Betrayed

“Anna?”

She flinched: “Um, what?”

L was bending over her, his flawless face smiling.

“You all right? I was asking if you’re ready to get going.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s move.”

“Okay, let’s go then.”

She stood up and froze the brave-and up-to-anything expression on her face, smiling and speaking lightly when they said goodbye to the other two.

She hugged her sister and smiled to Pierre. They wished each other good luck and waved goodbye for the last time before heading in the opposite directions.

Catching up with his step she pretended to walk lightly beside L. They spoke a few words about the task at hand, but as they fell silent, her insides crumpled while she was struggling not to show it.

She was walking almost blind, anger fighting with disappointment and sadness. Asking her if she was all right! The treacherous bastard!

She could still see the image from the previous evening in her head. That cold, pale witch all over him. Those scarlet lips just inches from his, whispering something inaudible. And he, lifting her chin up to him, looking straight into her eyes, answering her, laughing.

Something in her chest hurt, burnt. He had lied to her about what he was after. She could forgive him for that. But he must have lied about his feelings for her, too. How could she bear that?

Her legs felt weak, but she kept going, straight on, unwavering. L did not seem to notice anything.

Tears welled in her eyes. Her throat hurt. She wanted to scream of the pain bursting inside her. But she’d be damned if she let him see her hurting. She swallowed hard, blinked a few times, and walked on.

 

This post is a response to Red Writing Hood, a weekly writing meme hosted at Write On Edge (formerly The Red Dress Club). This week's prompt was: write a piece where you explore the first broken heart for your character – or for you.

I haven’t done a Red Writing Hood post for ages, mostly because I tend to miss prompts on Wednesday and when I see it on Thursday I usually don’t have enough time to write it.

The above story is most probably going to be a part of a fantasy/adventure love story I’m working on. It will come up somewhere in the second half of it, I think, but I still have some other things to cover to come to it. Nevertheless, this prompt was very inspiring in planning the story further ahead.

The Letter

All Caitlin wanted was to go to bed and put the tiresome day out of her memory. Passing the study on the way upstairs she remembered the mail having arrived in the morning just as she was heading out.

She hesitated awhile. Surely, whatever it is, the bills could wait over night. Yet, she retraced her steps and entered the study. “I’ll just browse through it,” she thought.

The mail was on the desk. It was as she thought. Bills and pleas for aid. She would see to them in the morning. Suddenly her hand, flipping through the envelopes, stopped.

She set the candle she was holding in her hand on the desk. With a trembling hand she slowly lit another one. She lowered herself into the leather seat that still smelled of him.

Firstly, she carefully read his writing on the envelope. It was dated more than two months ago. A lot could have happened since then.

Finally, she opened the letter and leaned over it.

It read:

               Dearest Caitlin,

How are you doing? How is everybody on Clarefield? I have my absolute confidence in you; therefore I am certain you are running the estate for the wellbeing of everyone entrusted to our care. I believe you enjoy love and support of our people. I hope your mutual affection is a solace to all of you in these most difficult of times.

I will not write about war. You see plenty of its gory results by yourself. How I wish you, we, none of us would be burdened with this suffering brought upon us by those who are deemed to posses the wisdom to lead us.

There is hell all around me. But as I am thinking of you right now, I feel as if we were having a conversation in person. I can hear your clear, soothing voice. I smell your perfume. I can see you now and look in your eyes. And peace and happiness are in my heart.

I must stop for I am due for the first night watch. Take good care of yourself – I know, it would be useless to ask you not to work so hard – I w . Stay safe. I love you.

Christopher  

“Oh, Chris,” whispered Caitlin, leaning back in his chair. Her face was wet with silent tears. She closed her eyes, pressing the letter tightly to her heart. “I’m with you, too, right now.”

After some time she stood up, took her candle and blew out the other one. She went to their bedroom and climbed into the bed, putting the letter carefully under the pillow. Then she closed her eyes and dreamt she was with Christopher. There was a bright, sunny day. He was holding her in his embrace and they were laughing with pure joy.

 

This post is a response to Red Writing Hood, a weekly writing meme hosted at The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt asked to have you or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life - whether good or bad. What does it say? How does it affect you or your character? What is done with it?

Flowerpot

On Monday she got an old flowerpot out of the basement, filled it with soil, put some seeds in and spread yet a thin layer of soil on top. She watered it a little and set the flowerpot on the windowsill.

Every evening before she went to bed she checked the flowerpot on the ledge, probing the soil with the tip of her index finger, and watered it if it seemed too dry.

Then work piled up and she kept coming home later and later. She barely had the time to do the housework before she collapsed onto her bed and fell asleep exhausted. She forgot to check on the flowerpot. Even as she pulled the curtains apart in the mornings and back in the evening, she did it automatically, without taking a glance down at the patiently waiting flowerpot.

She started feeling like a robot, doing meaningless work, mechanically coming and going, washing, dressing, cooking cleaning, going to bed, getting up, and everything all over again.

