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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Favole is an ode to gothic romantism. It take you back to the time of old Ireland. Spirits of virgins and dead maidens combined with eternally love, passion, lust and desire.
Hope you enjoy! C:

Submitted: November 14, 2012

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Submitted: November 14, 2012



Virgins of the lake

That night, he found the first splendor of the full moon in the memory of her fair face. An apparitions as white as snow …

Ezequiel awakened the reminiscence of Lavernne, the golden-haired maid who, centuries before, had dares descend into the forest, toward the dark swamps.

He remembered her livid glow whilst she gazed skyward, bidding the stars farewell as down came… trembling, after envisioning death taking hold of her father’s body, Lavernne walked with tremulous spams, loosing herself a labyrinth of endless path. Legend was the old Crusades orphaned many young women coiled in penury.

Shifling a vision, the old vampire mentally captured the parity of that dying, tearful visage on the banks of a pond. He soothed her wailing for life with a decisive embrace, kissed her sorrow-laden veins, and left her outstretched body to float out on the stillness of the waters.

He imagined her now, sprouting from the gloom of the darkness.

In the coming days, they found her swollen body on a river’s bank. No one knew what happened to her waxen, lifeless body. They say her golden hair turned to white, and her blue lips retained a sweet smile.

“Lavernne…” Whispers of that name still issue from the lips of the undead. In the loneliness of his bedchamber, thou can hear the music of an old clavichord commemorating the dance of her white hair. Never again would he visit that spirit ensnared in the waters, but the old, hunchbacked witches tell that even today thou can hear her sylph chants, emanating far off, from the deepest recess of the forest…

As through mystically entranced, thousand of girls, driven by passion in their loins, leave their villages to listen to the culmination of Lavernne’s melodies. All of them, orphaned from affection after their deaths, visit the beds where their fathers lay, and submerge then in the deepness of the pond, displaying the love they profess to their albino queen. In the court of submerge virgins, reigns the empress of that cloudy land, an Ophelia suffocated in mud, who long since ventured to cross the rivers delirium in the mist.

Legions of innocent virgins sleep beside her; embracing one another amidst, the fluid vegetation. Immaculate virgins who learn of their own love with damp caresses. They dream of discarding their chastity to discover the pleasures of flesh in a palace build of crystal towers. Crowned in their dementia, like angels from some mythic paradise, they wait for the frost and then awaken, exhaling nervously among the foam and algae. They are the lovers of the moss, lavishly dressed and court by dooming knights in rusted armor, escorted to an endless calendar of banquets, and masked balls…

Illustrious, the albino deity questions the absent staves of frogs for the name of her lifeless lover: that impious prince who extended her coverlets ‘cross the diamond waters and kissed her frozen neck. But these phantasmagoric amphibians remain silent, despite her pleas sheltering the shiver of their secret.

To shield herself from the lack of love, she crowns her hair with wild flowers and dreams of being princess queen in her palace of mud and waters… hoping eternally to embrace once more a father killer in wars past, longing to offer him her sharpened teeth in bloody kisses, so both might submerge together into the reign for, the deceased princess continues thus appearing like a nymph, at sunset, where the naked trees shun protection from the rain or when fall covers in ochre the deepness of that arcane river.

Somewhere in the palace of waters, in the darkness, Lavernne still mourns for her orphan hood, purring her grief in that land of mud and crystal where once she wandered cloaked in her insanity.

Where a prince abandoned her body to her embrace of nebulous waters...

Of Silence

Marquise loved to contemplate those stony eyes beneath the faint light of an oil lamp…

When the memory of murky marshes subside, the worn-looking knight urged the years flow on through memory’s cache to revisit Marquise, the Romanian princess of his forefathers. From her he’d learned the language of violin, overflowing his imagination with the turmoil of artistic inspiration and his lover for life.

Her walk was of and idealistic at heart-paths of tombstones opened before her deserting those that lay beneath their epitaphs, accompanied always by the sound of breeze exhaling with extreme languidness from a nearby forest’s tree.

Ezequiel imagined passing his fingers across the young texture of stone and for an instant understood the strange passion Marquise had once felt for an idyllic angel made of stone.

