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A cool spring breeze ruffled her carefully plaited auburn locks as she stood solemnly staring out at the cove, and beyond that, the still fierce wintry sea.  A blue ribbon loosed itself from her hair to  play in her ivory veil before  fluttering into the air and falling, floating gently towards the water.  It was well within her grasp, yet she did not reach for it.  The ivy 'round her waist did not even stir, a native Ire like she, unlike the English silk.  She looked up to where the sun had shone only hours ago on maids gathering flowers for the tables. The moon was high and nearly full now, but there would be no celebration for her. 

         Tonight she was a married woman, the new wife of the wealthy new Lord of Connacht, a fact she could neither change nor relish.  It was the only thing that could bind him to his promise to her father.  A mere knight, her father had fought bravely against the invading English, but to no avail.  Of all his possessions, he prized his daughter the most, and it was his daughter this very Lord who had bested him in battle wanted, in exchange for the return of her father's lands and the privilege to remain in his own castle.  For her father, she had played the part of obedient daughter; for her mother, she had done it silently smiling.  If she ran, they would find her.  If she died,  her father and family would surely be ruined.  It was their honor she weighed against her heart, their honor she would toss from the mossy cliff side she stood upon and wash away into the night.

         She'd married him.  Despite his atrocious table manners, foul breath, and even fouler English stink, and despite his perverse, vulgar, lusty behavior, she'd married him.  Above all else, she'd married him and not the other, better suited one.  The whims of a silly girl were not important, and according to her mother, love was one such whim.  It did not matter that he was a good man, an honest man with more decorum, the son of a knight whom her father regarded as his closest friend, and it did not matter that he was braving the dangers of war to earn the amount of the dowry, while she was perfumed, anointed, and dressed for her wedding.  It was a passing fancy, and her broken heart would mend in time.  All her parents' words, attempts to soothe the aching soul they had wrenched from her body, forbidding her to even say his name aloud.

         When, if ever, her love returned, the marriage would already be consummated, the thought alone slithering up her spine like dirty fingers.  He would never forgive her, and if he spoke of it, the tongue would be cut from his mouth.  There was nothing to be done about it, except perhaps this, what she did now.  In a fashion, she could save them both from the pain that rancid man would inflict.  She lifted her face and arms to the sky, bathing herself in silver moonlight, closed her eyes, and lept.  As she fell the music of the feasting hall faded, a celebration so ill-willed and drunken her absence went unnoticed.  The happy groom is probably wenching anyway.  After all, he can have his wife another night,  she thought.

           The wind shrieked in her ears as she rushed towards the impenetrable black waters of the cove.  All thoughts vanished, floating behind her, whipping through her veil with the wind  before being swallowed by the same black sea engulfing her lithe young body as she sank blindly into the depths.  She floated lightly through the water, sinking towards the bottom, as if to only sleep and dream of a handsome young man calling her name.  Aedan.