Page 56 of Love and Death
The truth can wait just a little longer.
“You are here because I wished you to be … or would you deny me that pleasure, even in my own dreams?” I pose, a small seed of guilt rooting within me as her eyes widen.
“Of course not.”
“Then, come, I would like to show you something.”
She nods once to herself and then, at long last, slips her hand into mine. The garden sings with life; warmth, burning brighter within me at her touch. But I must be careful, for here, her soul cannot give me strength as it did before, only drain me faster of my own.
Her mouth opens slightly as the change draws herattention, and I fight every urge within me to press my lips to the wonder of hers. Drawing her further into the garden, I move toward one of the archways and push aside the curtain to let us through.
A corridor lies beyond, still more gossamer draperies floating through it, and at the far end, a balcony, beyond which lies an expanse of color and light.
Leading her through the columned hallway, her hold on my hand tightens as she suddenly stops.
“What are these?”
I turn back to look, and see that she is staring at a series of paintings hung upon the wall. These were not the paintings I had meant for her to see, but it would appear my mind has chosen for me.
“Memories,” I say, my voice softer than I’d intended as I admire the portrait, “of you. The only being I truly care to remember. Like this one, for example.”
I reach out to touch one of the paintings, and together, we are pulled into it.
It is but a fragment of the first day we met. A second frozen in time.
Our first kiss.
I had stolen from her, and it had changed me. I let her feel what I felt, see what I saw, the memory a myriad of colors and emotions crashing together to form a painting of soul and heart and chaos.
I had not been able to see her, but I felt her in every fiber of my being. I had found a light in the darkness. I craved her, needed her to sate me.
I step back into the hallway, the feelings suddenly too much to bear in her presence.
“I did not know,” she gasps.
Of course not. I could not let her see what even I did not yet know.
“Come, we must continue,” I say, my strength waning for a split second and causing the light to dim slightly.
Reliving that memory took more energy than I thought. I must be careful.
Moving further down the hall, she stops abruptly in front of another painting. Her perfume rises, heat growing within her as she steps closer to it, and I with her, still holding her hand.
“I thought you said these were memories?”
“I did.”
“But this one …” she trails off.
I follow her gaze before she can drop her eyes to the floor, her hand pulling from my own as the taste of her burns hotter.
It is a painting of her, silk spilling like liquid silver across her form where she reclines upon my throne, thoroughly ravished as only I know how.
“Ah. This is a memory, but only in dreams,” I admit, my voice dropping to slip over her skin as I turn slowly back to her. “Would you care to see what a god might do?”
I ask the question but do not wait for her to speak. Instead, I take the thrum of her heart in answer as I reach out and touch the canvas.
This is my dream, my memory, but I would have her live it. I guide her in, slow, hands gentle about her waist, as I press her down upon my throne.
