It was one of those evenings of lovely median temperature. Just cold enough to wear a comforting jumper, but warm enough to go without if you wished to feel the cool breeze on your skin. The air was still wet with the rain of the early afternoon; strangely refreshing, yet still with the tendency to make you thirsty for a cold glass of water. A climate uniquely well enjoyed in the spring and autumn of the British Isles, she thought as she left her house. Though she could've, the woman started down the street with no jumper or jacket on (or in hand, for that matter). There was no need, she assumed, to prepare for temperature beyond the current twelve-or-so degrees that was currently gracing the end of the mournful day. She wouldn't be out for long.
It was the season of new beginnings: spring. Which meant the days were starting to stretch on into the evenings for far longer than comfortable. Daylight allowed prying eyes to see her, which wasn't always ideal when dealing with situations of this manner. Still, she persisted down the cobbled yet uniquely well-kept streets of Windsor. She supposed it made sense that the town forever engraved in the surnames of the ruling class would be kept tidy. Their names had to be kept tidy.
She pondered the inevitability of wear as she dragged her feet along the cold, rigid stone. These paths had been trodden on by hundreds of people every day for hundreds of years. She could see the indent in the centre of the path; a result of endless loyal subjects eagerly rushing to gaze upon the bold, fruitless castle ahead. She snickered at the rejection of redundancy as she dragged her hands along the front of the ever-changing shops. Naturally, her fingers left a winding, continuous mark on the glass of the storefronts overlooked by the castle. It was one she hoped would reappear in the fog of the morning, much like a previously marked mirror after a shower.
She shuddered as sunlight forced itself through the windows of the famous structure that bore over her. Something itched in the back of her head as a low, ringing sound descended upon her mind. Sharp winds picked up and ate at her exposed arms, making her wish she could turn back and grab a warm coat. Of course, though, that was not an option.
Sunset was fast approaching, and the sky was filled with sovereign hues of orange reflecting off the clouds in the pink way they often do. Streetlamps began flickering on in a desperate denial, trying to combat the beginning of a new celestial night. Reaching the locked iron bars of the castle, the wind began to billow as a bright white swan skulked beside her. It looked out of place contrasted with the warm tones of the spring evening. The swan turned its sickly head to stare at the traitor, and the traitor smiled back.
It was the season of new beginnings: spring. Which meant the days were starting to stretch on into the evenings for far longer than comfortable. Daylight allowed prying eyes to see her, which wasn't always ideal when dealing with situations of this manner. Still, she persisted down the cobbled yet uniquely well-kept streets of Windsor. She supposed it made sense that the town forever engraved in the surnames of the ruling class would be kept tidy. Their names had to be kept tidy.
She pondered the inevitability of wear as she dragged her feet along the cold, rigid stone. These paths had been trodden on by hundreds of people every day for hundreds of years. She could see the indent in the centre of the path; a result of endless loyal subjects eagerly rushing to gaze upon the bold, fruitless castle ahead. She snickered at the rejection of redundancy as she dragged her hands along the front of the ever-changing shops. Naturally, her fingers left a winding, continuous mark on the glass of the storefronts overlooked by the castle. It was one she hoped would reappear in the fog of the morning, much like a previously marked mirror after a shower.
She shuddered as sunlight forced itself through the windows of the famous structure that bore over her. Something itched in the back of her head as a low, ringing sound descended upon her mind. Sharp winds picked up and ate at her exposed arms, making her wish she could turn back and grab a warm coat. Of course, though, that was not an option.
Sunset was fast approaching, and the sky was filled with sovereign hues of orange reflecting off the clouds in the pink way they often do. Streetlamps began flickering on in a desperate denial, trying to combat the beginning of a new celestial night. Reaching the locked iron bars of the castle, the wind began to billow as a bright white swan skulked beside her. It looked out of place contrasted with the warm tones of the spring evening. The swan turned its sickly head to stare at the traitor, and the traitor smiled back.
The sun finally set.
