The Damned

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

Chapter 43 (v.1)

Submitted: October 18, 2013

Reads: 122

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Submitted: October 18, 2013

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43

 

Foxwood Hall, Yorkshire, 15th December 1537

 

Isabel smiled at the memory, the thought of what had been abating the air of sadness which clung to her beauty, sitting uneasily on her lovely face. Conor smiled as well, and their happiness transformed them. If they had been beautiful before, their beauty now transcended reality; they were cruel angels, sent by God to seduce humanity with their loveliness. Thomas was in thrall to them.

“You never married him, did you?”

Isabel’s great silver eyes hardened. But he saw the spectre of the emotions which had once glimmered so brilliantly in their breath-taking depths. She had felt, once. She had cared. She had loved. “No. It was a promise for a future that never was.”

“What happened?”

The barest hint of a smile curved those scarlet lips. “For a beautiful interlude we were blissfully happy. I loved Conor more with every passing moment, and I was confident in his love for me.” Her mouth thinned. “But sometimes love isn’t enough. Conor’s mother found him, and whispered tales of cruel reality in his ear. His dream was shattered. He learnt things that could not be unlearnt: sorrow, heartbreak, tragedy. Such knowledge changed him. He lost the optimism of boyhood, and he could not recapture it.”

“Tell me.”

She stood and walked to the window. Her skirts brushed the ground with a serpentine hiss, her perfume mingling with the smell of death. “If she had never come, we could have eloped together and lived long, happy lives, content just to have each other. We would have married in a small ceremony, and afterwards we would have lived in a little house which we built ourselves. Our children would have been born, and the first would have been a beautiful baby boy, the image of his handsome father. Other children would have followed, little girls to help in our home, and little boys to farm the land. Age would wither us, destroying our beauty, but our love would have transcended everything material. That’s the story of what should have been.”

Isabel’s grip on the wooden counterpane tightened, her hands so fiercely clenched that the delicate bones threatened to burst through her porcelain skin. Her breathing faltered. She turned to the men on the bed. A brilliant shaft of moonlight fell across her face, bathing her in its cold light. And he saw that crimson tears, thick and brooding, shone in her brilliant eyes. “But that’s not my story to tell. This is the story of what was, Thomas.”


© Copyright 2019 Jordana J Sacks. All rights reserved.

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