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Blood & Roses Kelantha
Whispering
through the trees overhead was the lonely wind, creaking as the branches
scraped one another like lost souls pleading for release from the ancient
halls of purgatory. The wind took up the fragile blossoms as they fell
from my fingertips, scattering them across the freshly turned earth. I
could look nowhere except the penetrating depth of my husband�s eyes,
for he held me in place fiercely, attempting to quell the emptiness of my
soul. In that fragile instant it was all lost, the love I had hoped was
still hearty in the hearts of my parents, the respect of those who
remained outside the family; gone, in a cold instant of refusal from the
mouth of a priest. The disapproval in his eyes as he departed, the
abruptness of his denial, the shame that it would bring to my family,
weighed upon me almost as much as the rejection I had faced from my
parents. Once
again, my mother had turned aside with contempt, and I had seen that look
in her eyes � of disappointment and hatred. I had never lived up to her
expectations, nor fulfilled any of her mighty ambitions for her only
daughter. The flower clutched in my hand slowly crumbled as my fist closed
upon it, the thorns digging deep into my flesh and bringing a stream of
blood to the surface. There were none left but us in this solitary world
among the melancholy headstones, brambles growing at the edges of the
crypts and stretching upward in trailing vines of fragile blossoms. I
could sense my own hatred almost as much as I felt the heat of his,
spiraling through the touch of his hands and glowing in the amber depths
of his eyes. I had looked away from him, and when I turned back, it was
not the bride he came to expect, but another creature entire, this one
wholly devoted to a dark purpose. I felt the power within me, a rage that
could not be quenched by rational thought, as I beheld the church rising
in the distance. Thunder
echoed through the skies overhead and a few drops of rain fell, pattering
the damp earth at our feet. My cloak rippled around me as I took up one of
the shovels lying forgotten at the base of the nearest tree, and
approached the insignia dominating the nearest headstone. Blood from my
palm coated the instrument of destruction as I swung it at the cross,
shattering the rose-ornamented design carefully hand-sculpted. With a
scream of anger and frustration, I flung it far from me and sank to the
grass, covering my face with my hands. Blood was everywhere, in my mouth,
on the surface of my palms, rushing through my veins. I had never felt
anything this powerful, and it was emboldened by the arms that closed
around me protectively. Rain began to fall freely, spattering the dry
headstones and dampening the hem of my gown. I embraced its coming,
lifting my face to the skies and beholding the impending darkness with an
intensity that pleaded for sanctity in the torrent of my thoughts. I
must have lead him away from there, for I do not remember passing through
the iron gates into the street, nor the lonely path that took us to a
place of my youth. I only remember standing drenched in its hallowed
halls, the half-broken walls covered in creeping greenery and partially
burned candles long abandoned. There were arches and inner rooms, a
magnificent ruin that had once housed a holy order, that of the monks that
once walked freely through its halls. It had been my sanctuary as a child,
a place in which to hide and dream, to make plans of the future and live
them out in my imagination. As I had gotten older, it had been a meeting
place for lovers, its walls concealing many secrets. I had shared it with
only one other, Juan, when he had sought my hand. Dracula
stood in the midst of this magnificent ruin, viewing it with an impartial
air, watching my every movement as I stalked through it, a drenched,
mangled mess. I was formulating, directing my anger, channeling the rage
building in me. They would dare refuse my family communion. They would dare
slander my good name. Those responsible would not live to regret it.
Madrid would know the wrath of my rage. �This place has meaning for
you,� he said after a time, accurately perceiving the nature of my
thoughts. His voice came to no one else, his lips never moving, flooding
the air between us with a gossamer ripple that echoed within my mind. I
embraced and drew strength from it, knowing that he understood. �It
will have more meaning in a short time,� I replied, drawing near to him.
His skin was cool to the touch, smooth beneath the fingertips that
caressed his face. �You must do something for me, my husband. You must
promise me that the man responsible for this disgrace will not breathe a
day beyond our departure. I know it is not your way to prey upon those of
the church, but I ask it of you this once, and in turn, I will make you
proud of me.� �You
already possess my pride, for you are a bride beyond reckoning. Men
tremble at your feet.� �I
intend to make only one man tremble, and tremble he will, before he
dies.� The
glow of appreciation was in his eyes as I lifted my finger to his lips,
still wet with my blood. He had tasted it before. There was a creature
lingering in my soul, desiring to be freed of its golden cage, and in that
moment of transfiguration in the graveyard, it was unleashed. His lips
found mine in a kind of savage desperation; an unspoken vow to be my
accomplice in all things, for Madrid was mine; the eerie streets and
darkened haciendas, the moonlit prayers and dancing gypsies, the cobbled
streets and peaceful slumber of innocents. He bequeathed it to me,
entrusting my judgment with what was to come, all the while yearning to
return to Transylvania. And return we would, but not until the city had
known the bitter taste of defeat.
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