The brackish water crashes against the aged rocks at her feet, slowly chipping away at the rough stones (maybe if she comes closer the sea will claw away her imperfections too).
The spray is warm against her chilled skin (she’s so cold, always cold, like Death is forever caressing her).
The wind whips her curly hair around her face, the red strands reminding her of blood (so much blood everywhere she’ll never be able to wash it out).
A part of her longs to throw herself off the edge of the rocks into the churning waters below (the turbulent waves dashing her to pieces, and finally freeing her).
Merida hugs her shawl tighter against her – the coarse material scratchy and harsh on her arms and neck.
It helps, the feel of that stiff cloth, when the call of the Sidhe clamors inside her.
She’s six the first time she notices the odd shadows in the corners of her room. Shadows she knows are not from any furniture or cloth. She almost turns over to light her c