home - Chapter 3, Part III

The door closed behind him with a soft snick, severing the cold tendrils of the impending storm that had picked up in the last few minutes. He shook his head as a shudder went through him. Damn! it was cold outside. He was glad to be inside, sheltered from the fine rain that had begun to fall.

He took a moment to look around at the surroundings, hoping to find amongst the furniture and fixings, a glimpse of the dark hallways inside this woman's mind. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark. This woman had intrigued him like no other before her. She played with his mind like a cat would toy with a fresh kill. He smirked to himself. His mind was made up. She was going to be his. She just didn't know it yet. First, he had to penetrate the wall of defense that stood like a fortress between him and his final coup. First, he had to gain her complete trust. Perhaps finally, after this accursed journey paved with the shells of a thousand desecrated souls, he had finally found the woman who could tame this accursed creature that shared his spirit. Was she the key that would unlock the hidden door - to stroke the knotted craggy scales, to soothe it's beating heart as it nuzzled roughly against her palm? Would she be worthy of forever being called His First? Suddenly tiredness fell like a cloak upon him as he stood inside this woman's home. Weighted down by the seeming pointlessness of it all, he had to sit down.

After she had turned and walked away, he had fallen in step next to her, trepidation like a shadow beside him. Would she cry out for help. That would be unfortunate. Or she could've turned to dismiss him. But she did neither and the two of them walked the rest of the way in a strangely amicable silence. Just like an old dog enjoying and evening walk with it's master. He snickered to himself as he pulled the lapels up above his ears.
Every now and then, his hand would brush against the long sleeve of her coat, making the fine hairs of his arm tingle. Her high heels clipped along the concrete pathway in measured steps, the sound ricocheting off the trees, the leaves already starting to glisten from the falling rain. They walked up the pathway of her house. It was an old small unassuming building which wasn't surprising at all. The garden was a riot of colour even in the gloom. Closer inspection had shown signs of it being well tended despite the initial sense of wildness. She must spend hours outside. It displayed a sense of nurturing on her part. There was neatness and order to each patch. And the scent of the flora released by the fine rain assaulted his senses as if an expensive vial of perfume had been uncapped. She had paused at the door, one hand on the lock, a slight smirk on her face as she turned to face him.

"You look like a wet puppy, how am I supposed to leave you outside?"
"I could curl up in front of your hearth m'lady", he beamed as sweetly back.
"Would you like some tea?", she inquired once inside.
"Yes please", he replied. Anything to linger near her presence.

Now as he stood inside her living room, gazing around at the austere yet richly elegant decor, he looked for somewhere to flop down. Interestingly, she never bid him to sit down, he mused. From the antique winged-back chair, to the ornate coffee table with beautifully carved feet, to the ancient brightly coloured Indian fresco hanging on one wall, each piece was carefully chosen for their beauty and value. There was silver candelabra, wine decanters, odd medieval knick-knacks and a simply stunning forged steel dirk, perhaps three hundred years old, on the mantle piece below which a fire crackled and snapped like a tethered creature. Tastefully decorated and harmoniously laid out, the effect was dramatic, yet comforting, like a welcome home hug from a loved one. There was wealth in this room, not only from the monetary value of these possessions but from the priceless heritage and stories each piece bore.

From the kitchen a kettle gurgled to a boil. The melodic tinkle of silver against porcelain, cupboards opening and closing as she prepared tea. Sinking down into the welcoming folds of a sofa, the heat from the fire warming his aching bones, he placed his feet upon a red ottoman. Patterned in an ancient intricate Middle-Eastern design, beautiful and ornate, he briefly wondered if his feet even belonged there before slumping backwards. Ah! those Ottomans. Almost a century of passing time had dimmed the memories of mingling among the Turks as rivers of blood ran along the parched ground and fires licked an azure sky. How the bitter caustic smell of burning flesh had clogged his nose. The screams of the innocent filled his ears once more as the twisted faces of the raped and the pillaged scrolled like an old scratched film across his eyes. The thunder of horses echoed inside his head as a log fell over in the fireplace showering sparks upwards as pretty as fluttering fireflies. The sound snapped him back into the room. The woman was still in the kitchen. The comforting aroma of fresh tea infused the air. He pushed the past into a small cranny in the back of his mind and took a deep ragged breath. Those days were gone forever. For now he was home.

©two bucks, inc.