As I steadily approached the ballroom which I'm certain will be brimming with every aroma of desperation for assiduity, their yearning are as unfathomable as ever. I suppose, if I must admit I do have an inkling as to their motive for prying one's eyes away from incessant allure, to another form that can only be perceived under a lens. When for instance, your significant other who you have placed arrant faith in detaches their marveling from your figure and shifts it to another who you deem unworthy, you cannot help but be dominated by envy. Even if their awe was transient, doubt begins to fester, in the beginning it caresses your heart and tampers with your senses only slightly. All maladies have symptoms, that encompasses emotions as well, not all sentiments should be released nor should all notions be stated, a matter of preference and etiquette. Sooner than you could have expected it consumes you, the beast only strikes at night but the persuading is left to the heart. The prospects of a human being won over by insanity when it pertains to the concept of love is far from unimaginable, it is anticipated.
"Lady Brokenshire!"
Once more a voice awakens my recognition which was quite delighted to temporarily slumber and assemble an assortment of comments differing in diction not theme that it contained.
"Lady Brokenshire, I've been eagerly waiting for you."
"Lady Brokenshire?"
"Lady Brokenshire you look splendid."
En route to my destination I was bound to a vermilion carpet whilst fervent guests with paint still dripping from their freshly devised portraits that nowadays were classified as visages. Impatience was common enough amongst nobles of high stature especially if they made their fortune serving the royal family where they themselves could not dangle their time limit from the ceiling. Traders appreciate their superiority over their clueless prey. Individuals who have come across any person exploring their nonexistent assets with monarchs then retrieving themselves almost promptly from the throne room could affirm my conclusion.
"Lady Letha?"
Fortifying my beliefs and will the origin of the skeptical voice closes the distance between us, the oddest of occurrences; the world that had been tilting and adapting to a reality that's been mine for 10 years now, abruptly halts content with every detail as it is. As though his mere existence pleased and placated the tides that had been formulating fiends of trepidation, unmatched by previous methods to exercise them. The clash between us was patent, we spared no effort attempting to rectify the bewilderment that was smeared across my admirers' faces, for it was not our occupation. Neither of us fancied indistinguishable conversations, the thought was daft, both of us were taught a simple truth that had led us here; 'If one cannot differentiate words extracted effortlessly from one mouth from another's then their wishes must be modeled similarly as well.'
To betray the very core of such a sacred statement recited by one on the brink of perpetual departure would be blasphemy, would it not? He threatened to shatter a crucial obstruction I had spent years finalizing, visualizing, and tolerating. Surely, I could not let an individual whose touch would subsequently motivate me to cower before death and retreat whenever the axe of truth swung my way. There have always been regulations; a candidate of conceit such as himself chose to run alongside mangled corpses who had done the same, he was the epitome of reckless. In his sapphire eyes laid dormant a phantom whom he strolled in the night with, through gardens of newfangled roses whose consumption of light had been swayed by the restlessness of the sun, soon enough they would be splurged. Through his ash blonde, cropped hair vines were tangled that would seize you the second your fingers wandered, involuntarily. His skin, sun deprived as it was it embodied the moon's grace and soothed inconveniences, if you slipped from that pedestal of elegance, you would find yourself in his domain. Before he could convey his fraudulent apology to me for numerous wrongdoings, exasperating not only me but a court of my aspirations, I refused. At their behest, I spoke in a tone of voice one who had been blinded by a farce previously would have easily bought.
"Mister Byron, I am glad that you could attend a gala of mine."
As if his surname was a personal affront to him when spoken aloud his eyes emerged with a layer of cursory resentment from underneath his ebony top hat which he distanced from his head as he said chains strangling his innocence.
"I am the one who is to show gratitude for your invitation. I was simply following suit."
It seems you always do. Tell me, confess to this one doubt that lingers in the crevices of my respect for you..., do you 'follow suit' even if it leads to harm another? Do you by chance relish the opportunity to cause wounds? Words which would have disfigured his reputation posthaste they left my mouth which ached to retrieve them but also scatter them in the most official of manners, never vacated. Unseen entities displayed their fury at my decision still I remained unperturbed by their remarks and said my elation at its climax.
"Nonsense, your arrival is a pleasure for all. Regrettably I have an errand to run so you must excuse me, please do keep these fine gentlemen and ladies company."
I terminated our agreement of benevolence just as he delivered closure to our oath of despondency long ago.
I hope, I pray that we will never meet again because this encounter may have just ignited a flame which will soon instigate a war within my head.
Word count: 951
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Negotiation
RomanceLetha Brokenshire's life has been a series of agreements and pleasantries even since she was named her father's successor, raising her stature and granting her a cell she must now continue on his work. Often it becomes a burden to maintain her poise...
