Page 78 of Charmed

Fiona closed her eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a great deal if it has you this out of sorts.” Aunt Mara shifted, her feet scuffing the floor. “Love matters.”

Damn it, anyway. “He said he was done.”

The memory of it, the eviscerating tone with which he’d yielded those two words, sliced pain through her midsection anew. Hot and raw. Her throat closed and tears blurred her vision, making everything around her as hazy as what she was supposed to do about the blasted situation.

“He…” Her voice cracked. “He said he was done with me.”

Goddess, the agony. She doubled over, her legs failing her, too, and leaned on the workstation for support. Shaking, she sobbed, covering her face with her hand. It was as if something or someone had ripped her still-beating heart from her chest cavity and forced her to not only watch, but participate in shredding the organ. It hurt. It hurt so damn much.

What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she flip her switch and stop this wretched nonsense? She needed to be angry, have the safety of her wrath. Destroy that which caused her pain and make him suffer twice as hard.

But that thing was Riley, and she’d never hurt him.

Except, she had done just that, hadn’t she? By her inaction.

Aunt Mara motioned to step closer. No doubt, to offer comfort like she had Fiona’s whole life, but she paused mid-step. A conflict wrestled in her expression, sympathy and understanding versus acceptance and steel. She seemed to form some kind of conclusion to which she didn’t enlighten Fiona.

Eventually, Aunt Mara nodded solemnly. “Did you say it back? Did you tell him you love him? Because you obviously do.”

Fiona didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Shame and regret slithered through her veins.

Another nod, and Aunt Mara crossed her arms. “Never thought I’d take a Meath’s side over a Galloway, but here we are. Know what the problem is, lass? You always get your way. Connect when you want, evade when you don’t. Except, this time, he’s in your way, and that scares you.”

She inhaled hard, shaking her head at Fiona as if she pitied her. “It took guts for him to love you. Knowing you may never love him back or return the sentiment, that you may not succeed in your tasks, he did it anyway. Aye, more gumption than you mustered. Sure, you wield magick and face foes and rush into war, but real bravery comes in the aftermath. In the quiet moments when you decide whether to let someone in or not. When you to open yourself to vulnerability. He did that. He was brave.”

A grunt, and Aunt Mara turned to leave. “Be brave, Fiona. Be brave.”

Seconds ticked to minutes, then Fiona slid to the floor in a boneless heap. Hollow. Gutted. Empty.

Alone.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to breathe. But…

The room wavered, her peripheral going dark.

Crap. No. Not now. She didn’t have time for a premonition and was not in a proper meditative state. She was too emotional to barter her way out. It had been so long since she’d had one. Ages. She’d learned to control them, so they didn’t just slam into her at inopportune times. Her visions weren’t as useful as Kaida’s who saw the present or Ceara’s of the future. The past didn’t help. It belonged behind her.

She shook her head to resist, but the air whooshed from her lungs and snippets of images danced behind her lids. Blinding. Intrusive. Soundless.

A woman with auburn ringlets of hair cascading over sun-drenched grass, as green as the eyes watching her. The man, kneeling beside her, leaned in for a kiss.

Fiona felt like a spectator, despite them not knowing she was there. She was an observer, nothing more. Just a viewer of other’s memories. Yet it seemed voyeuristic to be spying during private, intimate moments. She recognized Celeste. The man must’ve been her Finn, her love. She’d only had one in her short lifetime.

The witch appeared happy. Free. Not like when Fiona had her dream about Celeste, where loneliness and remorse had filled her expression. Fiona didn’t understand, or know how to feel about what she was being shown. Or why.

The scene turned gray, shifting to another place, another time, and she fought nausea.

A blonde, laughing, sitting with Aunt Mara at a table in the cottage. Except Fiona’s aunt hadn’t yet turned sixty, the immortality spell not yet activated. A man was by the hearth on bended knee, holding out his hand. The blonde with a cherubic face had to be Celeste’s daughter Hope, judging by Aunt Mara’s age and the state of the cottage, never mind the period wardrobe. Without preamble, Hope leapt from her chair and into his awaiting arms.

Grayness. Shifting images. Waves and waves of nausea combined with a straining pressure in Fiona’s skull. She moaned, holding her temples, eyes pinched shut.

It wouldn’t abate.

The visions came dizzyingly swift, rushing by, as if a spastic child was flipping television channels on mute. Flick, flick, flick.

Countless Galloway predecessors flew past, all with their mates, all jubilant. She knew what had become of them, though. They’d all been lost. Had loves stripped away. Abandoned. Perished too young. Her mother flooded to mind, to sight, in the gardens beside their house with the father Fiona had never known. Kissing. Slow-dancing under the great expanse of stars.

---