Here are the last few pages!
anonymous
April 1 2007, 15:07:02 UTC
"Three days," Attolia confirmed. "When we opened the doors, we saw the entire room was scorched black and you were on the floor possibly dead, surrounded by broken glass. Window glass is expensive, you realize that?" "Yes, Your Majesty," he said meekly. "You might have been dead, but you weren't. Not cut to pieces, not burned to a cinder, and when you woke, your queen reported that you didn't seem to be insane. Are you insane?" "No more than usual, I think." "Insane to think of loving me," said Attolia, and the emotions that colored her usually emotionless voice were bitterness and self-mockery. Eugenides reached to take her hand, but she was sitting at his right side and he had to reach across his body. He raised himself on his elbow, but she freed her hand and pushed him gently back into the bed. Then she pulled the covers back to expose the stump of his right arm. His cuff and hook, he saw, were laid on a table across the room. He resisted the temptation to pull the arm back under the covers. "It is not so sore," she said. "No." Eugenides ran his hand his arm. The ridge of calluses and the blisters were gone. He was free of the ache in the bones and the pain in his phantom hand. He thought of the goddess who had interceded on his behalf and thought the pain might be gone forever. Looking at his arm, Attolia said, "I cut off your hand." "Yes." "I have been living with your grief and your rage and your pain ever since. I don't think -- I don't think I had felt anything for a long time before that, but those emotions were at least familiar to me. Love I am not familiar with. I didn't recognize that feeling until I thought I had lost you in Ephrata. And when I thought I was losing you a second time, I realized I would give up anything to keep you---my lip service to other gods, but my pride, too, and my rage at all gods, everything for you. Then I see you here, and see what I have done to you." Gently she stroked his maimed arm, and he shivered at the warmth of her touch and its intimacy. "You have spied on me for years?" she asked. "Eugenides admitted. "Watched me deal with my barons and my servants, loyalists, traitors, and enemies?" She thought of the hardness and coldness she had cultivated over those years and wondered if they were the mask she wore or if the mask became herself. If the longing inside her for kindness, for warmth, for compassion, was the last seed of hope for her, she didn't know how to nurture it or if it could live. Unable to guess the answer, she asked, "Who am I, that you should love me?" "You are My Queen," said Eugenides. She sat perfectly still, looking at him without moving as his words dropped like water into dry earth. "Do you believe me?" he asked. "Yes," she answered. "Do you love me?" "Yes." "I love you." And she believed him.
There you go! Sorry if there are any typing errors...
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said meekly.
"You might have been dead, but you weren't. Not cut to pieces, not burned to a cinder, and when you woke, your queen reported that you didn't seem to be insane. Are you insane?"
"No more than usual, I think."
"Insane to think of loving me," said Attolia, and the emotions that colored her usually emotionless voice were bitterness and self-mockery.
Eugenides reached to take her hand, but she was sitting at his right side and he had to reach across his body. He raised himself on his elbow, but she freed her hand and pushed him gently back into the bed. Then she pulled the covers back to expose the stump of his right arm. His cuff and hook, he saw, were laid on a table across the room. He resisted the temptation to pull the arm back under the covers.
"It is not so sore," she said.
"No." Eugenides ran his hand his arm. The ridge of calluses and the blisters were gone. He was free of the ache in the bones and the pain in his phantom hand. He thought of the goddess who had interceded on his behalf and thought the pain might be gone forever.
Looking at his arm, Attolia said, "I cut off your hand."
"Yes."
"I have been living with your grief and your rage and your pain ever since. I don't think -- I don't think I had felt anything for a long time before that, but those emotions were at least familiar to me. Love I am not familiar with. I didn't recognize that feeling until I thought I had lost you in Ephrata. And when I thought I was losing you a second time, I realized I would give up anything to keep you---my lip service to other gods, but my pride, too, and my rage at all gods, everything for you. Then I see you here, and see what I have done to you." Gently she stroked his maimed arm, and he shivered at the warmth of her touch and its intimacy.
"You have spied on me for years?" she asked.
"Eugenides admitted.
"Watched me deal with my barons and my servants, loyalists, traitors, and enemies?" She thought of the hardness and coldness she had cultivated over those years and wondered if they were the mask she wore or if the mask became herself. If the longing inside her for kindness, for warmth, for compassion, was the last seed of hope for her, she didn't know how to nurture it or if it could live.
Unable to guess the answer, she asked, "Who am I, that you should love me?"
"You are My Queen," said Eugenides. She sat perfectly still, looking at him without moving as his words dropped like water into dry earth.
"Do you believe me?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered.
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"I love you."
And she believed him.
There you go! Sorry if there are any typing errors...
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