This is just an angsty bit of drivel I wrote about Edmund that I couldn't help but write. It was sitting, first in a notebook, then in a computer file, untouched, for years. I still have no idea why I wrote it.
"E-e-e-edmu-u-u-und . . ." a soft voice sang in the cool, misty night. Her laughter floated, ethereally, to his ears. The silvery fog made finding her a game, one he dearly enjoyed.
"Ro-o-osane-e-e-elle," he called back to her in a singsong fashion. "Where are you, my darling?" How wonderful it felt to be so carefree and in love. 'Let Richard have the throne,' he thought. 'I shall spend my days with the woman I love! At least I don't have to marry for a political union or to satisfy the populace's idea of a princess! Even if my dearest would be lovely on our coins . . .' "Rosanelle?" he called out again. Why was she not singing back to him?
He was growing uneasy. A sense of dread . . . nearly ominous foreboding . . . overtook him. She did not answer to his repeated pleas to emerge from the darkness and come to him. This was like some horrible nightmare from which he could not rouse himself.
But a nightmare it had to be, for he could not have lost the love of his life again!
'Again?' Confusion furrowed his brow.
'That's right!' he realised grimly. His beloved had left this world years ago, in a hospital in London. This could not be real. He had to wake up.
"Wake up, Edmund," he commanded himself.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!
Finally, he awoke, in a cold sweat, sitting completely alone in his bed.
He had been alone ever since Rosanelle died.
"Edmund?" he heard a soft voice echo in the dark.
"Who - who's there?" he demanded.
"Edmund, please," the voice seemed to be crying, echoing. "Help me, ple-e-ease . . . " the voice begged.
He reached over to turn on the lamp on the night stand and briefly saw the auburn hair, soulful eyes, and full lips he'd missed for so long.
"Rosanelle?" he asked, confused.
She reached one delicate hand up to his face, caressing his jaw the way only she could. "I love you, Edmund . . . " Her hand moved up to his hair as she leaned in to kiss him softly.
Then she was gone.
Had he really been kissed by a ghost?
'No', he thought. He'd been kissed by the most beautiful rose ever to grace this world.
He put his hand to his cheek where she had touched him and realised his face was wet from crying.
"I love you, Rosanelle," he said quietly, praying that somehow she could hear him, or even feel him, wherever she was now. "You're the only one I've ever loved. The only one who loved me the way I am."
He closed his eyes tightly, no longer fighting the sobs that racked his body. "Rosanelle . . ." He realised with heavy sadness that he was no longer the man she had loved. He'd become cold, ruthless, terribly dark without her by his side.
It was as though his best qualities had been buried with her.
Fin