Later that night, after having a great unwinding bath with the assistance of my maid, who massaged my stiff shoulders and neck until the water turned lukewarm, I changed into a loose-fitting nightgown, one of a beautiful rosy silk material. I sat by my window, a hot tea in hand while I read some reports. My glasses sat on the bridge of my nose, my hands twirled a misbaha, a string of pearly beads I use for prayer, my feet were perched up by the windowsill, unbothered by the cold wind seeping under the frame. It was already very late, yet I could not go to bed yet. Despite knowing I have a trip awaiting me tomorrow, I did not want the night to end, still riding high for the success we had today.
A knock sounded near me, so I turned around to check the door. I had already informed my maid I shall be retreating for the night, and I expected no visitors at such a late hour, but as soon as I stood to see who knocked, another one came from the window. I turned once more, clutching my heart in fear. A dark figure appeared, covering the whole window. A masked man in a dark cape was holding himself up, hanging on the upper frame while balancing on the thin stones by his feet. I froze in place, was I about to be assassinated at such a young age? Who would want my demise? I have not had the pleasure of making enemies of Esterians, Hebron excluded of course. That man is a dragon-slug hybrid, angry, frustrating, and very ugly- personality wise-, he gets on my nerves so much, so very much. Sometimes I want to stab him, repeatedly, until his blood covers me head-to-toe. I'd like to imagine a night like this, me dressed the same, him sitting on my bed. I approach him, dagger in hand, he sees it and submits as he gets down on his knees in front of me, ready to be slaughtered. But I refuse to slit his throat, that is the easiest way out. I kneel before him, matching his stance, I bring my knife up and trace it down his gorgeous neck, leaving a thin red string. I could paint his flesh, all beautiful and red, all alive until it goes all dead. I stab him, in his chest, away from where his heart is. He does not scream, his lungs start to fill with blood, I stab again, and again, his body falls on the hardwood in a thud, so I gently carry his head and put it on my lap, brushing his luscious light brown hair away with my bloody hands. Blood is everywhere, on the floor, over our joined bodies, drenching our clothes. His eyes water, he struggles to speak, so I put a finger to his lips."Shush," I say, "this is the final chapter, I get to say the last sentence for us." His gaze softens, then it goes void, his body limb. Ron is no longer alive. I kiss him between his eyes, closing them, then bring the blood-drenched dagger to my heart and stab myself, twisting it. I did not expect it to ache for his death, and it did not, yet an opponent like himself deserves sorrow and grief, and since I am not capable of providing him with such goodbye I decide to join him. Maybe my company would do him good.
My mysterious visitor was still by the window as I daydream, I did not look for a weapon nor did I cry for help. We stared into each other's eyes, his golden, mine dark. I recognized my visitor. He is the man who occupies my nightmares and daydreams, my beloved nemesis.
I wrapped a thin blanket around my shoulders, a failed attempt at modesty, then brushed my hair back, uncomfortable to be seen with my hair down. I stopped amidst my walk to the window, somehow I had gotten near my bed upon thinking of the beautiful dance we would've danced together. Maybe he came to see me to make my wishes come true, maybe he was here to end me. Would he join me like I would? Or would he collect my blood to use for signing his name. Duke of Whingston, he'd write, but I would rather he uses his first name, I would prefer my blood to be used for such.
I matched toward the door, locking it before placing a chair in front of it for extra measure. I marched up to him and opened the window."Come in," I said," it is cold outside.
He swiftly jumped in, closing the window after him. He discarded his cape, unveiled his face, leaving his clothes on the chair I had recently occupied. He was dressed in plain dark trousers and a loose shirt that showed off his collarbone. He regarded me carefully, eyes sweeping over my hair, clothes, and naked feet. I tightened the blanket around me, glaring at him. He looked away, his face glowing red in the light of the fireplace.
"Are you finished?" I asked.
"Pardon me?"
"Are you finished looking at me? Judging me?" I hissed at him.
He looked at me, his eyes wide with shock,"That is not what I-, pardon me. I have been rude." he cleared his throat, looking as uncomfortable as I had felt.
"As you should. Did you visit to give me your measurements?" I asked him, taunting.
"What measurements?" he asked, perplexed.
"Yours. For the seamstress, for the matching dresses of you and I. I gave you my word, have I not?"
A smile broke on his face,"Yes, yes you have. I am afraid however I know not how to take my own measurements." he said as he took a step closer to me, his face looked warm, and mine surely felt so.
"And? It's just another thing you're bad at." I countered.
"True," another step, "Do you mind lending me a hand?" he said, extending his hand to me.
My eyes widened in shock, and I swatted his hand away,"Rude! And you will forever be rude!"
Hebron laughed, finding this funny, probably me too.
"You gave me your word, have you not?" he mocked. And I sent him a glare on my way to sit by the window again, craving the cold, needing anything but the unbearably hot air surrounding him.