\n\t\t\t\t\tred-dogIt had been a year since the end of the war, a year since she'd lost him forever. Oh, she'd long since gotten used to the idea of Connor's marriage to Fithir. That had been ordained long before any of them had even been born, and she could have no more kept him than she could have flown. She'd even reconciled herself to the fact that Connor loved his wife. How could he not, when anyone could see that Fithir was his perfect match? It was just that she had drawn comfort from the knowledge that he was there in his castle on the hill, and the hope that he still thought of her from time to time. But now he was gone, and all Deirdre had left to remember him by was their daughter, and a few trinkets tucked away in a chest. She had the silver ring he'd given her when Ciara was born, a golden goblet they'd shared at his coronation, and the blanket from his bed she'd stolen because it still smelled of him. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders now to keep out the chill of the morning, and to warm the deeper cold of her heart's winter.
Deirdre Lohan belongs to me.