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A beautiful maiden in her watery grave, flowers and greenery instead of weapons, silken dresses instead of armour, floating tresses instead of helmet.
Her eyes are closed, face demure and calm as the lover sends her off; and with her alabaster skin and dark hair the promise of different future, of peace and love. Now a battlefield awaiting and a wound in his heart as she fades away, deep into the memories. Never forgotten, never remembered.
The fair maiden whose fate was oh, so tragic.
And the flames roar and crackle as they feast on her alabaster skin and ebony hair, they sing and dance gorging on her crimson flesh and intestine, till there is just charred meat and few measly bones, slowly, slowly sinking into the depths of that ice-cold lake.
Maybe he will visit. At least in his thoughts.
Once or twice, he will reminisce with a pang and then bitter-sweet nostalgia and soon, soon not even the fishes will remember their unexpected feast.
The fair maiden and her ebony hair. Her sweet smile and tender disposition.
But there is more than just that, the fishes soon come to realise as they nib and lick at the bones. No ebony hair and alabaster skin, but sharp teeth and strong limbs that scratch and kick the nasty, nasty man.
A curiosity stirs the lake as it prods and tugs at the bits of flesh and charred bones. Something fierce and bright thrumming in answer.
I am no damsel, I am no pretty painting, no still life to carry in sepia colours. I fought tooth and nail, when the wandering hands grabbed for what was not theirs, I fought.
I was punished for that by my own.
I bit him and cursed him till he was blue, and they banished me for that.
A speck of kindness, a promise of tenderness to mend my broken bones. I thought it would be enough to mend my battered heart.
I will be good, I will be kind this time around. Just respond as given. Demure and waif as you wish me to.
But I still have claws and teeth and I still rage and scream at the injustice. How come I can’t stop? How come I can’t do this right?
I must be punished, it was just. I stepped out of the line, I broke the covenant. I wasn’t their great white lilly, their damsel in casket, their sleeping beauty. I was no willow to bend as the wind caressed me, I was the nasty feral cat, and I didn’t know how to stop… to be me.
It was just. It was fair.
And the lake heaves a sigh, thousand and one of those laments, of those curses and broken hearts. And the fishes gather her bones and the ashes of her skin on one big pile and weave it all back together with their own scales.
Would you like to be yourself once again? a watery sprite asks, whispers in her ear, hand gently cradling the mended wrist. The fishes add here and there where pieces are missing, the water for her blood and moonlight for her eyes. Algae and moss for her tresses, deep green and pale blue so much prettier than ebony and alabaster. Bones long resting on its bottom for those she lost and pearls for her teeth. Sharpest of stones for her claws and the eels for her guts.
Would you like to roam free once more?
In our waters and deep caves to listen to the crabs gossip and girls wail. To hear their prayers and answer their curses.
Because it was not just. It was not fair.
And she opens her eyes, shining and shimmering like the moon on her surface and she smiles at the fishes for her crown. Roam free your waters, sing and play and slice and claw as I wish and desire?
Of course, I want. I am.
And the fair maiden is no more than a mirage on the water surface. No willow trees and swaying reeds, no sleeping beauties with demure dispositions.
And the women nearby chatter of her story as they weave and cook and clean. How she fought and was cursed for that, how she bled and burnt, how she was swallowed by those deep waters and how she emerged once again in her regal gown of fins and scales, with ice-cold water for her blood and pearls razor-sharp and hard as diamonds for her teeth. They tell stories of her laughter and light-hearted pranks and whisper of the claws that cut trough nasty men.
For water is amiable and fluid like the sweetest of springs and hard and raging like the flood.
They call her the Lady of the Lake.