I. I lower myself carefully into my chair and pick up the first report. Outside, the storm continues raging against the palace walls. Inside, candlelight flickers softly across parchment.