Gloriana - The Lover
Brendon - The Adulterous Husband
Mary - The Scorned Wife
Zsuzzana - The Link
When it comes to funerals, and other such affairs of tragedy, it is suitable for grief to rear its ugly head.
And none was quite gripped by the grief than Gloriana, as she stood, looking down upon her shrouded lover, clutching a glass of some dark red liquid, fingertips aching to glide over the slope of his nose, chin, underneath the white lace that hid such a pretty face. To see his face one last time...
"Quite a shame, wouldn't you agree?" a voice startled her out of her lonesome little fantasies, causing the drink she was holding to slop a little, the smallest dot hitting the white lace, where his cheek hid. She wanted to laugh, and to lean other and dot the other cheek, to match. Rouged cheeks meant life, after all. But instead, Gloriana looked away, and to the speaker, a girl of about eleven or so, clutching a brass telescope in both hands, staring at her with wide, clear eyes.
"Quite a shame indeed." Gloriana replied, raising the glass to her lips and letting it wet her lips. That's all it was good for, because she had no real desire and intention to do much else with it. How one could drink when they knew it would only feed the ugly, dark monster of loss that perched in the ruts of the ribcage, ready to jump out and attack the heart if it got the chance.
"You knew the deceased well?" the girl's fingers began to lift, then drum back down. She looked away from Gloriana, to the body, then back again.
Gloriana allowed a small smile. She allowed the memory of her lover, her Brendon, to fill her mind, bursting like flavour does across the tongue, the drop drop drop of honey spreading outward. It was the memory of his hands gliding up her bare arms, shoulder blades, cupping her jaw, his lips against hers, the thrill running through her very bones, making what they had -
"Well enough." She allowed one hand to reach out, cup the curve of his shoulder softly, wondering how cold his skin would be by now, before she removed it, made it grip the hard nub of her elbow.
"You must be very sad then." The girl said, before giving her a pointed look, far too wise and knowing for a child of her age, and twisting to look around the mourners, the low voices, choking cloy of people. "His widow seems to ..."
"Be coping very well." Gloriana finished for her.
And both their gazes shifted, simultaneously to the woman on the other side of the room, her dark curls of hair pinned back with some falling softly on the sides of her sharply angled face, a heavy black velveteen mourning cloak upon her shoulders.
Mary was a beautiful woman, that was undeniable. With her dark looks, cheekbones, pointed chin, full, rouged lips, wicked and light eyes, a small but curvy and solid frame. But it was inside her that was the problem. It would have been nice to believe that at one time, she had indeed been in love with Brendon. She had meant her vows as she'd spoken them. But she was bitter, like a pearly red apple that hid a rotten core. She got jealous easily, spiteful, distant. What she refused to give in love, she also refused to have going on under her nose.
Gloriana tried to be quite impassive as she looked at the widow, but she feared she wasn't doing a very good job of it.
And nothing sliced that knife deeper underneath the ruts of her ribcage, into the soft beating heart than the sight of the necklace around her neck. Bronze, ornate, with family crest pressed into the ivory centre, on a thick bronze link chain.
It had been her necklace. Hers. Brendon had looped it around neck, her collarbone, clasping it at the base of her skull, fingertips brushing the skin. It had been candlelight, and she had taken it between her fingers, looked down at it, painted a warm gold. And then his lips had brushed her throat, and she couldn't look at it and marvel for a minute longer.
