Love & Death [Femdom 18+]

19. Death: The Pale Rider

Adrian took the Cupid up to a quiet alcove that overlooked the front lobby of the library. There used to be offices along the beautiful balconets for librarians, administration, and the head of the library, but these offices, were left vacant for years due to limited funding. Once a month, a custodian comes up to dust and check for leaks.

He had set aside a small space for himself in the largest office. It was the only room that still held books, many of which were second edition prints, not quite as rare, but still precious enough to keep stowed away on the three shelves lining the wall. The main office was also the only office that had stained glass windows that could be opened to let in unfiltered light or closed so that the pinks and oranges immersed the room like a beautiful sunset.

"I'm sorry. Had I known, I wouldn't have pushed to get those books," said Geneva. The Cupid looked concerned. In her lovely eyes, he could see that same swell of affection, that same breathless desire to connect to someone. There wasn't much of it, but it was there and Adrian feared that if he looked away, it would disappear again.

Adrian didn't take his eyes from her as he walked backward and reached for the shelf. He knew exactly where he hid it among the other books along the shelf. His hand touched it, felt the familiar binding, and pulled it from the wall, still unable to pull his eyes away from the Cupid. Then he handed her the book.

"Look at the last page," he said. His voice seemed so loud in the quiet space, so lost.

Geneva opened the book and the binding crackled from age and neglect. She found the last page carefully, flipping and caressing pages as if the journal was an extension of him. She was careful, considerate, a breath of gentleness where he needed her most. She lifts the book to her nose, even, and breathed in the scent of old paper and dust. It's a thing she does, he noticed, he saw her do it before with new books too. She seemed to like the way paper smells.

He knew she found the page, watched her reading, moving her lips along the verses as if she were murmuring her prayers. In his mind, he saw the passage. His very last.

May 17, 1891

Mother is gone now too. I feel myself being pulled with her, to go with her. She was so sick these last weeks and the debtors came by to take our things. All of father's books are gone. They said I was young and strong, that when they seek the house and land, I can help mother to recover through hard labor at the factories.

I held onto that thought like a mantra. She was my anchor to this place. But without father, mother had no anchor. She is gone now. And I am lost.

There is nothing here for me. There is nothing but wandering.

They came to take the deed to the land. They brought hooligans as if I would fight them for it. I gave it to them and as I left the only home I ever knew, I heard them say how foolish father was to save those books. How fools deserve to die.

I locked them in and set our home ablaze so that they could feel what he felt. My father was a fool. He was a fool to think that I would ever become a doctor, to pay for my education against the deed to the land. And I am a fool too. And fools deserve to die.

I am lost. I am already dead.

Geneva looked up at him when she is finished, the book still open in her hand. There were tears in her eyes and they fell in quick rivulets down her cheek. He'd never seen her cry before. He doesn't know what to make of it. But he doesn't have time to even think about her tears because she closed the book and carefully laid it on the desk.