Since her childhood, the young princess had been dazzled by that statue’s sweet smile and those wings, broken by time, which seemed to share her innocence among the shadows of that city of the dead.

The love for that lifeless cherub amounted to so much that, with the passage of time, the desire to sculpt was born in her, a wish to reconstruct his destroyed wings and to rouse him with music unheard through the rhythm of her crimson violin. She would have tried anything to endow with life the stony figure who then so eclipsed her heart. The dark lover covertly observed her artistic delirium for years until, one night, he came to share her aspirations beneath the shadow of the stone figure. Ezequiel listened intently to the young woman who had engorged his own imagination while she begged how she might bring to life that sublime, silent angel. He respected her innocence but for a few moments… and then flew forth as a vampire would, forever unsatisfied, thrashing his wings and leaving behind the dying girl, laying mournfully beautiful at the sculptures feet.

Since then, and to this day, the sweet maiden can see his face at sunset, in a faraway castle where she walks past hundreds of imposing walls, chanting songs in the silent corridors of his great fortress. Amidst the webs of her past, she remembers the face of all the ladies portrayed with their languid looks, the oldness of the old knights against the brilliant splendor of their silver amour. Ezequiel always knew, even after her death, she would revert to her old passions, her musical gift, her incessant strolling, alone and invisible, whilst all the world slept.

For centuries, her sleep has been guarded by a beautiful, marble cherub, whose cold wings tear her dress when she awakens to contemplate the passage of time.

The smiling angel whispers her name with a rhythmic tremor, and she comes to feel as dead as he is.

Many years have passed since they contracted nuptials, and from the cold jugular of the coved one the dream of blood is drunk, plunging her into a somnambulistic fantasy in which they consummate with an unbridled passion, for some time, Ezequiel observed the gargoyle with horrendous eyes, raised impetuous, controlling the horizon. The white maiden left her mark between the rickety dews of time and mold, where long ego she lifted the shroud that covered her breasts, and upon which wough surface she dug her nails, searching for signs of life, long before her ramble the castle had begun.

Like a soprano lost in memory, she will continue singing melodies of pagan songs, behind the walls of a parlor covered in dist, there, in the halls flooded by forgotten ancestors in rusted armor. She will never lose the love for her artistic gift. What in more, she will always dance among the ivy, bowing her red violin, playing tribute for her stone lover.
The princess of fairy tales exist like a transient fire in the reality of that holy ground.

No prince of death came to visit her ever again. None kisses her lifeless remains to resuscitate her body as it lay scattered in the leafage.

Her dark father never forgets her… his daughter will be the light that guides the walk of all the girls who died in the hands of evil stepmothers, of all the witches who in their misfortune were judged and burned. She is the specter of the castle, forever beautiful, eternal…

In the sound of violin, her smile

Remains engraved. Her sibylline image

Among fog and breeze …

Puppet Theatre

In those rooms, thou could feel the weight of the night, oozing centuries of yearnings, as sure as gusts of wind blew the wavering light of the candelabras…

For centuries he lived only with the memory of his two daughters, lost among the dusty lines of legends… but there were moments when the ephemeral fragrance of mahogany hair flooded the small, dark chamber.

The vampire moved away from the bed, where he began to evoke the fascination he felt for the face that would mark him for the rest of his existence.

“Favole…” her name echoed everywhere in the castle, hammering the sad monarch’s frozen heart. Dressed in mouring, he allowed himself to drift to his deepest nostalgic abyss, and in his memory he lightened upon the hurtful remembrance of that lady, crying tears of blood for the loss of his most beloved jewel…

He conjured her image as it was, centuries ago, in the loneliness of a milley landscape where he’d first glimpsed her body, shivering in the drowsiness of a winter wind. He remembered her as if it was yesterday, her body frozen in snow, grappled up in the caress of the beautiful white werewolves.

It was he who preserved her innocence from a cold death, he who cradled her in his arms inside his carriage and brought her to the castle, protecting thus the beallty of her tedious lethargy. In the quiet of a peaceful chamber, as he contemplated her sleeping face, it was easy to discern her heritage. He drew forth images of an Italian city, where gondolas strolled smoothing on the dark canals.

