A re-telling of the true 12th century love story of Heloise and Abelard. Abelard is a great philosopher and theologian who has taken, like many academics of the time, a vow of celibacy. When he is hired as a tutor for the brilliant and beautiful Hel...
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He was still at the other end of all my thoughts, at the other end of all my reasons. He was still the reference point for so much of my life – that mirror my heart saw its very reflection in. The years had not diluted a thing.
And when he appeared there, at the edge of the ragged doorstep outside my dark room, I lifted my eyes to him, and in him I still saw my home.
It was as if the years unwrapped themselves, all the way back to the last time he'd stood waiting like this outside my old room in Paris. So, so many years ago. The years since had hardened him, had inscribed their marks on his face in creases and wrinkles. But his eyes were the same; his spirit was the same. My Abelard. I felt it like a flood.
All my defenses – all my anger – left me in one burst of forgiveness, as harsh currents break their dams. It was unstoppable. I had no reservations left in me. I had no grudges. Every last place in me that anger that had been living now dissipated. In its stead was only the warm, clearing push of love. My heart opened to him. It opened, and it opened. And it extended out its arms.
All the years and all the hardships unwrapped and unwrapped and there was only this.
It throbbed me forward – in a rush, we were in each other's embrace. Clutching desperately. In all of Heaven and Earth, there was only this; the rest of it faded, and the sun shone out our bellies as they pressed. Up our throats. I could not say anything but an incoherent string of his name, over and over.
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He was here, real beneath my palms. My hands read him – every muscle and bone of him; his body was a language I had not yet forgotten. His breath was warm against my ear. "Heloise," and the smell of him, and the sound of him...
He convulsed into an uproar of sobs. His frame sagged against mine and I gathered him upright.
I pulled his face to me, holding his cheeks tenderly beneath my thumbs. I stroked away his streaming tears. "It's okay, my love. It's okay," I whispered as they fell in floods. "I'm here."
His eyes held mine – desperate, pained eyes – and I kissed his dampened cheeks. I kissed his eyelids. I kissed his forehead – everywhere.
He steadied my shoulders with his palms, stiffening to push me away. "No, Heloise. This is wrong."
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"It isn't," I pulled back, but still my eyes steadied on his.
"I told you, our love is the cross we must bear."
"I know what you said, but I do not agree," still my palm rested against his cheek. He leant into it, softened against it. "Our cross to bear is not our love, Abelard. It is this age that does not understand us."
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