Only in Darkness

Only in Darkness

She was only ever naked in the dark.

Darkness scares her. Her husband had only made love to her when all the candles were blown out and the curtains were hung to hide the moonlight. He had gotten it over with quickly, and then left her, drowning in the luxurious bed, frozen under the blankets of finest down. Quickly and silently, so that only a stab of pain in the darkness told her it was over. It might not even have been her husband. Just muscle and blood, crushing her delicate bones, and hard breaths that made her feel hunted.

She would feel for her nightdress under the sheets and quickly slip it back on, afraid of things she couldn't name, ashamed of crimes she didn't commit. She was always afraid of the dark.

Her husband has left her, all alone in a cold stone manor, and sometimes it feels as if she's turning to stone with it. She pulls the curtain back and closes her eyes as the moonlight slips in quietly, sliding gently under her eyelids. She smiles as she feels it, cold and smooth on her skin.

With a slight tug, she pulls the pin out of her hair, so carefully arranged, and the milky strands brush softly against her naked back. She is waiting.

He is trying to be silent, but she can feel the footsteps in the soles of her feet. He is behind her now, snaking his arms under her breasts, burning her cool skin with his touch. He could have been her husband. But she knows who he is, even with her eyes closed. She knows what he feels like in the dark. His feet are heavy and his breath is hot against her ear.

She turns, pressing herself against him, and opens her eyes, her lids fluttering against his cheek. The moonlight bathes her face with an unholy light, pale and ghostly, as she turns it up to meet his in a kiss. He holds her small, fragile body with steady arms and she caresses his face, so far from the desperate fumbling in candlelit passageways they knew before her husband was taken.

Their forms become one silhouette against the window, dark before the brilliant moonlight. She threads her fingers through his hair, pulling his ear close to her mouth. Her whispers are sweet and sharp, like the light of the moon.

She softly feeds him the bitter facts. Her husband is returning, just as she knew he would. She knew it when she hid her lover in the depths of the stone fortress, a crevice even her husband didn't know about. She rescued him, a fugitive from that hell, and her husband was sent to it. But she knew from the beginning that she could only ever buy herself some time. Her husband would not be merciful. There are other things he does only in darkness.

She tells him swiftly and gently, cloaking the malice of it. He lets go of her, his hands falling to his sides, stepping backwards into the shadow of the drapes. Her body is suddenly cold, colder than she can ever remember, so cold that tears burn behind her eyes. In the darkness, his eyes look like empty hollows, his face dark enough to be any face, just a common man. He sits on the bed, bent over his knees, his hands covering his face.

The sorrow she can't show soaks his fingers, tugging at the bottom of her soul. He isn't any man. He isn't her husband. He's another woman's husband, her sister' husband. But in the darkness, their possession doesn't matter. For this last night, under this beat of the moon, he is the one thing that only belongs to her. Tomorrow she could lose him to the darkness.

She pours a glass of wine and holds it up to the window, swirling the seductive poison. The light catches the liquid, sprinkling a gold shadow on the floor. She sets it down on the table beside the bed and gently lifts his face up, tasting salt on his cheeks. The wine glitters with temptation like the sweet nectar of the gods, and she sneaks a glance at it as they fall into the soft mercy of the bed.

He is tired, he tells her. So tired. She agrees, but she is lying. She never wants to sleep, if closing her eyes means she loses him. She is stung with the bitter knowledge that the sun rises with her surrender to her husband. The surrender of what was only hers for a swift moment in immortal time.

She puts the wine to his lips with a bitter smile. He swallows a sip, and at once he is calmer. He beams and murmurs something in her ear, something her husband has never said. She sets the glass back on the table, careful not to spill a drop on the expensive room, nothing in which is hers to keep.

She kisses him for the last time, fierce and desperate for his warmth. Tracing her fingers along his cheek, she can feel the heat trembling in his skin as it drifts into the night air. The tear she never shed for anyone slides down her cheek and drips into his open mouth. He clasps a rough, calloused hand in her hair and presses his lips weakly against her cheek to say goodnight.

As if he doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't. She caresses his face, the moonlight turning his skin to marble under her touch. In the light, he will always be hers. No matter what happens to her, she can keep him forever.

Softly, gently, she kisses his cold lips, and whispers her confession to him as his breath slows. She wraps him in her arms like a newborn, pressing her cheek against his, shielding him from the darkness.

She holds him until he's sleeping, her sweet immortality.