I talk to the old you, through pictures, videos and your letters. I go to places where we share memories and sit down until the tears hit the floor. I smell the dead flowers you gave me. I hold onto your t-shirt, to fall asleep. I cry every night, just wanting the old you to hear the unspoken.
…she has a beauty…powerful enough to get lost in…addicting…she is to watch intoxicating…she is to breathe…poetry is her motion…her body language I read…
It wasn’t a rare occurrence, seeing Azaele slink back to her quarters after her day’s work was through. However, it was no mistake nor trick of the mind when a number of servants noted and gossiped in hushed voices about the way her smiles now seemed to wilt, and how her voice seemed to waver ever so slightly at the end of her hymns. There was something about her as of late that spoke seemingly of a quiet sorrow -- although they’d never be caught asking about it, oh no. They could only watch silently as Azaele retreated to her bedroom under the weight of a dozen sets of prying eyes.
There were no eyes to pick her apart behind closed doors, though curious ears would often find themselves passing by her door. Azaele could hear the footsteps outside, some loud, some soft; many tried to avoid making their presence known, treading lightly, but some left with lead feet after finding dismay at hearing nothing of interest. Just what did they expect to hear from a solitary priestess in the privacy of her own room? It could be they expected the sound of crashing glass, cracks of breaking wood, or even the agitated screams the one causing such damage. No, she knew better than to fall into such fits again, even in her worst frustrations. Though a smashed vase or an object of the like could occasionally be found in jagged shards on the floor at the ends of her table or vanity.
Azaele paced her bedroom just briefly before catching her reflection in the large vanity mirror by the far wall. It was true that her smile just wasn’t as strong as it used to be. Her gaze lingered only briefly on her own image before her eyes lowered to see a small container resting on the vanity’s tabletop. It was just where she had left it the night before. Her brow twitched as she hesitated to move, her feet eventually dragging over to the vanity, pulling up and taking a seat in the chair nearby.
Her hand, usually so steady and sure, shook as she reached for the little box. She placed it in her left hand, the fingers of her free hand softly trailing along the exterior of the box. It was a tiny little thing, hardly a few inches high and wide, the outer surface a fine velvet. Her grip on the bottom portion of the box tightened as she began pulling back its top, her heart immediately threatening to burst through her chest. This sudden reaction caused her to fumble with the top, causing it to snap back shut. She cursed under her breath, her eyes slowly tearing up from either frustration or her nerves. This only grew worse as her next attempt yielded the same result. She tried once more with a deep breath.
This attempt was a success, revealing the contents of the box to her. Though she had opened it many times over, the build-up and outcome was always the same. Inside of the box rested a ring, elegant and flawless, if not divine in its craftsmanship. If there was any expense spared in the creation of the ring, from its pure gold base to its expertly cut stones, there was no evidence to be found. Diamonds surrounded a bright ruby, which seemed to contain fire within -- catching the light, it was resplendent.
Of all the gems she’d laid eyes on, this was among the finest. She almost resented the fact that something so beautiful alone held the full weight of a promise left unfulfilled. Such was love: something gained, something lost. It was a feeling she knew far too well.
She snapped shut the small velvet box and all but threw it aside, letting it tumble out of her sight amid the other items atop the vanity. Perhaps in time the pain won’t be so debilitating.
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