Lost love Historical romance

by Adele B.

  Edward descended in front of her gate, patted the horse and gratefully whispered to him “You have done a good job!”

  He went up the alley at a run, opened the door, walked through the short corridor and entered Livia’s room. He beheld her, delicate and seraphic amongst the white sheets, with her black tresses scattered on the lace pillows.

  “My love!” he said, tenderly gazing at her.

  “I knew you would come” she answered, looking at his tired face, his disarrayed clothes.

  “I knew you would come. My thoughts were with you every second, on the roads, in the railway stations, on the mountain paths. I so much wanted you to come!” she continued, while signalling him to draw close.

  “Come, sit beside me” she went on, making place for him in the narrow bed.

  “You know, tomorrow I’ll take you to Buda, to the hospital, and then to Vienna. You will be all right!”

  Besides a slight paleness everything seemed to be normal, her eyes were full of love and of trust. Tired, he bent and kissed her, then he sat next to her on the bed.

  “Sshhhh” she answered, gazing intently upon him. With fevered, almost-motherly hands she took his head and pressed it against her chest, protective and tender. She started to play with strands of his hair, passing them through her long fingers, again and again.

  He respected her wish. He did not utter another word, he was just following the slow movement of her fingers, playing through his hair; finally, listening to the rhythm of her breath, mellowed by the sweet warmth of her beloved body, defeated by hunger and tiredness, he fell asleep.

  She gazed at him all night long. She wondered whether their love had been strong, or just an illusion. It had been strong. It could have never been otherwise, it had been imbued with force by the magic and the majesty of nature itself, by these bewitched places where it had first blossomed. It had been as strong as the river hurrying downstream, impatient and impetuous; as complex as the fate of the smallest grain which germinates with the first spring rains, poking its head out from the dark earth only to patiently turn into a delicate flower, a blade of grass or an imposing tree.

  She had blossomed under his gaze, had withered in his absence, had been reborn with his return. But his gaze could not help her now, not any more, just as no flower can ever defeat winter’s cold breath. And although it was spring outside, winter had already come to claim her; she could feel it in the cold seeping through her bones, in the fear and emptiness seeping through her soul.

  She kept vigil by him all night, as he slept peacefully, studying him as the flickering lamplight threw shadows on his beloved face.

  She took in his exhausted countenance, marked by the tiredness of the road but still delightful under his rebel curls; she felt his soft breath; she studied his strong virile body as he slept uncomfortably, on one side, in her narrow girlish bed.

  Dawn was drawing near, another day was about to begin. A soft breeze had risen, carrying with it swarms of pollen and cherry petals from the orchards on the hill. Through the large window over the bed, Livia watched, surprised, this strange snowstorm of flowers. Then, tired, she closed her eyes.

  Forever.

  Epilogue

  "Noble soul, rest now in God’s bosom

  For He has imbued your cheeks with His divine radiance.

  Your body- under this stone

  Your soul- ascending to Heaven.

  Whoever beheld your face as you were dying

  Will never more fear Death.

  In remembrance of Livia,

  Charles Edward ”

  Livia’s death changed the lives of everyone near to her.

  Edward left and later died in the Prussian war; her father died of a broken heart a few years later. Her mother married the forest guard, who had been recently widowed. Her brother sold the house and all the land and emigrated to America.

  All that remains are a few lines on an old stone cross, last silent witnesses to this unhappy love story.