There was a woman kneeling in a garden, tending to it with weary hands that spoke of labor. It was early morning, and the air slid past her with a lonely chill. Her hair was not visible, tied behind her head and covered by a veil. She wore a long black tunic that covered her entire self, dull gray eyes watching listlessly as her hands dug weeds from the soil. Her voice was unmistakably that if a young woman, but was aged by stress.

She seemed to be half-conscious, unaware of her surroundings. She didn't hear anything. Not even the sound of footsteps approaching her from behind. Or perhaps she did, and simply made no move to turn her head.

When an arm reached in front of her from behind, driving a shining dagger into her chest, the woman only gurgled. Her voice cracked, as if her vocal cords had deteriorated from years of unuse, rendering her unable to scream.

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She fell forward. 

Then, she turned her head, as if to meet the gaze of the one who'd stabbed her. But a boot forced her head back into the dirt.

She lay in a pool of her own blood, in the gardens of the monastery she was exiled in. She didn't do so much as flinch in pain. As her consciousness sluggishly seeped out of the wound on her chest, her senses faded. Even the strong scent of iron in the air slipped from her mental grasp. But she could still hear quiet muttering from her assailant who stood over her bloody body.

"Such a waste, Celine. You could have had it all.” 

Celine, distantly, could hear the smile behind the soft voice, jeering.

“If only you weren't so naive.”

As she bled out, Celine did not cry. Her tears had long dried.

The day Celine Aquitania died was not the day she lost everything—it was merely the final, inevitable stroke in a tragedy that hadb egun long before.