Only the next Friday, while she was washing the dishes, the sound of running water stirred a memory in her numbness. She put the dish she had been holding into the sink and hurried to the window.

There in the dried, cracked soil was a small green offshoot. She leaned closer to see it better and her eyes moistened. Amidst the emptiness of her apartment, there was a small sign of life.

I wrote this post for Red Writing Hood, a weekly writing meme hosted at The Red Dress Club. It has been a long time since I participated, so I am very happy to have made it today. This week's prompt from Carrie of Views fom Nature asked us to write flash fiction – 300 words maximum – inspired by the word "Life."

Confiscation

Red Writing Hood is a weekly writing meme hosted at The Red Dress Club. I haven’t done this for a while, because I had been so busy. This week's prompt was to write about a treasure that was stolen from you or your character, and what your character did about it. We had to keep the word count under 600.

Through the passage, noise from the other side reached Caitlin.

“What now,” she thought to herself and hurried forward in spite of exhaustion hanging on her heels.  

In the courtyard, there were soldiers loading a cart with provisions from the barns and cellars, a captain already giving orders for departure.

Caitlin’s attention was drawn to the voices from inside the House, a woman’s shriek and men’s coarse laughter in response. The moment she dashed up to the entrance two men came out, almost knocking her down.

One of them caught her by her waist.

“How dare you touch…!

“Hey, gorgeous, you’ve got something for us?” Before she could take a breath, he spied the ring on her middle finger and was already at pulling it off.

“How about that shiny ring?!”

“No! Not my wedding ring!” She resisted fruitlessly as the ring was snatched from her finger. She launched herself after the leaving man, but he pushed he back.

“It’ll pay for hubby’s food,” the man laughed at her, getting on his horse, “or mine.”

Losing her balance she fell on her knees, her calls unheard in a clatter of hoofs as the company galloped away.

A maid rushed to her side, helping her on her feet.

“May, are you all right, have they hurt you?” she asked while rising.

“No, milady, I’m fine.”

Caitlin nodded and headed after the company. Stepping out from entrance arch, she saw the cart slowly moving down the winding road on the left, half the company in front, the other half in the back. They had to take all the long way round by the road, but she turned towards the forest on her left to get ahead of them. She lifted her skirts high and ran through the wood, slipping now and then, falling once, but ever lurching forward and down the steep slopes.

At last she came out of the forest onto a flat clearance between it and the houses. Crossing it she headed straight to the headquarters at the inn, without looking aside even as she sensed people looking at her and making comments.

She pushed past the staggered guard in the hallway and opened the door to the captain’s office.

“Captain, your men are thieves. They stole my wedding ring and I want it back!” she demanded, too upset to mind her manners.

“Lady Clarefield,” a bald red-faced man stood hastily from behind the table.

“Please, take a seat and tell me what happened.”

Caitlin quickly related the incident to him, giving a description of the man who had taken her ring. The captain then excused himself, leaving her in his office. No more than ten minutes later, he returned, followed by two men holding the third in between. Caitlin stood up as she recognised the thief.

“Is this your ring, milady?” asked the captain, holding it out on his palm: “it was found on his person.”

“Yes,” Caitlin gasped, seized the ring and put it back on her finger.

The captain made the man apologise, what he did reluctantly and was then taken away.

“I assure you he will be strictly punished, I am truly sorry for the event. May I offer you a coach and escort to Clarefield?” continued the captain.

“Thank you, captain, but I feel safer without the presence of your men. I will pray for their lives and their souls.”

Relieved, Caitlin took her leave, taking the forest route home. The fatigue returning, she was walking slowly, but on her face there was a faint victorious smile. 


Word count: 592 


I wrote this as a part of what I decided to call Christopher and Caitlin Collage because different pieces of their story come to my mind by and by. The parts are in no particular order, but I am slowly getting the view of the big picture, so who knows what comes out of it all. 

The Face of Death

Red Writing Hood is a weekly meme hosted at The Red Dress Club. I haven’t done this for a while, because I had been so busy. This week's assignment was to write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly - and find the beauty in it. I don’t know if I quite nailed the prompt but I found it really inspiring and this came out of it.

 

The cold was cutting through the bones. The trees were creaking, their black, rotting trunks towering up menacingly. The barren branches offered no shelter from the breathing frost whirling sinister mists above the ground. Under a thin layer of snow twisted roots were crawling as snakes.

Infrequent sunrays which pierced through the mists were now and then reflecting from the icy rubies in the creek. The stream was quiet, the water was frozen together with the spots of blood in crimson gleam. A pair of legs was sticking out of the ice, the water half frozen back above where the rest fell in.

Men and horses were scattered on the bank. During the night mud and blood consolidated into a reddish brown rock. A black horse was lying on it side, eyes wide open, guts gushing from its corpse. Another one not far away had a skull split down the middle, legs coiled in their deadly spasm.

