The Damned

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 34 (v.1)

Submitted: June 27, 2013

Reads: 148

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Submitted: June 27, 2013







Foxwood Hall, Yorkshire, 15th December 1537


“It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. How sad it is to think that we can never go back to how it was.” Her voice sounded wistful as it thrummed in her ears, her own words half-heard, for her mind was still lost in reminiscence. She traced an absent-minded finger across Conor’s collarbone, and heard his breath catch in his throat. She could close her eyes and still she would know it was his skin which she caressed, would recognise the familiar sound which escaped from his throat, his heart leaping at her touch.

“But you still have each other,” Thomas said in confusion. He tried to understand, his smooth brow puckered, but she knew that he could never imagine a time when he would not love her.

“It’s not the same.” Suddenly it seemed wrong to her that he was there, for what existed between them should never have to be explained. 

She stroked Thomas’ lovely face, wanting to cry for the taint her poison had left on his soul, for the sweetness which had withered and died as her breath danced on his lips, for there was a shadow of the boy he had been in his words. “You’re still so very young, Thomas. I forget it sometimes. Your innocence is utterly beguiling.”

But she did not belong in the arms of a poet, nor those of an innocent, for she had sent too many to their deaths. She had gouged out the throats of younger men than he, and tasted the flesh of those who were purer yet. She belonged in the arms of someone who could bite her neck, savage her – and all the while remember her as human, as someone who would have abhorred such acts.

Conor’s face was dark as he interjected, his words sour. “There is a fine line between love and hate, but friendship is something else entirely. We could never be friends now.” He looked at her when he spoke, and the black of his eyes still made her shiver. “It’s all or nothing with you and me.”

Isabel laughed, her words sour. “Were we ever friends, my heart? It is hard to remember. They always called you a lone wolf, and I sometimes think that they were right, for only a lone wolf could leave his pack so easily.”

But he had not been alone. Her heart had beat with his every breath, and in tandem they had raised their heads to howl at the moon with lustful delight. At night she still felt the ghost of his lips against her forehead, her neck, her mouth. Even now, she knew that for as long as she lived, he would never truly be alone. She had always known that he would return, to kneel at her feet and beg her forgiveness.

“We were, once.”

“But not now,” she whispered. “Now I must love you or hate you, and such a truth frightens me. It’s why I cannot be around you. Because what if, one day, all that is left is the hatred. What happens then?”

He had no answer for her, and she knew why. Lovers die young, but lovers never die, Katerina had said. Their mortality was a gift, for they were torn apart before their love could rot and sour. But young lovers did not cease to be on the day of their death. They lived on in the hearts of those they had loved, relieved of the burden of time. Time to make mistakes. Time to grow old and ugly. Time to kill the love which had once burned in the eyes of another, swelled their heart. Love could not endure, except in memory, but they endured. They had endured for too long. If Conor had only let her die, he would have loved her still. He wanted to love her again, but again she would kill his love, for all things which lived must die, except for them.

She felt his fingertip against her cheek, soft enough to make her close her eyes, to allow herself a moment to feel nothing but the sensation of his skin against hers, as it was meant to be. And when she opened them, he was beautiful, still. Hers, still. She wanted to let him love her.

© Copyright 2019 Jordana J Sacks. All rights reserved.


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