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“I’ll let her know.” I nodded as her eyes looked at the ashes of her painting. “Was it for her?”
“No, she inspired it nevertheless, painting my heart as she said she saw it. In the end, I found myself trapped in the dark there.” It was not sadness in her eyes but peace as she stood straighter. “I did not know how to leave once I entered, and I became heavy with the pain of the truth. Then there was light, not so bright it blinded but like the moonlight. I looked, and it was you. I could come out. Forgive me for harming you or seeking to harm your husband. I was very confused and hurt. Light set me free; now, I must move on.”
“Apology accepted.” I nodded to her, feeling my hands tremble, and I knew what to say. “And as you should…wild thing, unfilled soul, free from broken body left to rot, no longer trapped in a killer’s knot. Magic done, is now undone, peace to you once lost one.”
“And to you lighted one,” she whispered as the crown of thorns burned to ash around her neck. An in that same moment, I felt something loosen as my body became lighter. When she faded into nothing, and I could no longer see her, my eyelids were too heavy to keep open. So, I closed them, melting into whatever I was feeling.
Chapter 29
Blood.
The smell of it caused my throat to ache so badly I swallowed my own saliva. I wanted it, but yet, at the same time, I was so comfortable, I didn’t want to move. It was warm and nice here. I could hold off hunting for at least another few minutes. Cozying up to the source of my heat, I smiled.
“You are very cruel,” I heard my heater say.
Heaters can’t talk. Wait. Why am I so warm?
Opening my eyes, I shut them and turned over, pulling the sheets over my head to avoid the sunlight.
“Does it burn?”
“No, it doesn’t burn. It’s just so bright.” I groaned and then remembered the short series of events which had just occurred. Hunger. Heat. Voice. Sun. Turning. Sheets. That made no sense.
Sitting up, I saw the large king-sized bed I was in, the silver, silk sheets I held, and even the silk nightgown I wore. My eyes widened, and I looked over to find Theseus sitting upright against the headboard, shirtless and reading an old Greek translated copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy in one hand and a glass of blood in the other.
Confused but hungry, I reached over and snatched it from his hand, all but dumping the blood down my throat. Licking my lips, I stared at the empty cup frustrated there was nothing more.
“Should I call for more?”
Hearing his voice, I met his gaze. He watched me carefully.
I was less hungry but still very confused. “What happened? Did I faint again?”
“Not at all. You did something much stranger, young one.” He leaned forward, taking the cup from my hand and placing it on the nightstand beside him. “Would you like to know?”
“No!” I groaned, fell back on to the bed, and put the pillow over my head. “I’m tired of being strange. You’re supposed to be the strange one. You were the naked one in the woods. Now, every time I enter a new room, I’m labeled something else. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Let’s just blame magic for whatever happened and move on.”
“As you wish,” he said, and I heard him lift and open his book again. He was still and quiet. He took his time with every page like he was memorizing it, not just reading it. I felt comfortable like this. Next to him, doing nothing. It was nice. But the longer the silence went, the more I wanted to talk—to hear him talk.
“Are you enjoying your book?” I asked, gently turning onto my side.
“I do not believe the intention of this work was enjoyment.”
“I beg to differ. It is, after all, called the Divine Comedy,” I shot back jokingly, but the joke was obviously lost on him as he replied like one of my old literature professors.
“There were only two styles of literature in those days, tragedy and comedy. The only difference between the two was the way in which they ended.”
“I know, a
nd it still proves my point. The fact that the ending is a comedy means that Dante’s intention was enjoyment. Otherwise, he’d write like Virgil did in Death of Eurydice.” I lifted my pillow slightly to get a look at him when he glanced at me from the corner of his eye. I noticed that his 5’o clock shadow was back on his jaw.
“You’ve read the Greek classics?” He smiled.
“I kind of had to; most classical art is inspired by classic literature.”
“Of all the Greek tragedies, why did you choose the Death of Eurydice?” He leaned back on the headboard, no longer interested in the book but rather me.
Removing the pillow, I sat up on my elbows. “I chose Virgil because he is the guide of Dante in the comedy.”
