The candle smoldered,its wax melted upon the stand, its incandescence bared the prison walls and both of their faces
"Are you certain you wish to see her ? "The warden asked
while letting the spent matchstick shed from his fingers
"15 years she has been resided within these walls , since then she haven'tspoken to no soul no wardens not even to any councillor sent to plead her cause. Many came, and many left yet she chose to dwell in embracing silence."
"Yes !!!!!I'm certain" [ the other guy replied enunciatively ]
The warden led him to the prison gate, opened its rusted lock, and closed it with a heavy clang once he had passed inside.
As he ventured into the prison chamber , a haze of smoke swirled , cloaking the walls and casting ghostly shapes in the dim candlelight.
Mes salutations !!!!!
Pardon me for interloping your solitude , his tone was dubacious
I'm Lucius vale , A chronicler , I desire to record a documentary about the melancholic predicaments or misfortunes prisoners have encountered that made them end up here
Rain fell beyoned the prison window striking a few droplets on his hand
As the sound of rain intensified upon the ground, The women unveiled her countenance, revealing a visage long deceived by time, its features worn down by years of obliteration , the chains upon her hands & feet shifted with her slightest movement , their dull clank echoed through the prison as she emerge from the haze of smog
Lucius perceived her age in the tremor of her hands as they drew back the veil that had shrouded her face .
The coldness upon her face , traced with deepened wrinkles
Seemed to proclaim that she endured 80 winters
A chronicler? she inquired, her tone edged with a dry irony. You have come to write a story?
There exists no soul upon this earth that possesses the audacity to confine on a paper the calamities suffered by another life " Her voice carried the weight of experience, issuing the statement as a dogma not as an advice
"Pardon me madam !! But your credo is erroneous
The stories entrusted to a chronicler are no longer mere words. We become their custodians ,Once it's written , that borrowed life
holds greater consequence to us than the life we ourselves endure." His tone was edged with rebuttal
"It is said that those who wield the pen are likewise masters of a subtler art of persuasion" her tone was sarcastic
A few drops of unceasing rain darkened her black victorian faded gown ,she rose and walked towards the narrow prison window , lifting her hand beyond prison bars to ordain if the sky has In memoria servatus her or not
1728 France
The butler entered and bowed.
"Madam, a parcel"
She stepped away from the window. She was just beyond twenty, grey eyed and composed, black hair drawn back, her black-and-white gown severe in its simplicity.
Leave it there !!!
He left closing the door
The parcel rested upon the table, plain and tightly bound, its seal unmarked. She moved toward the table and loosened the twine. Within lay a single letter, the paper worn by travel and time.
She paused only a moment before unfolding it.
It was written thus :
~ My queen
Do not believe these words are penned in fear, dread of death belongs to those who yet bargain with life.
I lived not for breath nor body, but in sacred enthrallment & such souls may be reaped , yet never conquered
Two years of imprisonment have taught me that chains devour a man more barbarously than a grave , thus when I was told I'm to hang till death I felt no pavor , I felt reliefed
I decived both law and conscience for you , my sinn was choosen
The spark you kindled grew as a devouring curse of war incinerated both clans , sparing no fanes where god resided , no Freitas where nature once soufled, Rivers were mute , fields were mortified
What was once vie
now is sans vie
If there exists a final assize , I wouldn't supplicate for pardon , I would only plead the merciful God that I would be granted one final beholding of your countenance & few words spoken in your voix palpitante
As it's scriptum in bible
" Love is patient , love is kind it bears all things , believes all things, hopes all things , endure all things "
[ —1 Corinthians 13:4 —7 ]
An age squandered in sanctifying the paths
thy feet had known thy feet had known
Tandem the paths divulged ;
Thy soul crossed the river to adore an infidel
When you've finished these lines burn this letter , let the fire erase my words as the clans you left behind , one shouldn't carry reminiscent of ashes
Her tear descended upon the name inscribed at the letter's end
Madam, pardon me : your attention appears elsewhere you've remained unresponsive,
Lucius inquired .
She opened her eyes ,to find a tear upon her palm, the smudge of a vision long entombed
Do not imagine that your presence grants you my tale I narrate nothing for people ,. It's the deluge that commands my confession, of those secrets that kneel to neither God nor man, but only when the firmaments weep "
Madam, pardon my intrusion, but may I ask of what charge were you accused ??
"Accusor exstirpationis vinculi mortalis trium animarum"
[ I'm accused of Extirpating the mortal coil of 3 souls ]