The young woman sat on the window sill, looking out on the cold, clear night sky, with a tablet of paper in her lap and a quill in her hand. Her mother had told her to write something beautiful, describing the way she feels about something, then to write what her inspiration was, apparently the School mistress had talked to her about her daughter not expressing herself appropriately.
The young Woman sighed as she looked at the little drawings all other the paper, she hadn't even written one word. She needed some inspiration. She looked up to the stars and closed her eyes, only to open them to a pair of silver-blue. The man watched her closely for a moment, his black armor shinning in the moonlight, his lithe body outlined perfectly, and his pale skin glowing in the night. Just as quickly he was walking down the street leading a midnight colored horse towards the Inn, she watched closely as he walked away, wishing he'd come back and at least speak to her.
She quickly placed the quill to the paper and began writing:
My inspiration was the dark man with the haunting eyes.
She wasn't sure how they would take what her inspiration was, but she didn't care she had it, and now the words were flowing to her like water. She quickly set about arranging them in her head, before she placed the quill back to the paper and wrote her first poem.
Angel of the Night
Angel of the night
Give to me your great insight.
Let me feel your gentle touch
There is nothing I'd love so much.
Hold me in your deep embrace
Feel my heart begin to race.
To feel your sweet kiss
T'would be bliss.
To feel your hand upon my hip,
To feel the touch of your icy lips.
Take me now in you velvet wings
Away from unloving self-made kings.
She looked down and reread what she had wrote before getting up to show her mother. She had no idea that she would have the reaction that she did to the poem, which was crying softly before hugging her tightly.
"Oh, my dear, dear Alimina, it's so beautiful, but what did you see to cause such beauty in your writing?"
"I told you at the top, a man."
She looked at her daughter oddly, "Your father made such thoughts in my mind."
"Mother, when will father come home?"
The older woman looked sad, but replied calmly nonetheless, "I do not know, Alimina, I just don't know."
She hugged her daughter tightly, the daughter that looked like an adult, but to her could never truly be one, as she ran her fingers through her long moonlight-blonde hair. "Mother what is wrong?"
"Nothing, dear just thinking, why don't you go see if you can write anymore poetry."
"I will, and I'll write something to cheer you up too mother. I promise."
The older woman watched her leave before turning towards her own dark window and letting a single tear fall as thoughts of her daughter's father filled her mind as well as the man that she had called husband. Tonight would not be an easy night for her and it was now that she was glad that she had never told her daughter the truth behind her heritage.