The limbs of men on the ground were all unnaturally bent, some almost severed by the sharp blades of the enemies. Two bodies were hung on a nearby tree, their mouths ajar in the eternal last gasp for air. The stained uniforms were stripped of insignias, the faces covered with wounds and dirt, some unrecognizably crushed with heavy boots.

A lock of wheat-coloured hair glistened golden at the touch of light. A young soldier was lying on his back, his broken right hand strangely curved, his uniform bloody on his chest, a long wide cut on his neck, the ground all rusty red underneath him.  

His handsome face seemed untainted. The pale skin was flawless, as smooth as ever. His hair was set aside from his face as if someone had just combed them. His eyes were all but closed, sparkling blue behind the eyelashes, as though he had been only pretending to sleep. Fine wrinkles formed round his lips, curved to smile any minute.

But Christopher was gone. A searing pain surged through her body. She abruptly opened her eyes. It took her a while to realise she was in her bed. It was only a dream. She rubbed the tears from her eyes and tried to calm the thudding of her heart. A terrifying thought sent chills down her spine. What if it wasn’t just a dream?

A Confession: Reading Bad Books

I wanted to write down my opinion on reading heretical and other so-called bad, inappropriate, immoral books, but having little time, I decided to double the challenge and kill two birds with one stone. So, I’m joining my thoughts with this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt – to write a piece using only dialogue.

 

“I want to make a confession, Father.”

“Speak, my child. I’m listening.”

“I often read books the Church says are bad or even heretical.”

“Oh, well, my child, if you know you’re not supposed to read such books, why do you read them? Those books corrupt you mind and taint your soul.”

“With all due respect, Father, I disagree.”

“How is that?!”

“I don’t think such books cause any damage to either my mind or my soul. On the contrary, I think I benefit from reading them.”

“What do you mean? Benefit?”

“Er, those books make me learn a lot about God and people.”

“You can learn the whole truth about God from the teachings of Mother Church. Everything else just confuses you and weakens your faith.”

“I wouldn’t say so. Er, I admit reading those books is a kind of a test for my faith. They make me think, but as I think about what is said in them, my faith only gets stronger.”

“It is very dangerous to think like that, my child. This tests, as you call them, are too big a temptation. You shouldn’t be reading things that might tempt you into unchristian thoughts or actions.”

“But, Father… Didn’t God give us free will to decide for goodness by ourselves? Whatever I read, I see what people should and shouldn’t do and I can distinguish by myself what is right or wrong. Isn’t it more valuable if I chose to be good and what to believe on my own than just blindly follow the rules?”

“My dear, that may have been so until now. But, eventually, you will give in the temptation. So, you’d better avoid this kind of reading in the future, will you?”

“Er, I… I can’t promise you that, Father.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, my child. You see, this is a sign of the Devil’s work already. I can’t give you absolution if you don’t intend to reform, then.”

“That’s all right, Father. I don’t mind. I leave that to God.”

Red Writing Hood - Alphabet

I decided to try out something new in this brand new year, so here is my first post for the Red Writing Hood, a wonderful meme hosted at the red dress club. This week we had to write a piece of prose or poetry, each sentence starting with the next letter of the alphabet.

 

Agitated she stood by the window. Blind of worry, her eyes were staring outside while her spirit was searching for him in the wastelands of the world.

Christopher appeared in her dreams tonight. Dawn awakened her from a mixture of bliss and dread. Exhilaration filled her seeing him again. Frightfully, she felt at the same time as if he was saying goodbye. Grief was slowly creeping inside her to replace anxiety. Her long waiting was now coming to an end. In the distance, she heard the doorbell rang.

July 10^th, said the calendar on the wall. Knowing what news had arrived, she slowly forced herself to go downstairs, hesitating for a moment before she answered the door. Letting them in the hallway after muttering greetings while none of the two men possessed the courage to look her in the eyes, she waited impatiently to hear what they had come to tell her.

“Madam,” started the one with the rank of a lieutenant, finally looking at her expressionless face, telling her that Christopher had died for his country in the line of duty. Numbly she showed them out and closed the door behind them. Over her face silent tears were pouring.

Panting like an old lady she clambered back upstairs to her bedroom. Quietly she slipped into an armchair, drifting into memories. Remembering Christopher, from the time they had first met to the day he had last left, strengthened her intention. She had had a plan this day should come.

The vial had been kept in the bedside table drawer for a long time. Unwaveringly she took it out now and swallowed down all of its content; afterwards, setting the vial aside, she laid onto her bed. Visions entered her mind once the substance was beginning to take effect, drying the tears upon her face. Weight left all her soul and body as she sank into a comfortable, peaceful void.

Xylophones sounded in the air and out of the distant light which was getting brighter and brighter there was a familiar figure approaching. Yearning, she hurried forward, seeing him smile, reaching out his right hand to her. Zephyr blew softly through her hair, harps hummed, warmth overflowed her when their fingers touched and time stopped.