And it was her dormant heart that expressed her passion for theatre, in Venice. He saw alley where she’d set her puppet theatre, saw her dressed in the colours of a smiling jester, and watched her mend the small garments that her grinning puppets wore.

After sunset, the adoring vampire offered her his castle, and by midnight celebrated a gloulish masquerade in her honor, with melodies that awoke the copper-haired maiden from her weary slumber. Ezequiel will never forget her expression- alive and exalted- in those early hours populated with a host of undulating specters…

Next to the handsome knight cloaked in nocturnal galas, she danced in the infinity of the night, surrounding by the curious expectious of all the of her strange guests in that sinister court.

Never did a nocturnal being have such feelings for a living being. She, who should have been destined to be the banquet of the immortals, slept that night next to Ezequiels cold body, submerged in the frozen caress of death. More than one hundred moons passed before Favole knew of the eternal condemnation that weighed on the creature that saved her life. Captive by the immortal specter, she wished to share his misfortune, to drink eternally his ill-fated sentence…

He remembered her last stormy sunrise like it was yesterday. That candor of her pleading, her longing, and his restrained wish to destroy everything in the bedchamber, this same bedchamber, steeped with his filth. A helpless sob escaped the sinister prince, still he kept on evoking his misery, remembering and repenting for the rage that he’d left as he’d rejected her pleas, unwilling to condemn her body to such putrid existence.

He had not allowed the temptation of love to stand in the way of his fury. He expelled the maiden from his castle, restraining his instinctual desire to give her eternal death …

Favole fled, leaving the dark prince and his grotesque court far behind. Sobbing, she crossed a thousand different cities, always haunted by the blasphemous love she’d felt within the infinite walls of his fortress.

She never imagined that her ship would one day dock in Genoa, a city where her mudded memories suddenly made sense, and where she dreams of someday crossing the sea again to walk the land of ghosts that never rest. But years of absence and madness afflicted the face of the Queen of the banished.

“Favole…” the ghosts of her macabre puppet murmured in unison. Without delay, she threw herself into Genoa’s sea, to suffocate her life in the stormy waves…

Who does not recall her, smiling at her own wilted existence and then vanishing under the waters, trapped like a hunchback in a bell tower? Favole, confidante to the unfortunate and the lame, those who failed to find their place in this world. Beautiful sirens accompanied the maiden in her misfortune and buried her drowned body in the lands of Neptune’s valley. In the deceased’s last slumber, the king of the damned and traced an insurmountable wall between the two lovers to keep the forever apart, in their separate worlds…

Now, far from her watery tomb, she glows translucent in her carriage decked with diamonds, crossing frozen mountain peak, dressed in sumptuous clothes and wearing crystal slippers affixed with sapphires.

There is no night in which the legendary vampire does not evoke in his dreams the return of Favole to his baroque parlors, to spin dances to the immortal music. But she hides no longer behind the pearls of his legions of long-nosed masks. Now she runs bravely through the weed of Verona’s forests and buries herself playfully under the leaves to dream with the dwellers in fairy tales. She tells her faraway lover that, when she was a child, she played with the rats in the streets, and they sweetly caressed her, because they were the only ones that truly learned to love her.

Since then, a puppet theatre has closed its act, yielding to a dance of music and colour. The mysterious gaze of the masked dancers, who fell in love with Cindarella in her Venetian palace, will always come back to her memory. Under the vaults of infinite halls, she will now continue her road… “I will wait for thou in Genoa, lover of my imagination…”

As she repeats these words, she will again stroll through the most beautiful port in the world, and she will walk on Nevi’s cliff… when the moon is almost full and the lights of the seascape project melancholic fireflies on the calm water, thou can see her. In the ocean of her memories will remain forever the dark lover who wanted to dance with her, forever alone somewhere, in the realm princess.

And when midnight comes with its magical veil of darkness, she will leave Genoa to return to the city of dark canals, but she will never forget him. There, on the threshold of Bidge of sight, she will tell us this story, accompanied by the music of a shimmering red violin.

There, in his golden palace,

He will discover the beautiful face

He had yearned for

© Copyright 2019 lacrymoza. All rights reserved.

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