Forgiveness at Long Last
It was a standstill in the dark, musty room -- no room in his home was exempted from these conditions; it would be impossible to be clean-smelling and light, five stories below the ground -- and the tension enveloped them like humidity on a hot July day. Her words hung in the air unanswered.
He stood with his back to her, fully clothed in ebony evening-wear complete with an oppressive cloak and wide-brimmed hat. A stranger might have though he was set for a night on the town, but if they'd seen his front and seen the mask that covered his entire grotesque visage, they'd learn they were quite wrong. Each piece of his suit was finely tailored and fit to his long, lean body, the shoes made of the finest grade of leather. His appearance was immaculate.
She stood a few years away from him, staring intently at his back in lieu of a countenance to study. Her blonde curls were amiss and unbound, dark circles had formed beneath her crystalline blue eyes, contrasting starkly with the natural pallor of her skin that was now only heightened with her anxiety.
When she'd first approached him, his first thought had been how unwell she'd appeared, underfed and sleepless and pale for many days now, it had seemed -- not much different than he himself. She was dressed entirely in white, from her plain frock to her nondescript flat slippers. She'd taken little time to select her outfit, as there was no time to lose. She'd heeded only the color: white for purity, white for the white rose of Allah.
She felt more and more hopeless by the moment, felt he would not accept her words as truthful nor as heartfelt, when the were without a doubt the most truthful and heartfelt words she'd ever spoken.
"Erik, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
The words resonated so completely in both of their minds that neither could tell when it was only an imagined echo they heard or if she really repeated them. She did, though, at regular intervals speak her peace again and again, perhaps to remind him of her presence, or to reaffirm the truth of them.Turn around, she mentally prayed. Give me some indication you've heard me. Rejection or acceptance, I don't care -- only heed me!
She was certain she'd go mad if he did not turn around quite soon.
Perhaps hours passed in that manner, she pleading, he contemplating. Several times she considered approaching him and laying her hand upon his shoulder, but something restrained her, some field about him kept her at bay and allowed him to continue his consideration without interference.
And finally when she though she might go, he turned toward her, and she quaked at the immense power her simply radiated. But she could not fear him, not when she'd come so far to speak her peace, even when every instinct within her ordered her to run.
He closed the distance between them in a few easy strides and stood directly before her, her head about at level with his chest.
She could hear his breath, shallow, tremulous with the magnitude of being so close to her. Or perhaps she only flattered herself -- perhaps it was only as it was from anger.
But her fear and outs dissipated when his fingers -- those bony, cold, dead fingers -- brushed her warm cheek with an air of awe and respect.
"Christine," his beautiful voice caressed each syllable. "I forgive you."
Fin