Amber Castles [1a/1]
anonymous
February 7 2010, 07:36:05 UTC
He has told her nearly everyday how beautiful she is. Such declarations do not always have to be verbal or written. He tells her with his eyes, with the brush of his lips upon her hand, his brighter smile when she is close. But for today, he tells her.
“I was never beautiful, España,” she laughs softly. “You should know that.”
He holds her withered hands in his, daring to touch her as no one else would. Pain has etched with cruel chisels and blades into her face and her eyes remind him of desolate winter rains.
“You were always beautiful to me,” he tells her and he feels too young in the face of her dignity. No woman would ever capture his eyes again. No man will match the sheer majesty that this glorious queen holds in every particle of her body and soul.
She slips her hand away from under his to caress his cheek softly. Her skin is soft still and smells of Moorish spice.
“Perhaps I should have named one of my children for you,” she murmurs.
Softly, almost meekly, he tells her, “I am already your son, reína.”
She laughs again and the sound delights him. Laughter does not come easily to her lips and sometimes it comes awkwardly. But she will laugh for him and the sound is sweeter than any songbird’s cry.
His queen murmurs, “What will you do, my son, when I am gone?”
He swallows the lump that grows hard and cold in his throat. “Live,” he murmurs, seemingly flippant.
“For God, yes?”
He cannot bring himself to tell her the blasphemy in his heart and mind. She is a God-fearing woman; she will be most disappointed in his weakness and heresy. No, she will not cry or berate him; she will simply sigh and shake her head and gently reprove him of vanity. Such soft, disappointed, stern reproach cuts deeper than all the thundering homilies and Inquisitor’s tools in the world.
He had learned from France’s mistakes; he has never grown too attached to mortals, who are too brief in their passing. But he should have known that he could not avoid that trap; he had been blinded by arrogance.
“For God, reína,” he agrees at last.
The blue eyes harden like ice, and grow brittle like ice. “Watch over Juana,” she says. “Promise me.”
A daughter who cannot even be the palest shadow of the mother. But he bows his head, as her hand slowly withdraws from his cheek. “I promise, reína.”
Her lips curve into a grim but impossibly sorrowful expression, which vanishes as her eyes grow languid and soft, like the distant clouds. His queen struggles to rise from her seat and he aids her.
“I believe that I would like to hear the choir sing,” she says, leaning against his arm with more frailty than any of them would ever like to admit. “If you would be so good as to escort me?”
He guides her to the chapel of the castle, the November wind whipping at them. But they both have their velvets to warm them. Ladies or pages would approach but they do not dare, not when he is with her; if she does not dismiss them, he dissuades any approach. The choir is summoned with all speed and he aids her in kneeling before the chapel altar.
What she prays for, he cannot tell.
They sit there when the singers file in and their voices rise to the heavens. Though their voices send shivers down his spine, he cannot listen to them completely. But his queen listens in the faint, distant ecstasy of the older faithful. She smiles at them and some of them blush in the presence of such a venerable woman.
Her eyes grow even more heavy lidded but the smile remains on her lips and he thinks of the striking young woman he had met so long ago, the girl he had put his faith in far more than her impetuous, insubstantial brother. He remembers the grave courtesy she had given him, the gravity almost comical in the face of her youth. Then, he had tried to tease her to coax a smile upon her stern visage, but her sternness, her unyielding strength had only entangled him. He had become hers and he adores her for it.
“I was never beautiful, España,” she laughs softly. “You should know that.”
He holds her withered hands in his, daring to touch her as no one else would. Pain has etched with cruel chisels and blades into her face and her eyes remind him of desolate winter rains.
“You were always beautiful to me,” he tells her and he feels too young in the face of her dignity. No woman would ever capture his eyes again. No man will match the sheer majesty that this glorious queen holds in every particle of her body and soul.
She slips her hand away from under his to caress his cheek softly. Her skin is soft still and smells of Moorish spice.
“Perhaps I should have named one of my children for you,” she murmurs.
Softly, almost meekly, he tells her, “I am already your son, reína.”
She laughs again and the sound delights him. Laughter does not come easily to her lips and sometimes it comes awkwardly. But she will laugh for him and the sound is sweeter than any songbird’s cry.
His queen murmurs, “What will you do, my son, when I am gone?”
He swallows the lump that grows hard and cold in his throat. “Live,” he murmurs, seemingly flippant.
“For God, yes?”
He cannot bring himself to tell her the blasphemy in his heart and mind. She is a God-fearing woman; she will be most disappointed in his weakness and heresy. No, she will not cry or berate him; she will simply sigh and shake her head and gently reprove him of vanity. Such soft, disappointed, stern reproach cuts deeper than all the thundering homilies and Inquisitor’s tools in the world.
He had learned from France’s mistakes; he has never grown too attached to mortals, who are too brief in their passing. But he should have known that he could not avoid that trap; he had been blinded by arrogance.
“For God, reína,” he agrees at last.
The blue eyes harden like ice, and grow brittle like ice. “Watch over Juana,” she says. “Promise me.”
A daughter who cannot even be the palest shadow of the mother. But he bows his head, as her hand slowly withdraws from his cheek. “I promise, reína.”
Her lips curve into a grim but impossibly sorrowful expression, which vanishes as her eyes grow languid and soft, like the distant clouds. His queen struggles to rise from her seat and he aids her.
“I believe that I would like to hear the choir sing,” she says, leaning against his arm with more frailty than any of them would ever like to admit. “If you would be so good as to escort me?”
He guides her to the chapel of the castle, the November wind whipping at them. But they both have their velvets to warm them. Ladies or pages would approach but they do not dare, not when he is with her; if she does not dismiss them, he dissuades any approach. The choir is summoned with all speed and he aids her in kneeling before the chapel altar.
What she prays for, he cannot tell.
They sit there when the singers file in and their voices rise to the heavens. Though their voices send shivers down his spine, he cannot listen to them completely. But his queen listens in the faint, distant ecstasy of the older faithful. She smiles at them and some of them blush in the presence of such a venerable woman.
Her eyes grow even more heavy lidded but the smile remains on her lips and he thinks of the striking young woman he had met so long ago, the girl he had put his faith in far more than her impetuous, insubstantial brother. He remembers the grave courtesy she had given him, the gravity almost comical in the face of her youth. Then, he had tried to tease her to coax a smile upon her stern visage, but her sternness, her unyielding strength had only entangled him. He had become hers and he adores her for it.
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